Arabella Phoebe Sparks hated Ivoryport.

She found it fake and ridiculous, a peasant pretending to be a nobleman. White marble acted as ivory, turning the city into a giant chessboard where the whites claimed overwhelming victory. The one place in Makina where no factory existed, the capital of the kingdom was a white spot in the middle of a sea of copper and brass.

The city itself proved quite unimpressive. Tall and spiky towers reached towards the sky on every corner, like sentinels watching over the city. Machines and people interacted together, the latter increasingly depending on the former. Numerous shops lined the streets, overcharging unsuspecting visitors who came from all over Makina to see the floor of the capital. Completely covered with cogs of different sizes, the floor truly was an engineering marvel, an achievement that made the entire city look and feel like the inside of a giant clock.

Most people used the word modern to describe Ivoryport. They could not be more wrong. Ivoryport stood as a testament to conservatism, an ode to frigidity that refused to embrace the future beyond the machines they loved. 

In truth, Ivoryport was the most retrograde place in Makina. Pretentious and artificial, it housed the most dangerous people of all. The royal family, a conclave of appetites, of bigots and idiots led by a dumb, weak King, and a bitter, angry Queen. Prideful and too blind to see past their own selfdom, they flew above them all, vultures preying on the dying and the weak.

And soon, she would fly by their side. 

Leverfort, the monstrous Royal residence, surged at the end of the road, marble arms reaching out to her. Its cold tongue licked her bare arms and a fugitive sigh escaped her lips. If she could only return to Master Nilla in Ravenport. She would gladly deal with that annoying Master Eldon. Compared to the people inside Leverfort, he seemed almost decent. 

Her large, puffy skirt made it hard to exit the vehicle. A grunt broke through her proper façade and the footman sent a confused look her way. How she wished she could wear her fighting clothes. Leather pants and vest, thigh-high boots, hair up, gun in hand. But Leverfort required a proper costume. Tight corsets, top hats, high heels, wide skirts. Flowers and perfume to mask the ugliness within. 

And what ugliness stood before her. Fair, stunning, unreachable. But ugliness still. 

"Your Grace," Arabella entered Marquise mode immediately. "What a pleasure to be here again."

"It is, is it not? Like my sons, I was horrified when news of your attack reached Leverfort. I can't describe the relief we felt when we discovered you safe and sound."

Estella Rose Lovegrove, the Withered Flower. Distant and inexpressive, she spoke with a rehearsed, taciturn cadence that showed a profound disinterest in her surroundings. Arabella saw the Queen's truth but she nevertheless smiled radiantly. Holding her future mother-in-law's hand, she pressed it against her chest. The Queen's eyes twitched. 

"Your Grace, you cannot imagine the panic I felt when those men attacked my blimp," Arabella said, helplessness coming naturally to her. "I swear to God, I thought it was the end."

"Oh, you poor thing," the thin and orange-haired woman standing next to the Queen spoke. "Sky Pirates at the Boldale Pass, my Heaven! Is no place safe anymore?"

"Marquise, this is Livilla Ada Goodenough. She recently married my second son, Buford, so that makes her your..."

"Sister!" Livilla finished, hugging Arabella with enthusiasm.

She responded to the hug bout out of duty and honest relief, mind at ease knowing she would not have to marry that brute, Buford.

"Sister, you must still be in shock. I can't imagine how awful the whole ordeal must've been." Livilla grabbed her by the arm as they both walked towards the palace.

"Yes, well, there is so much you can't imagine, dear," Queen Estella cruelly said. Livilla seemed not to understand her words. "Marquise, your presence at Leverfort is most fortunate. My three remaining sons are here, so this will be the perfect time to decide which one you will marry."

A nod formed at the back of Arabella's throat. "Who better to make that decision than Your Grace? Both you and His Majesty, of course."

"Samuel isn't here. He's flying to Ironport as we speak. Important matters. Or so I was told."

The bitterness in her voice was such that Arabella could almost taste it. The thought of ending like the Withered Flower almost quavered her speech. "Then I shall trust your wisdom, Your Grace. I am sure you shall do what is better for all of us."

The words tasted odd, foreigners in her lips just like she was in the city. Travellers out of place trying to fit in. Judging by the look on the Queen's face, they were failing.

"I'm so pleased you're here, Marquise. It gets so boring without some company. You can't know how long the days seem sometimes." Behind Livilla's cheerful tone, Arabella found traces of real longing. For a moment, she felt so close to her future sister-in-law, both of them prisoners of an untimely fate.

Queen Estella broke their kinship, her rudeness less concealed than before. "Do shut up, dear. The Marquise and I are speaking."

Arabella held Livilla's hand tighter, trying to encourage her. Once again, she simply smiled and nodded. She was clearly used to the Queen's mistreatments.

"It is indeed fortunate to have someone else to share this whole journey with," Arabella said, feeling the need to stand up for Livilla. "A true friend is as hard to find at court, as decency."

The Withered Flower stopped dead and both Arabella and Livilla narrowly avoided crashing against her. The Queen's lady was not so fortunate and almost lost her balance by stopping herself from touching her mistress. For a few seconds, the Queen remained silent, immobile, pensive. Then, recovering her composure, she finally turned to face them, a forced smile tainting her delicate features.

"Upon my word, you're not very delicate in giving your opinion, are you, dear Marquise? I shall keep that in mind."

Turning around, the Queen carried on and Arabella wondered if she just doomed her relationship with the complicated woman. Still, she could not excuse unnecessary rudeness. Nobility pretended to be educated and civil yet, in the capital, money did not equal manners and power did not equal class.

As they climbed the steps that led to the throne room, Arabella felt Livilla's hand sweating. Her face remained bright and peaceful, though, a wide grin adorning her small and doll-like features. Closer to forty than thirty, Livilla was at least ten gears older than Buford, which might explain the Withered Flower's animosity. An older woman was not the most suitable of companions, even if she belonged to the Goodenoughs of Tinkerton.

The throne room changed not one bit since Arabella last saw it. Cold, gloomy, vast, desolate. Not even the crowd inside could repel the emptiness that occupied every corner. Rivers of wine poured as men and women drank, laughed, and played with stakes far higher than they deserved. Still, Arabella felt ashamed at the familiarity. It was her world. Supposedly.

Master Nilla anchored her to truth and reality, reminding her that this life of excess was but a mirage, a disguise to hide her true purpose in life. Since infancy, Arabella knew she was more warrior than Marquise. For twenty-six gears, she hid her true nature under dignified layers of nobility, concealing her instincts in ponds of abundance. 

Yet, with fate so close and decisive, with the perils of life so real and inescapable, she wondered if, perhaps, she should have indulged in the excess. Even for a minute, even just a tad. Did she miss her chance?

Her eyes found Buford, drunk and staggering around the small crowd gathered around him, one hand in his bulge and the other clutching a glass wine, and immediately regretted her thoughts. She would rather face ten thousand Royders than be in a room with a drunk Buford.

"Marquise, there's someone I want you to meet," Queen Estella said abruptly.

They were now standing in front of a woman unlike any other. Indeed, several of the nobles shot curious or disturbed looks her way and Arabella understood why. She wore no dress, but a plain white shirt under a tight black corset, and leather pants, all covered with small multicoloured cogs and springs. Two large spikes came out of her elbows, giving her a rather threatening look.

The woman's clothes, however, had nothing on her face. A large brass mask extended diagonally on her left side, from the top of her eye to the corner of her strong jaw. Two wires came out of the mask and travelled to the back of her head, where they got lost in a sea of blood-red hair. A top hat with a small, puffing chimney completed her look, making her seem more machine than human.

The Queen, unlike the others, seemed rather comfortable next to the woman. Fascinated even. "Marquise, meet Shooter Viola Hecuba Hawk. She shall be your personal bodyguard while you stay in the capital."

"Marquise, it will be an honour to protect you during your stay at Leverfort." Shooter Viola spoke with a posh and delicate accent, one Arabella expected from a lady of the court, not a bodyguard.

Looking past the mask, Arabella noticed that, before being disfigured, the Shooter probably was a rather striking woman. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Viola."

"I am not a Lady," the Shooter firmly replied. "Shooter Viola will be fine, Marquise."

"This is very generous on your part, Your Grace. Is it necessary, though?" Arabella spoke, gently choosing her words.

"Absolutely," the Queen gestured her words away with a hand's movement. "You may very well be a future Queen of Makina, your security is a priority to this family. Shooter Viola is the greatest artist of the gun on the continent. Her fierce reputation precedes her."

Arabella gave up, realizing this would be a battle she would not win. Shooter Viola, understating her weariness, approached and lowered her voice.

"Do not worry, Marquise. I will not interfere with your daily activities."

"I am sure you will not, just as I will not oppose your exemplary services."

"Those look really comfortable," Livilla said as she looked at the shooter's leather pants with obvious fascination.

The shooter grinned, giving Livilla's dress a judgmental look. "Certainly more comfortable than your choice of wardrobe, My Lady Livilla."

"I would give everything to be wearing one of those right now," Arabella said, honesty escaping from her mouth.

"Yes, well, wouldn't we all?" The Queen spoke without thinking and a shy smile touched the corner of her lips, ever so slightly. "Anyway, I must be off. Marquise, I will see you tonight at dinner. Seven o'clock at the Queen's Parlor."

With those words, she walked away. Behind her, a young, mute lady followed, eyes to the floor, hands fidgeting, presence near invisible. 

"They say that poor girl is Samuel's mistress," Livilla whispered, large almond eyes tracing the Queen's steps. "If so, the whole situation is rather sinister. Why would someone want to willingly spend time with her husband's mistress? She's a very weird woman, the Queen."

"You have no idea." This time, it was Arabella who spoke without thinking. She rapidly changed the subject. "How long have you been at court?"

Livilla sighed in boredom. "Almost forty days and I can't wait to be out of here. Buford is supposed to gain control of Wellsey Manor in Vanderport, but we first have to wait for all his brothers to get married. Now that you're here, that's one less brother to consider. But that still leaves another two and from what I've seen, they are rather thick when it comes to matters of the heart."

"They are rather thick on every single matter," Arabella replied and Livilla let out a high and piercing laugh that scared even Shooter Viola.

"Oh, Marquise, you sharp-tongued devil! Thank God for your presence. I don't know what I would've done if I had to spend one more day alone in this place! Everyone is so strange and rude! But my heavens, now I'm being rude." She turned to face the Shooter, who walked a short distance behind them. "Dear Viola, come join us."

Shooter Viola looked at Livilla with amusement. "I'm quite alright..."

"Nonsense, the three of us can look after each other. I dare say we'll need to."

Arabella locked eyes with the Shooter and simply nodded. "Lady Livilla has a point. Attacks in this place seldomly come directly. All the fighting here is done in the shadows. I could certainly use some allies."

The bodyguard mimicked her and gave a short but firm nod as Livilla locked arms with her. "Very well, as you wish, Marquise."

"Oh, speak of the devil!" Livilla's eyes widened even more as the doors to the throne room opened again.

Three figures walked into the room, all dressed in black, wearing goggles, gloves and cloaks. Acknowledging no one, they made their way to the throne, where Queen Estella received them with open arms.

"What a curious outfit for a prince, let alone three," Livilla said as she glanced at the three princes with distrust. "Buford's brothers are very odd. They are always wearing heavy layers, even though it's so hot here in the capital. The other day, one of them, I don't remember which one, but he started bleeding from the nose! Just like that, all of a sudden and quite profusely. Buford sent for the court physician because the blood would simply not stop. They eventually fixed him but for a moment, we were quite aghast. Must've been a heatstroke."

"Yes. I'm sure it was just that," Arabella answered, her eyes fixated upon the three kneeling Princes.

Although the goggles covered their eyes, she knew what hid behind them. Two black and hollow eyes, more dead than alive. And their mouths housed a purple tongue, restless and engorged, putrid and toxic. 

The three Princes turned to her and their fates collided. Master Nilla's suspicions were true. Ivoryport was now a battlefield.

"Shooter Viola," Arabella said as she pressed Livilla's hand tightly, "I suddenly feel very glad to have you with me."