In the canyonlands of the Red Silence, where the wind carved stone into screaming faces and the sun set the cliffs ablaze each dusk, hunters told stories of the hawk that flew backwards. They called it

In the city of iron and smoke, where the sun never pierced the smog, there was one shop that still remembered warmth. Madam Lin’s teahouse stood tucked between two factories, its wooden sign faded but

In the iron-shuttered district of Deadbolt Row, where doors opened to more than just rooms, Harlan Keyes didn’t just cut keys—he forged consequences. His workshop smelled of gunmetal and old sins, its