Chapter 19: Chapter 19, The Lost

The team swam toward the shore, exhaustion setting in with every movement. The adrenaline had finally started to wear off, the pain of the battle catching up to them, bruises forming, limbs aching, lungs still burning from the fall and near drowning. But no one spoke about it. They just kept moving.

The people on the shore were waiting.

And now that Ciel could see them up close, she realized… they were just people.

Not creatures, not mutants, not anything twisted by whatever the hell this place was. Just… people.

Humans. Elves. Orcs. Even some more unusual races she hadn’t seen in a while, scaled folk, horned folk, things that walked like humans but clearly weren’t.

It was like looking at a mirror of the surface world.

And that? That was almost more unsettling.

The tension between them hung thick, no one daring to speak first as the group slowly waded out of the water, dripping, shivering, and trying not to look up at the massive winged whales that still circled above.

Then, finally, someone spoke.

“Who are you?”

The man who stepped forward was weathered, tired-looking, dressed in stitched-together layers of old-world fabric and leathers, reinforced like someone who still expected battle. His grip on his spear had loosened, but his eyes were still sharp, scanning them with the wary suspicion of a man who had seen too much.

Raze, ever the one to handle diplomacy when no one else could be trusted to, exhaled sharply, stepping forward just slightly.

“We’re on a mission.” His voice was calm, measured, the same tone he always used when dealing with people who might decide to stab them. “Looking for something down here.”

The man studied him a moment, then nodded.

“Where are you from?”

Raze’s jaw tightened slightly, but he gestured upward, toward the unseen sky above.

“Lost Angeles.”

The reaction was immediate.

The murmuring started, low and hushed, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. The people glanced at each other, whispering, some of them looking away, others looking back at them with something new.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Tiredness.

A weariness that sat too deep in their bones, as if they had been carrying it for lifetimes.

Then, the man spoke again.

“How is it? The city?”

Raze hesitated.

Ciel saw it, the flicker in his expression, the quick second of thought.

How do you describe Lost Angeles?

The chaos? The ruin? The gangs, the crime, the fading remains of a world that barely made sense anymore?

Ciel wasn’t sure she could answer it.

And, apparently, neither was Raze.

Because after a long, quiet moment, he simply said, “I don’t know how to answer that.”

The man gave a slow, knowing nod. “Then I suppose you have some questions for us, don’t you?”

He gestured around them, toward the strange, sprawling village built along the shore of the lake.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Ciel took it in fully now.

It was a well-built shanty town, reinforced with old metal sheets, wooden planks, whatever scraps they could find to hold the place together. The buildings were stacked at odd angles, some balanced precariously on old scaffolding, others built directly into the rock walls.

There were bridges made of rope and bone, lanterns flickering with some kind of strange bioluminescent fuel, children peeking out from behind corners, watching them with wide, cautious eyes.

The place looked like it had been here forever.

Like it had always been here.

Then—

“THE WEAK BEASTS THAT FLY ABOVE US COULD NOT EVEN DIGEST SKRIMP!”

Ciel nearly choked.

Gorrug, still dripping from the water, still very much covered in battle wounds, stood tall and proud, slamming his fist against his chest.

“THESE FALSE HUNTERS ARE UNWORTHY! SKRIMP REJECTS THEIR ATTEMPT AT CONSUMING HIM! HE IS TOO STRONG!”

Skrimp, who was currently laying on his back in the shallow water, wheezing and looking very much the opposite of victorious, let out a miserable honk.

The people just stared.

Ciel blinked.

Raze barely spared Gorrug a glance, brushing past his brutish friend’s outburst with the well-practiced ease of a man who had long since stopped trying to contain him. Instead, he stepped forward, extending a calloused, battle-worn hand toward the man in front of him.

“Raze. Ironfang. This is my team.”

The man studied him a moment longer before grasping his hand firmly. “Torren.”

His grip was strong, not in an intimidating way, but in the way of someone who had spent a lifetime surviving. Torren gestured for them to follow, leading them deeper into the village.

As they moved forward, it became clear that this place was far bigger than it first seemed. What had looked like a modest shantytown from the waterline expanded further and further, branching into alleys, corridors of metal and stone, winding paths lined with old lanterns and pulsing bioluminescent moss.

The further they walked, the more Ciel realized just how large this place was.

It wasn’t just a village.

It was a city.

A city of the lost.

People moved through the streets, some watching them with open curiosity, others ignoring them entirely, too busy with their own struggles. The outer edges near the lake were well-kept, the structures reinforced, the roads smoother, the people better dressed, cleaner.

But the deeper they went, the worse it got.

The further from the shoreline, the more the decay became apparent. The buildings here were barely standing, stacked atop one another in precarious formations, held together with whatever scraps could be salvaged. The people looked thinner, their clothes tattered, their eyes haunted.

This wasn’t just a city.

This was a prison.

Torren spoke as they walked, his tone grim, steady, but not unkind.

“You are like us, then. The lost.”

Raze gave him a look, but Torren didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop explaining.

“You came here the same way many of us did. Fell through the cracks. Found yourself somewhere you were never meant to be. Some of us were born here, yes, but many of us were not.”

Ciel didn’t like the way that sounded.

Torren glanced back at them, his eyes sharp, unreadable.

“There is no going back.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Ciel exchanged glances with Sylva, with Veyra, with Gorrug, but none of them spoke.

No going back?

That wasn’t possible.

They were just passing through.

They were on a mission.

They had to find what Grimm sent them for, get in, get out.

And yet…

Something about the way Torren said it made her stomach twist.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to ask him what he meant.

They turned a corner, stepping into a more open part of the city, where the buildings gave way to a broad marketplace, or at least, what passed for one. The stalls were cobbled together from scrap metal and driftwood, merchants selling everything from strange, glowing fungi to makeshift weapons crafted from salvaged old-world steel.

And standing near one of those stalls, arms crossed, gaze cool and calculating, was a woman with vibrant blue hair.

Her presence was immediately striking.

She was tall, lean but toned, her posture casual but predatory, like a feline lounging before a strike. Her outfit was light, semi-revealing, built for movement rather than modesty, a mix of tight leathers and reinforced cloth that clung in all the right places. Ornate golden bands adorned her arms, some of them etched with runes, others purely decorative.

She watched them with mild curiosity, but nothing more.

Then, her gaze flicked to Gorrug.

And immediately, her expression soured.

“Ah. The one who insulted my whales.”

Ciel blinked, glancing between her and Gorrug.

Gorrug, completely unbothered, simply grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. “They were unworthy of Skrimp.”

The woman exhaled sharply through her nose, like she was physically restraining herself from responding to that.

Torren sighed, rubbing his temple. “This is Kestrel. She controls the skywhales.”

Ciel raised a brow. “Skywhales?”

Kestrel flicked her icy blue gaze toward her. “Do you see any other whales flying around?”

Ciel narrowed her eyes. “Do you see any other whales puking up things they failed to eat?”

Veyra snorted loudly.

Kestrel, to her credit, did not react, simply rolling her shoulders, choosing to ignore that. “They are guardians of the deep. They keep things… contained.”

Ciel didn’t like the sound of that, but before she could press further, Kestrel had already lost interest.

She turned her gaze back to Gorrug, looking at him like he was barely worth her time.

Then, in a voice that was calm, level, and filled with absolute dismissal, she said—

“I do not like you.”

Gorrug beamed.

“THAT MEANS I HAVE EARNED YOUR RESPECT.”

Kestrel’s expression did not change.

“No. It does not.”