IRONHEART: The Primal Deception

Chapter 1

"The Grounded Realm is located between the Celestial Realm and the Dark Realm (known in common language as The Abyss). While the Celestial Realm is the abode of the gods, the Grounded Realm has been set aside for the subjects of the Primal Empire: Myrmidons. The Dark Realm is a blasted wasteland where long-term survival is not possible, and it is the hellish destination of exiles, criminals, undesirables, and other enemies of the State. No more will be written about the land of the banished here." – Excerpt from An Introduction to the Primal Empire and its Geography by Rubeus Bernah

Jack wasn't exceptional. He knew that. The wretched existence of an exile was not his fate, and neither was he the son of an aristocrat. Jack was an orphan. Just an orphan. One of thousands from the streets of Victorian. Or he had been. At eighteen he was now a man, full grown and past any classification of parental presence or absence.

A gust of air howled through the peephole. Jack shifted absentmindedly to slip his thick, muscular torso into his grubby coat, covering his shirtsleeves, then pulled his bowler down tighter on his curly brown hair. The cramped lookout cavities that ran along the safe-house's brick exterior were drafty and moist this time of year, when autumn took full control from summer's lingering grasp, but he often found himself here despite the discomfort. It was the only place to go for a bit of solitude.

Jack liked to be alone, a nearly impossible state to achieve in one of Victorian's street gangs. But it was better than starving in the gutters, no matter how much more privacy he might find there. He could be in the bunkroom with the others – gambling, drinking, and doing all the other things men do when they're bored – but he was content to fill his belly, collect his share, and be left alone.

He could remember a time when he might have enjoyed occasional companionship. Those days were long gone. This was who he was. He preferred the seclusion.

Scuffling footsteps echoed in the passage, and Jack scowled irritably. When he frowned, his thick jaw pulled at the skin around his eyes, emphasizing a prominent brow. He leaned back to allow a boy to poke his head through the low entryway.

"Jack?" the lad queried, as his eyes had yet to adjust to the gloom. Looking at the fine dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and bright eyes of Fist's most accomplished young pickpocket, Jack often thought the boy a ghost from the past.

Jack grunted sourly, angry that he couldn't keep his memories in check. "What is it, Dasher?" he growled, more severely than he intended.

The lad faltered for a moment at his tone, but entered when he made more room. "Fist is looking for you. It's almost time."

Jack hid his surprise. Was it that late already? Time spent with his thoughts always passed more quickly than it should. "He still plans to go through with this mad scheme?"

Dasher shifted from foot to foot and looked at him with concern. "I wish you wouldn't say such things. You know Fist doesn't like it when people question him, and he's not happy about your cheek of late."

"You let me worry about Fist," Jack replied harshly. "Just stay out of his way. Understand?"

The boy nodded, his bright eyes wide.

Jack pulled his Webley Bull Dog Pocket Revolver from the back of his waistband and flipped open the receiver. Five .44 caliber short rimfire cartridges filled the chambers. He shifted his left hand to his coat pocket and felt the handful of spare cartridges inside.

"We'll be headed out soon?"

Dasher nodded again. His eyes followed Jack's practiced hands sliding over the small handgun.

Satisfied that the weapon would be ready for use, Jack tucked it in his waistband next to the small of his back. "I'll head to the common room. Run fetch my coach and a handful of shells."

Dasher leapt up to do his bidding. Jack stood slowly, shrugged more comfortably into his coat, gave another firm tug on the brim of his bowler, and followed him out.