I had gotten myself into an adventure, the details of which were frightening to even think about.

Sam was snoring loudly in his sleep, curled up on the small, worn-out couch; he had spent the entire night editing a video and then fixing the antenna – for some reason, it had been acting up with terrible interruptions lately – so it was no surprise that he fell asleep as soon as he sat down. I smiled, recalling how many years of friendship we shared with Dort – playing in the same courtyard as kids, going to school together, and then to college. I never thought life would turn out this way – I never imagined everything would spin, change, twist, and break apart like this – and that we would end up working side by side.

Over four years of working in publishing behind us. So fast, yet unbearably long; what we’ve achieved now is written in blood, tears, and the cold of political investigation cells… There was no easy start, and we didn't fall into rhythm right away – for a long time, our trio wasn’t recognized, so we weren’t involved in any of the shortcuts, gossip, or work for the regime. Courage is tasted in small doses. You don’t read people right away. You find allies only through mistakes. The constant drive to be at the center of events, to dig into topics that shouldn’t be dug into: this led us to the current editor-in-chief of Crimson Skies, a man who was partly reckless, impulsive, but very principled and brave, who managed to find a loophole in censorship and powerful patrons even in our State.

The closer to the center of the city, the more people there are, the taller the buildings, and the darker the sky.

It was an incredible risk to head to the Isthmus Region, but a trusted source assured us that there would be information on our topic of interest, and certain strings had been pulled to set up the meeting.

However, we were nearly a day late for the agreed meeting time: no matter how well-made the entry documents were or whose name was on the signature, movement between territorial units of the State had been, to put it mildly, highly restricted for many decades, and in the past month, customs officials had become downright feral. The tightening of already strict restrictions was, of course, due to the epidemic in the Northern lands, which could no longer be concealed by rumors, speculation, or the machinations of “oppositionists and amateurs.” An unknown disease was rapidly and mercilessly sweeping through the cities, and the impending nightmare, the “wrath of the Heavens,” was only whispered by the lazy.

Yes, Andrew didn’t have to mention the closed North. I was sure that in a couple of weeks, it would fall under the same strict ban as the civil war in the southwestern territories and the organization Ancerb, which had vanished about a year and a half ago. So, no matter how risky our trip was, we couldn’t afford to miss even the smallest chance to understand what was happening.

I sighed heavily, glancing furtively at the fresh newspaper next to Sam. The headlines were full of news about yet another official behind bars; about how the civil war (and any military actions) in the distant southwest had ended last year, and any contradiction to that was lies, sabotage, and attempts to undermine the authority of the ruling monarchs. However, such formulations were no longer surprising; government scribes churned out the same articles on repeat, desperately trying to convince the loyal subjects of the State of the Three of its legitimacy, the control over the situation in the closed North, where rumors spoke of an almost apocalyptic event, and in the southwest, where the peninsula and the stronghold of resistance, The Cold Calm, had been waging a civil war for thirteen years for their right to secede.