The fractured city, p.1
The Fractured City, page 1
Aron Roberts
The Fractured City
First published by Draft 2 Digital 2025
Copyright © 2025 by Aron Roberts
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Aron Roberts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This story may include themes of survival, societal collapse, violence, and other mature content that might not be suitable for all readers. Reader discretion is advised.
The story’s depiction of cultures, beliefs, and factions is entirely fictional and is not intended to reflect or critique any real-world group, religion, or ideology.
While elements of the story may draw inspiration from historical events, mythology, or societal trends, these are interpreted through a fictional lens and should not be regarded as commentary on real-world issues.
All content, including the narrative, characters, and world-building, is the intellectual property of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is prohibited.
The narrative explores a dark and speculative future designed for dramatic storytelling. It is not intended to promote pessimism or fear but to provoke thought about human resilience, ethics, and survival.
Portions of this story, including world-building, character development, and narrative ideas, were generated with the assistance of AI tools. These tools served as collaborative instruments for brainstorming and drafting but were guided and curated by the author. All creative decisions, interpretations, and refinements remain the author’s own.
First edition
ISBN: 979-8-22-743605-4
Editing by Yolanda J. Sarmiento
Cover art by Adeel A
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Contents
Prologue: The Marble City
I. BENEATH THE MARBLE
Ash
Claire
Ren
Ash II
Claire II
Ash III
Ren II
Ash IV
Claire III
Ash V
Claire IV
Ren III
Ash VI
Claire V
II. THE CRUMBLING VEIL
Ren IV
Ash VII
Ren V
Claire VI
Ren VI
Claire VII
Ash VIII
Ren VII
Claire VIII
Ren VIII
Ash IX
III. DUST RISING
Ash X
Ren IX
Claire IX
Ren X
Claire X
Ash XI
Ren XI
Claire XI
Ash XII
Epilogue
Factions
The Eight Cities of the Remnant Council
The Creation of the Wellspring & The Dustborn
About the Author
Prologue: The Marble City
The world had long been consumed by darkness. No sun, no stars, no moon—only the void overhead and the endless hunger of the shadows below. The lands, once vibrant with rivers and life, had become barren. The skies held their secrets, the earth held its bones, and humanity clung to survival in pockets of light carved into the darkness.
Among these sanctuaries, none were greater than the Marble City. Its walls of pure white stone shimmered like a beacon against the black abyss. Built into the cliffs, it was a fortress of light, knowledge, and water—a rare trifecta in a broken world. At its heart was a vast reservoir, a wellspring of life carefully guarded by the Council that ruled the city. They alone knew the secrets of water, holding their dominion over the parched and desperate lands.
The Marble City had stood unbroken for generations, an untouchable testament to humanity’s defiance. Yet its story ended not with conquest or war, but with whispers.
The rumors began like faint winds stirring the dust of forgotten roads. People spoke of a figure—cloaked, nameless, and unrelenting. They called him the Wanderer, always accompanied by children. The stories varied. Some said the children were orphans he had saved from the wastelands; others claimed they followed him like moths to a flame, drawn by his strange presence. But there was one constant: wherever the Wanderer and his children appeared, destruction soon followed.
It was said they had been seen near the Marble City in its final days. Those who caught glimpses of them spoke of the way the Wanderer moved, unhurried, as if he already knew the city’s fate. The children, silent and pale, never strayed far from his shadow. Their eyes, some claimed, glowed faintly in the dark.
When the Marble City fell, its torches extinguished, its fountains turned to dust, and its grand halls crumbled into silence, no one could say for sure what had happened. The Council claimed it was betrayal, an uprising of dissenters seeking to control the water for themselves. The survivors whispered otherwise.
The Wanderer had passed through their gates, they said. The children had walked among the city’s streets. And after they left, the ruin began.
Now, the Marble City stands as a scar on the wasteland, its grandeur reduced to rubble. Its once-brilliant walls are streaked with soot, and its fountains are dry and silent. No one dares approach it, for the stories persist: the whispers of the Wanderer, the haunting laughter of children in the shadows, and the ominous sense that something broken still lingers there.
The world had moved on, but the fall of the Marble City was etched into the collective memory of those who survived. The Wanderer and his children, they said, were not saviors. They were an omen. A warning. And they would appear again.
I
Beneath the Marble
“Beneath the stone, the past lingers—buried, but never silent. Secrets do not die; they wait, pressing against the earth, whispering through the cracks, calling to those who dare to listen.” -a spectator
Ash
The air in the wasteland was still, heavy with the weight of silence. The blackened sky stretched endlessly above, a void without stars, without light, as if the world itself had forgotten its place in the universe. Ash watched from a jagged ridge of stone, his eyes fixed on the figure below—a man walking through the barren desert, cloaked in shadows that seemed to shift and swirl around him.
The Wanderer.
The man moved with an unnatural calm, as though the desolation of the world could not touch him. Around him, children followed in silence, their pale faces eerily serene, their movements unnervingly synchronized. They did not speak, did not stumble, only drifted after him like ghosts tethered to his presence.
Ash’s breath caught in his throat as the Wanderer stopped. Slowly, the man turned his head, and though the distance between them was vast, Ash felt the weight of his gaze—a piercing stare that seemed to reach into his very soul.
The children halted as well, their heads tilting toward Ash in unison. Their eyes glowed faintly, reflecting some light that wasn’t there. The ground beneath them began to crack, thin veins of water seeping up through the fissures, but the liquid evaporated almost instantly, vanishing into the dry air like a cruel mirage.
A faint wind stirred the dust, carrying whispers that Ash couldn’t quite make out. His body felt frozen, his limbs heavy as if he were sinking into the ground. The Wanderer raised his hand, pointing toward him, and the whispers grew louder, drowning out the stillness of the wasteland.
The children’s laughter broke the silence. Soft, haunting, and unnatural.
And then the ground gave way beneath Ash’s feet, and he fell into the darkness.
* * *
Ash jolted awake, gasping for breath as his body lurched upright. His small, dimly lit room felt stifling, the walls closing in around him. Sweat clung to his skin, and his heart thundered in his chest as if it were trying to escape.
The dream again.
He ran a trembling hand through his messy hair, trying to shake the image of the Wanderer and the children from his mind. It had been weeks now, the same dream playing over and over, each time more vivid, more consuming. The man’s gaze lingered in his thoughts, sharp and unrelenting, as though it had followed him from the dream into waking.
A knock at the door startled him. “Ash! You up?”
The muffled voice belonged to his coworker, an older man who often shared shifts with him. Ash took a deep breath, forcing his voice to sound steady. “Yeah, I’m up.”
“You sure? You’ve been having those dreams again, haven’t you?”
Ash hesitated, his eyes drifting to the small notebook on the table by his bed. Its pages were filled with sketches from his dreams—rough, fragmented images of the Wanderer, the children, and a crumbling white city he didn’t recognize. He quickly flipped it shu
The older man grunted from the other side of the door. “Well, get moving. You don’t want to be late again.”
Ash muttered a half-hearted response, waiting until the sound of footsteps faded before letting out a shaky breath. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling as the dream replayed in his mind.
It wasn’t just a dream. It never felt like a dream.
The laughter of the children echoed faintly in his ears, sending a chill down his spine. Something about the Wanderer’s presence lingered, as though the man wasn’t just a figure in his subconscious but something far more real, far more dangerous.
Ash shook his head, trying to push the thought away. But deep down, he couldn’t ignore it. The dreams were more than a bad night’s sleep. They were a call, a warning, or perhaps something worse.
* * *
The outskirts of the city buzzed with quiet activity, the air heavy with the acrid scent of burning torches. Mirrors fixed high on metal poles reflected the flames, spreading the light in uneven patches across the dusty streets. Beyond the city’s borders, where the light faded into the void, the dark wastelands stretched endlessly, an abyss that swallowed anyone foolish enough to wander too far.
Ash kept his head down as he moved through the narrow streets. The crowd was a mix of weary workers, traders, and Remnant enforcers—figures clad in gray uniforms, their sharp eyes scanning for any signs of defiance or difference. He avoided their gaze, knowing better than to draw attention to himself.
His job today was simple: maintenance work on one of the outermost torch stations. The stations were vital, keeping the city’s borders illuminated and the wastelands at bay. Without them, the darkness would creep in, suffocating everything in its path. Or so the Remnants claimed. Ash had never seen what lay beyond the light, and the thought of it filled him with equal parts dread and curiosity.
He passed by a group of workers muttering amongst themselves. Their voices were low, cautious, but Ash caught fragments of their conversation: “…Aquila patrols doubled… rumors about Spectators…” The word sent a chill through him. He quickened his pace, forcing his thoughts to focus on the task ahead.
Arriving at the torch station, Ash set to work inspecting the equipment. The torch station was old and rusted. Half its frame leaned crooked. The mirror meant to scatter the light had a long crack through it. Ash climbed a shaky ladder, tools clinking at his side.
From the top, he could see everything. To his left, impenetrable darkness, like a sea of ink without end. To the right, a scattering of lights and haphazard buildings reaching out from the city’s center. And far away, rising like a dagger, stood the Onyx City. Black towers vanished into the sky, windows blinking like artificial constellations. Ash had only read about the stars that used to hang in the real sky. Now, only Onyx light remained. Looking out into the endless dark, Ash felt the memory of the dream slip over him like a shadow. The Wanderer—was he out there now? Somewhere beyond the last torch, walking those forgotten paths?
“Daydreaming again?”
Ash looked down. Tarek stood smiling.
“You zone out like that, someone’s gonna report you,” Tarek said. “The Aquila Order aren’t fans of dreamers.”
“I know,” Ash muttered and climbed down.
Tarek lowered his voice. “They’re hunting someone. A Spectator. Word is, they might be in hiding hear in the outskirts.”
Ash kept his face neutral. “Didn’t hear anything.”
Tarek frowned. “Just keep your head down. You’re quiet, but quiet ones always end up drawing the wrong kind of attention.”
Ash nodded, but his thoughts churned beneath the surface. The dreams. The visions. That word—“Spectator.” It carried weight now, a shape in the dark he couldn’t yet define. The dreams weren’t fading—they were sharpening, tightening around him like a snare. They came more often, stayed longer, and left behind a taste like ash in his mouth. Every time he closed his eyes, they returned. Vivid. Violent. Unshakable.
If the patrols were out hunting Spectators, then it was only a matter of time. Someone would see the way he drifted off mid-conversation, the way his eyes darted toward the dark without fear. Someone would notice. Someone would speak. And then the Remnants would come for him—or worse, the Order.
Ash didn’t even know what a Spectator was. No one did, not really. But deep down, he knew. He felt it like a thread pulled taut behind his ribs. His dreams meant something. They weren’t just fragments of imagination. They were a calling. A warning. A claim.
He didn’t understand it. But he was a spectator, the person the Order was hunting.
* * *
Later that evening, Ash lingered near the edge of the city, where the last torch stations stood like sentinels against the encroaching dark. The workers had gone home, leaving the area deserted except for a few scavengers trading quietly in the shadows. Ash wasn’t supposed to be there, but he couldn’t resist. The wastelands pulled at him, their mysteries teasing the edges of his mind.
Two scavengers stood nearby, speaking in hushed tones. Ash crouched behind a stack of crates, straining to hear their conversation.
“…Saw them near the old ridge,” one said, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek. “The lights. Like tiny fires moving through the dark.”
“You think it’s them? The Dustborn?” the other asked, a woman whose face was hidden beneath a hood.
“Who else? They’ve got ways to move we’ll never understand.”
The hooded woman glanced nervously over her shoulder. “And the man? You hear anything about him?”
The scarred man nodded. “Some say he’s real. The Wanderer. Others say he’s a ghost, nothing more than a story to keep us looking over our shoulders.”
Ash felt his chest tighten. The Wanderer. His name spoken aloud sent a strange mix of fear and anticipation coursing through him.
The scarred man leaned closer to the hooded woman, his voice dropping lower. “If he’s real, he’s not just wandering. Wherever he goes, ruin follows. You’d do well to steer clear of those lights.”
The woman shivered and nodded before the two moved off into the shadows, their words lingering in the air like a warning.
Ash exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. The dream, the visions, the whispers—they all pointed to the same figure. But why? What was he supposed to do with these fragments of truth?
As he turned to leave, the laughter echoed inside his skull, thin and brittle, like it had been waiting for him to listen. The world around him blurred. His vision darkened, replaced by a fleeting image: the Wanderer standing atop a ruined city, his shadow stretching across the wasteland. The children stood at his side, their pale faces glowing faintly in the dark.
