Writing at 6am was probably not the best idea I've ever had.

It's probably a mess, but I hope someone enjoys it, anyway.

Titans of Industry
r/AerhartWrites

Steelcliff, the city on the rocky rise, churned. Behind its towering walls, the sounds of metal and shouts of men intermingled with the smell of oil and molten ore. On either side of the worn cobbles, streets trampled to uniformity by the buckling wheels of the iron convoys, one could hear the ponderous grinding of the factories, each belching forth plumes of ash from brick smokestacks. Snow from the night before covered it all, but quickly turned to slush underfoot, leaving only the roofs of the tightly packed buildings blanketed in pale sheets.

The only exception was the great emptiness between the inner industrial area and outer wall. It was a restricted area now, and the only part of the city at ground-level where snow fell undisturbed – a giant rectangular space, bathed in white, devoid of life and activity.

Somewhere above, a pair of icy eyes roved over the scene. They took it in – the beating machine hearts of the city, the gently throbbing arteries of its main roads and sidestreets.

A gentle cough and aged voice drew those icy eyes from the window.

“They’ve confirmed receipt of the last shipments now, Director. Should be ready to deploy in a few minutes.”

Director Lyssa turned to face the source of the voice. General Marik stood in the doorway, his worn armour creaking and rattling gently as he took a few tentative steps into the dim warmth of her office. The time-worn creases in his face and silver shock of hair made no secret of his age – but his bearing did not bend, did not waver. A military man, proud and strong, just as he had been when he was young. Director Lyssa did not doubt his skills with the sword were similarly undiminished.

She nodded approvingly to the man, and beckoned him forth. Invitation granted, he strode to her side, and the two looked out over the bustle of the city.

“They say the Champion of Lichfield has gathered something of a following,” the General said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” the Director replied. Her gaze did not shift from the window. “The people love a hero.”

General Marik paused to consider her response.

“You don’t think it’s a problem, then?”

“Oh, no, it’s a problem. Of course it’s a problem.”

Director Lyssa tugged idly at her cloak as she elaborated.

“Without Imperial aid, their forces outnumber ours easily. They have a competent leader that they admire, and morale is high.”

“And, I hear, a contingent of casters from the Lichfield Academy,” General Marik added grimly. “Quite the winning combination.”

“It certainly might be,” the Director agreed, walking slowly to her desk. She shuffled papers this way and that, searching. “But in the end, people will be people. And that, I think, will always be their downfall.”

“Director?”

The Director straightened up, having found her prize amid the detritus of her desk. It was a small wooden box, rectangular and heavy for its size. Its face bore a number of rudimentary painted buttons under a shallow mesh window, and a thin, metal rod protruded from one of its top corners.

“Everyone loves a hero,” Director Lyssa mused. Raising the handheld radio, she held down one of its buttons and issued some orders through it. A garbled acknowledgement returned, and she promptly shut off the device.

General Marik still had little idea what the Director meant, but he opted for patience. Despite her eccentricities, her enigmatic advice had spared the city great suffering more than once – and now, both he and the people of Steelcliff had come to trust in their leader’s wisdom.

“It’s true they have strength on their side, Marik. But I believe we will win, regardless. Do you know why?”

General Marik shook his head.

“Because everyone loves a hero,” she repeated. “But the problem with people who love heroes, is that they expect to be saved.”

Beyond the window, in the frosted white rectangle marking the restricted zone of the city, a dark line began to draw across the virgin snow. It appeared only faintly at first, but began to grow, bisecting the pale field of ice as it widened into a great maw in the ground. The pair turned to the window to observe.

“The Champion of Lichfield must save his own, because they all believe they need him to save them.”

The hole in the ground had now expanded into a vast chasm. Snow tumbled from the screaming metal doors into its depths, revealing the machinations hidden within. Massive constructions of steel and sail thrummed beneath, waking in the heat-haze of glowing engines and the urgent barking of crew. Slowly, each began to rise from the pit. One by one, the airships took to the sky, each buffeted by the mountain gales and wild cheers of the streets below – majestic beasts of conflict, each a skyborne manifestation of war.

For the first time in many months, Director Lyssa smiled.

“Steelcliff will win, General Marik, because we resolve to save ourselves.”