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from the violent current. From the edge of the pipe, the city wall of Bollingbrook fell away on either side in rows of great copper monoliths, so high that it was impossible to see where they ended. They blended into the distant fog where the forest trees, grown wild from the Flux, crowded and pressed against them.
    Nobody knew what the Flux was. Most people simply called it The Wilds, a place that caused visions and madness. Others said it held the truth—whatever that meant.
    Below her feet, the water cascaded out of the canal in a deafening roar, vanishing into the gorge below. A large branch plunged over the edge, performing a dramatic suicide. A deep canyon had been carved by centuries of water from the city, trailing off to where it would eventually merge with the greater Lassimir River. The forest was simply cut off at the river’s edge as if a great axe had come down, cleaving the earth in half. From the granite face, exposed roots twisted to find purchase. Gnarled toes from a beggar’s shoe.
    The forest spread out in front of her, a vast blanket of greens and grays, hinting at the jagged Flux-torn landscape that lay hidden beneath. It rolled and rolled until it too vanished into the morning fog.
    She shrugged off her backpack and rummaged inside, her stomach growling. As she grabbed the last scrap of cheese from her rucksack, her hand brushed up against the smooth surface of the box. It had honestly been the last thing on her mind. Holding the food in her mouth, she removed it from the satchel.
    Now that it had been jostled, it was somewhat free of dust and she could clearly read her name written in thick red letters on the lid. Skyla placed the box on the ground and tugged the cord that held the lid in place. Fine particles of dust and old twine flew into the air as the strand unraveled.
    How long has she had this under her bed ? she wondered.
    Two smoky green glass disks encased in rings of brass stared up at her from the middle of the open box. They sat half-buried in a nest of ripped white tissue, each ring with a fine set of grooves around its circumference, resembling the lenses of an old camera. Tiny symbols were etched at even intervals around the polished brass rings. The lenses were mounted on a brown, soft leather skullcap via a complex brass hinge. From the skullcap dangled a chinstrap lined with soft wool.
    Skyla held the aviator goggles out in front of her as something fell from inside them. It landed in the box with a dull thump. Not wanting to get them dirty, Skyla placed the cap on her head; the lenses rotated upward. They shaded her eyes like a visor and she thought that if it rained again, they might prove valuable for keeping her face dry at least.
    She sank her hand back into the packaging and felt something hard, cold, and circular. As she grabbed it, Skyla felt a tingle travel up her forearm, a faint electrical jolt. It lasted for only a moment.
    I‘m so tired my mind is playing tricks on me , she thought.
    It was a coin, large enough to cover her palm. A curious square hole cored out its center and the face reminded her of dirty moss. It might have been bronze at one point, but now it was covered in a thick patina of decay. She flipped it over and noted the design of a snake winding its way around the circumference of one side. Its skin was detailed and vivid even under the apparent corrosion. Its back arched and flexed its way around the coin until it met its own tail, which it appeared to eat.
    Flipping it over revealed a series of characters she had never seen before. They too spanned the circumference of the coin and ended exactly where they started. There was no way to tell where they ended or began. It seemed to be just one continuous circle of inexplicable text.
    She pocketed the coin and crushed the box flat, then placed it at the bottom of the pack, along with the twine, on top of its lid. Orrin watched all this with patient curiosity, occasionally preening a feather or sharpening