Ashward was not on the city’s official maps, but it existed with a stubborn physicality that resisted disbelief. The air there tasted metallic, like rain that had fallen through fire. Buildings leaned together as if sharing secrets. Windows were opaque with soot, yet warm light pulsed behind them.
Mara stood at the threshold, the map heavy in her hands. When she crossed, the lines stilled.
A boy with gray-streaked hair darted past, trailing a kite made of newspaper. A woman hammered copper into bowls that rang like bells. The street sloped upward, though the harbor should have been to the east and down.
“Lost?” asked a man with a voice like gravel. He wore a coat patched with maps—real ones, she saw, fragments of cities she half-recognized.
“I’m a cartographer,” Mara said, because it felt like a password.
The man smiled. “Good. We need one.”
He introduced himself as Ilya and led her to a square where a tower stood incomplete, its top dissolving into smoke. People moved with purpose, repairing, measuring, arguing gently.
“Where is this?” Mara asked.
“Where the city forgets itself,” Ilya said. “Ashward is what remains.”
