Rune hefted the satchel that held everything he owned and one thing he didn’t. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

It wasn’t only the early-autumn heat. The stench of grime and rust and smoke combined into a noxious haze. The screeches and bellows of motorized carriages wheedled their way into the back of Rune’s brain. His whole head throbbed.

He stopped for a second on the residential sidewalk to settle his breathing. Settle down, he told himself. But he couldn’t help looking over his shoulder one more time, just in case.

He took a breath, then stopped short in a fit of coughing. This world smelled wrong. Maybe he’d get used to it. Hopefully soon.

Rune forced himself to relax and tried again. His lungs expanded, and he savored every bit of air as it entered his body. And along with revitalizing oxygen came the airy chaos, the elemental engine of creation that was as much a part of Rune as his bones and his blood. It pulsed through him and swirled around him, and with the slightest effort of will, Rune let it clear his mind and expand his senses.

It only took a moment, but everything was suddenly sharper, more coherent. To his relief, his heightened senses brought no sign of pursuit: no skulking shadows, no furtive footsteps, no flash of knives in the falling night.

The sun finally set, and darkness cooled the air. It was a clear night, but where were the stars? The garish lights of every storefront window had driven them away.

He had lost track of time. He was tired, hungry, and cold.

At least he had finally shed the last of his scales.

All he could do was press on…

* * *

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