chapter 1

Chapter 01: Life in Varen

"Does it actually work?" Luke asked, his brow furrowed with doubt. He held a square package wrapped in gift paper, weighing it in his hands to make sure nothing felt out of the ordinary if someone else were to hold it.

"You’re late, and now you’re doubting me? I’m offended, bro," Dennys grumbled, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling a cloud of smoke into the room. The place was dim, the air thick with the stench of damp wood and stale tobacco. This was Dennys’s place.

The blinds were drawn tight; Dennys always complained that the morning sun burned his retinas after a long night of heavy smoking. Luke coughed, waving the smoke away with his hand.

"One of these days, that shit’s gonna give you cancer, and it won't be funny watching you cry to the whole town," Luke teased. Dennys just let out a dry raspy laugh. "Hey, we all gotta die of something, right?"

"I’m actually surprised you pulled it off. I figured your dad would’ve been stricter about tech smuggling," Luke remarked. Dennys took another satisfying drag and kicked his foot up onto a bedside table.

"I guess that’s the perk of being the mayor’s son. I know a guy who’s got a line to the megacity. He sends me a batch, I pay the man."

"Sold any yet?"

"Obviously. Seven so far: two to the Bayers, another to the Collins, and a few to some random folks in town. Oh, and that bearded guy from the bar where you used to work? He put in an order too."

"Shit, you’re really running a racket here," Luke said, impressed. "It’s not... dangerous, is it?"

"I don't think so, man. Everyone says they’re scared of it, but everyone’s got a piece of tech hidden away somewhere. You remember that fat guy, Torkin?"

"Yeah, I remember him."

"He came by to buy one recently, and you know what I found out? The bastard has a VCR hidden in his attic and a mini-generator. He spends his Sundays watching movies and shows all night long. When I heard that, my blood boiled with envy; I haven't even been able to manage that yet. And so far? Nothing bad has happened."

Luke nodded, looking down again at the square, gift-wrapped package.

"I’m sure Lucy’s gonna love it when she sees it," he said with a smile.

"She’ll be floored. She’s always had a thing for this stuff, hasn’t she?"

"Yeah. She dreams about the megacities."

"Hah! Don't we all?"

"Keep this between us," Luke said, standing up.

"Always is, bro. If you want, I can hook you and your big brother up later."

"Haha, no thanks," Luke declined with a laugh. "My mom would lose her mind if she found out."

Luke said his goodbyes and headed for the door, leaving Dennys and his smoke behind. When he stepped outside, the light hit him like a physical blow. Compared to the dark, damp gloom of the house, the outside world was a different planet.

Summer in the town of Varen was at its morning peak: a cloudless, piercingly blue sky with a brilliant sun and air so hot it felt like it was simmering. The heat seemed to blur the landscape, while the cicadas kept up an endless drone from the poplars.

A few yards away, the empty coop where Dennys was supposedly raising chickens shimmered in the heat. They’d probably escaped while Dennys was getting high inside. This house was his hideout; as the mayor’s son, he could live in the town center, but when it came to drugs or business, he used this remote, derelict spot.

Luke adjusted his hat and started the trek back to town.

The town of Varen was a small village of no more than a hundred families, tucked away in the northwest, twenty kilometers from the great mountain ranges and fifteen from the next nearest settlement. The closest megacity was a three-day journey by horseback.

Cradled by lush wilderness and thick forests, Varen had a single general store, one tavern, and a large central square where the mayor’s house and the church stood. Due to its isolation, space was plentiful. Hectares of land and fields separated the houses, connected by dirt roads and wild greenery. Only the town square had the luxury of paved streets, though the houses there were cramped and closer together. The village was designed so that the "city folk" lived on top of each other, while those on the outskirts enjoyed distance and open fields—a setup that was usually comfortable, but occasionally, very lonely.

Luke crossed the main square, his backpack over his shoulder and his old mare, Margarita, in tow. The animal whinnied as Luke moved, trying to duck under the shade of every tree he passed, grateful for the brief relief offered by the Lindens lining the paths. Even at this hour, the square was buzzing: housewives did laundry at the fountain, trading the latest gossip; the butcher sharpened his knives; a dog scratched its back against the moss, tongue lolling out.

"Luke! Morning!"

A portly fellow stepping out of Grandma Meng’s shop—the best bakery in the county—greeted him with a grin. Luke smiled, noticing a bag of bread dangling from the man's arm as he adjusted his suspenders. Because of his weight, Henner Collins was constantly hiking up his trousers. Everyone had called him "Chubby Collins" since he was six, and he didn't seem to mind. He was a year older than Luke; they’d grown up playing together.

"How’s it going, Chubby? How’s your mom?" Luke asked, pulling up his horse to chat. "Brandon told me she was still down with that cold."

"She’s doing much better, actually. My dad was worried sick these past few weeks, but the fever’s breaking and she’s finally out of bed," the big man said with genuine relief. "She’s been down to cook twice this week. Says the cold’s gone, but the exhaustion stuck around."

"I get it. My mom’s got chamomile and valerian she dried last season. They’re good for fatigue. If your mom needs some, don’t hesitate to ask. She’s been worried too."

Chubby looked at him with awkward gratitude. "Thanks, Luke. You’re a good man."

"Tell my brother that. He’s still not convinced," Luke joked.

The big man laughed. They parted ways at the fork in the road. Chubby lived two fields away, so after a quick goodbye, he kept going. Luke turned onto the path toward his house.

As he drew closer, he heard gunshots echoing from the field. The sound was sharp and rhythmic, with fifteen to twenty seconds between each blast. Luke recognized his father’s shooting rhythm without even seeing him: Castul Merren always fired the same way—the same pause, the same stance, and the same focus he applied to every manual task he performed.

Entering their land, he spotted two silhouettes in the distance in the side field near the woods. They heard Margarita’s whinny and looked up. His father waved, while his older brother stood beside him with a carbine braced against his shoulder, aiming at a row of cans dangling from a wire about thirty yards away. Brandon was deep in concentration, gauging the wind until, finally, he pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, followed by the metallic clink of a can flying through the air.

"Nice shot, Brandon! But I’m still winning seven to two! Hahaha!" His father roared in victory.

Brandon sighed and spotted Luke. "What’s up, little brother?"

"Lost to Dad again, huh?"

"It’s no use. The old man’s got eagle eyes," Brandon cursed. Their father, busy reloading, scoffed at the whining, looking a bit ridiculous acting like a kid despite his muscular frame and massive beard.

Castul finished prepping the carbine and asked, "Luke, where’d you run off to?" His face was a healthy bronze, etched with lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth—the result of squinting at the sun and laughing in roughly equal measure. He was a calm man, the type who loved to talk and joke, often acting like a teenager despite his aching hips.

"Went to get this," Luke said, holding up the square package. "Lucy’s gift."

His father nodded. "What’d you get her? Judging by the shape... a new book?"

"Something like that. It wasn't easy to find."

Brandon sidled up to Luke and threw an arm around his shoulder, wearing a smile that definitely meant trouble.

"Or maybe you went to see Maren?" he teased.

Luke looked at him blankly. "Who?"

"The miller’s daughter. That girl who couldn't stop staring at you during mass last month."

"Nobody was staring at me."

"I saw her looking at you with those 'puppy-dog' eyes, calling your name: Luke!"

"Knock it off, Brandon. You spent that whole mass snoring in your chair. The priest almost smacked you to get you to stop."

Castul, hearing the banter, raised an eyebrow. He looked at Luke with amusement.

"She’s not my girlfriend," Luke blurted out before anyone could ask. "I haven't even talked to her."

"Come on, little bro. She’s cute. It’s a waste that you don't have a nice girlfriend to have some fun with yet."

"I’m not a Casanova like you, Brandon, chasing whatever pussy crosses your path."

"Ouch. That’s cold, man."

"Alright, alright, stop bickering," their father said, clapping Luke on the shoulder with a hand that felt as heavy as a sledgehammer. "Come here, Luke. Since you’re here, why not give it a shot? You’re old enough to learn how to handle a gun."

Luke looked at the carbine his father was offering.

"I’ve never fired one," he said, a hint of nerves in his voice.

"Exactly," his dad replied. "That’s how you learn."

Luke took the weapon with more care than necessary. It was heavy and undeniably real; the metal was hot from the sun. There was something about holding a carbine that made everything else around you seem smaller and more serious.

His father corrected his stance: "Hold it like this, tuck it into your shoulder, and adjust your hip... perfect. Now look through the sight, focus on hitting that middle can," he said, pointing.

Luke found the center can in the sights and waited for the wind to die down. He focused on keeping the carbine steady. Fixing his gaze on the target, he squeezed the trigger.

The kick of the shot jolted him back a step. The can didn't budge. The bullet hadn't even come close.

"Hey, not bad for a first shot," Brandon said, looking through binoculars. "Better than my first time, anyway."

"Your first time was a disaster. You almost shot me in the ass," his father grumbled. Brandon laughed, scratching his head sheepishly.

Luke nodded. "I remember that day. Brandon ran away from home for two days."

"Well, yeah! The old man was trying to chase me down with a stick because a tiny bullet grazed his butt cheek!"

"You brat! Do you have any idea how hard it was to sit down to take a shit?" His father’s face turned red just thinking about it.

Luke readjusted his stance. This time, he took a deep breath and steadied his breathing. Lining up the sight with the can, he waited, feeling the wind rustle the trees and seeing the can sway in the breeze. When the air went still, Luke screamed internally: Now! He squeezed and fired.

The can went flying, a jagged bullet hole dead-center.

"Great shot!" his father cheered.

"Beginner’s luck," Brandon muttered.

"Maybe you’ve got a knack for being a marksman," his father said, patting him on the back before baring his teeth. "Unlike some people," he added, throwing a look at Brandon.

"Hey! I’ve improved plenty since then!"

Luke smiled, watching his father and older brother bicker.

"You guys get your gifts for Lucy ready?" Luke asked.

His father beat his chest. "Obviously. I’ve got the perfect gift for my princess."

"Got mine too. Didn't know what to buy, so I asked a 'friend' for help," Brandon added.

"A friend?" Luke asked.

Brandon nodded with a suggestive grin, gesturing with his hands to trace the silhouette of a woman's body.

"Okay, I get it." Luke didn't ask any more questions.

Evening fell slowly over Varen; the sun crept toward the horizon until it dipped behind the massive mountain ranges that split the east. The outdoor heat cooled, though the roof remained warm.

Maria Merren—a 47-year-old woman with hands toughened by labor and eyes that always seemed to be smiling—brought the cake out from the kitchen with the focus of someone carrying a sacred relic. It was a vanilla cake with the frosting slightly lopsided on one side, which in Luke’s opinion made it more perfect than if it had been straight—it proved it was homemade. His mother’s cakes were always better than store-bought. The frosting held twelve lit candles.

Lucy watched as the "Holy Grail" was placed on the table in front of her. Her eyes sparkled with joy, though she looked half-embarrassed to be the center of attention. She’d dressed up for the occasion: her dark hair was pulled back with a pretty pink butterfly clip, and her eyes were the same shade as her mother’s.

She was a girl who tended to be shy and quiet in groups. But with family and close friends, her childish side came out, and she could be impossible to shut up. That contradiction was one of the things Luke and his family loved most about her.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart!" Maria said, placing the final candle. "Twelve years old! Time to make a wish."

Lucy nodded like an excited little bird and stared at the candles for a moment with that serious concentration she reserved for wishes, as if it were a formal contract. She closed her eyes and finally blew. All the candles went out at once. The family cheered. Castul whistled. "That’s my princess!"

"Dad, stop calling me that!" Lucy protested, blushing.

The gift-giving started with Maria, who pulled a flat package wrapped in floral paper from behind her chair. Lucy opened it carefully, peeling the paper back at the seams as if she intended to reuse it—a classic Lucy move. Inside was a dress: blue with tiny white flowers, short sleeves, and a ribbon at the waist.

Lucy held it up, her mouth slightly agape in surprise.

"Do you like it?" Maria asked, her smile already knowing the answer.

"It’s... it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen," Lucy whispered.

"Well, put it on! Show us how it looks."

"Yes! Right now!"

Lucy dashed down the hallway, the dress clutched to her chest, and returned three minutes later, transformed. She stood shyly in the doorway as the family looked on. Castul lunged forward and grabbed her in a classic "bear hug," rubbing his bearded chin against her cheek, overcome with tenderness. Lucy looked like a squished bean, her red cheeks puffing as she tried to protest.

"Dad! It pricks!"

"It’s a birthday kiss for my princess."

"It still pricks!"

Her mother stepped in and gave Castul a good smack on the head, which left him behaving like a tame dog.

"Okay, Dad’s turn," Castul said, grinning as he stepped forward and pulled out a flat box containing the most popular board game in the village. Almost all the kids in Varen played it. Lucy took it and thanked him with a smile. It was a strategy game, so she’d probably end up loving it; she was a sharp kid. Luke looked forward to watching Brandon suffer defeat after defeat once Lucy dragged him into playing.

Brandon’s gift was a refined-looking journal with a brown leather cover, a lock and key, and a silver fountain pen in its case. Lucy opened the journal and sniffed the pages. Luke wasn't sure if that was just something she did with books or a specific reaction to it being new, but his mother smiled as if she recognized the habit.

And finally, it was his turn.

"My turn," Luke said.

He handed her a wrapped package. Lucy took it with both hands and was about to pull the string when Luke stopped her.

"Better if you open it later," he whispered.

Lucy raised an eyebrow, looking suspicious. "Why?"

"It’s a surprise. Open it right before you go to sleep."

Lucy looked at Luke, then at the gift, hesitating. She wanted to rip it open then and there, but she ended up taking her brother’s advice. "Alright."

"Hey, that’s cheating," Brandon joked.

Seeing the look on his face, Luke sighed and admitted, "It’s a book."

Lucy tilted her head at the package and then at Luke, her mind clearly processing the info. Then, her eyes widened slightly.

"...Is it a book... from the megacity?" she asked softly, as if the question were too big to say out loud. Her tone was vibrating with excitement.

Luke hesitated for a second. "Something like that," he said.

A glow lit up Lucy’s face.

Maria, who had been smiling, knit her brow slightly with worry.

"It’s not... weird, is it? No strange tech inside, right?" she asked.

"Mom, it’s a book," Luke replied, trying to keep her calm.

"I know, but things from the megacities sometimes carry strange, forbidden ideas: engravings, formulas that could be part of tech..." She began to drift into her own imagination, showing just how much the megacities worried her.

"It’s a book of numbers, Mom."

"The blacksmith’s son found headphones hidden in a vase last year and—"

"And nothing happened," Luke finished.

"That doesn't mean it can't." Maria’s voice wasn't angry, just filled with that permanent worry that triggered at certain keywords. "Technology invites danger, Luke. It doesn't matter how much time passes without an incident; it doesn't change the fact that tech is dangerous and can bring ruin to the whole village. We have to be very careful that none of it reaches our house."

Castul rested both hands on the table and looked at his wife with affection.

"Maria," he said. "The cake."

She looked at him; her brows were still tight with tension, but finally she sighed and headed for the kitchen. "I’ll go get a knife to cut it."

Maria served the first slice to Lucy, who made the plate disappear in seconds. The cake was served, and they all enjoyed the family moment.

As night fell completely, the stars above Varen appeared like a breathtaking painting. It was so beautiful that Luke had often stayed up just watching them shine, fascinated by their raw clarity.

But tonight, he had something more important to do. Luke went up to Lucy’s room once the house had gone silent. He knocked softly. From inside came a hushed, "Who is it?"

"It’s me, dummy. Luke."

"Nii-san? Come in."

Luke opened the door and entered. Lucy’s room was as cluttered as ever; every time he visited, he found new things his little sister had added here and there. The walls were covered in newspaper clippings, pages torn from old magazines, her own drawings, and photos printed on cheap paper. It looked like a detective’s office, if not for the fact that—