LURE

Prologue

Figure 1. The Cradles, South Sesile, Caith, 1095. Photograph by Inri D'Sa.

In the rural hilltops of Caith that catch the first light of dawn and, more rarely, in the city centers where ancient stones sink beneath modern feet, there stand the Cradles.

Vast mechanical eyes, their weight defied by languid gravity fields, they hover above pedestals older than the cities that grew to surround them. Time has not been gentle. Most are dulled with rust's bloom, their intricate mechanisms silenced, their inner workings beyond the reach of contemporary science.

They are relics of Lord Khari, the elusive father of Magitech, fashioned for a singular purpose: to seek his long-lost heir. Legend whispers that the true scion of Khari's blood will stir the eyes from their eternal vigil, closing them forever and summoning the Celestial Palace from the firmament.

Pilgrims still ascend the podiums. Some with reverence, some with desperation, pressing their palms to the cool metal in hope that they might awaken destiny.

Yet the official periodicals are forced to omit what is whispered in shadow. The failed attempts. The vanishings. The unrecorded red flares that bloom in those colossal irises before swallowing a soul whole.

The Ministry maintains that such tales are superstition, that any deaths or disappearances are tragic coincidence. But archivists and field scholars note that accounts of "accidents" cluster in patterns the Ministry refuses to make known or acknowledge altogether.

This photograph, taken by Inri D'Sa in 1095, was originally commissioned by The Cradles Heritage Foundation, along with an article titled "My Weary Eyes" in the now-defunct MidnightQuill paper.

Officially, the piece was shelved following increased reports of vandalism on the South Sesile site. Unofficially, it coincided with the vanishing of a northern immigrant girl, last seen pressing her hand against the eye moments before two morning joggers reported seeing the Cradle's gaze blaze crimson.

The Cradles endure, watching, waiting, their purpose neither fulfilled nor forgotten. In them lingers a mingling of sorcery and steel, wild as the sea, patient as stone. And though their origin is recorded in the annals of Caith's founding, their ending, like their true nature, remains unwritten.