In a few minutes, Elias Whittaker would arrive at the edge of the world.
At least, that's how the papers described it.
He watched the land blur past the train window, the setting sun staining the sky in shades of burnt orange and fading gold. For a moment, he let himself admire it—the last traces of warmth before the shadows swallowed everything. It was a rare moment of stillness, one he had no doubt would end the moment his feet touched Dunwich's Reach.
Elias adjusted his coat, shaking off the weight settling on his shoulders. The journey had been long—crossing two oceans, three ports, and now this final, winding stretch of steel cutting through the wilderness of Nezro. The farther the train carried him inland, the more the landscape felt untouched, unclaimed.
A folded newspaper rested in his lap, its pages worn at the edges from restless handling. "Another Worker Missing in Vundora's Most Isolated Town." The headline was printed in bold, but the article itself was tucked away near the back—like a whisper no one cared to hear.
Henry Pike. One more man swallowed by this place. Not the first. Certainly not the last.
The outside world had its theories—tales of cannibal cults lurking in the fog, of old families that refused to let outsiders leave, of things waiting in the forests that didn't like to be seen. Rumors had a way of stretching themselves thin across oceans, twisting with each retelling. But Elias wasn't here for myths.
He tapped a finger against the leather cover of his notebook, eyes flicking over the second name buried in the article. Deepwell Extractions. The company Henry Pike worked for. The only company in Dunwich's Reach.
No one knew exactly what Deepwell mined, only that it had quietly become one of the most sought-after commodities in the global market. That alone had been enough to make Elias pause. What sealed his decision was a single rumor—that Reichwald had been buying from Deepwell in bulk. The same Reichwald that had just unveiled an impossible piece of technology. The same Reichwald that might be outpacing Velmorne for the first time in history.
No one at The Imperial Standard had cared. To them, Vundora was incapable of producing anything worthwhile. The idea that an isolated mining facility in a forgotten town could be linked to a global power shift? Laughable. The only reason Elias had been given funding was because no one else would go. If he failed, no one would mourn the loss.
But if he succeeded—if he found something real—they'd have no choice but to acknowledge him.
A whistle cut through his thoughts. Elias looked up.
The trees had grown taller, pressing against the narrowing sky. The golden light had been swallowed whole, leaving only dark trunks and tangled branches. The train felt slower now, dragging itself forward, as though reluctant to reach its destination.
"You don't look like someone bound for Dunwich."
Elias blinked and turned his head.
An old woman sat across the aisle, wrapped in a thick shawl, her face lined with deep wrinkles. Her gaze was fixed on him—not unkind, but heavy, like she had already decided something about him.
He let out a slow breath and offered a polite smile. "And what does someone bound for Dunwich look like?"
She paused, as if considering her words. "Tired."
Elias chuckled, shaking his head. He didn't argue.
Outside, the train let out a final whistle, steam hissing as it pulled into the station. The engine shuddered, slowing to a reluctant stop.
For a long moment, Elias didn't move. He remained seated, gripping the edge of his notebook, staring out at the mist curling beyond the lamplight. The air seemed heavier now, colder than it should be.
He exhaled sharply. Then he stood, adjusted his coat, and stepped off the train.
The platform was nearly deserted. A handful of flickering oil lamps cast uneven circles of light, barely strong enough to hold back the fog rolling in from the sea. The station itself looked like something left behind, forgotten by time. Wood warped by salt air, rust creeping along the edges of old iron rails. Somewhere in the distance, a buoy clanged against the waves.
Elias took a few steps forward, scanning the station. A few shadowed figures moved in the distance, slipping between the buildings, heads down. No one acknowledged him.
The wind pulled at his coat, sharp with the scent of damp wood and brine. He turned his head toward the faint outline of the town beyond the fog—old buildings sloping toward the water, huddled together like they were waiting for something to return.
Then—footsteps behind him.
Elias stilled.
He turned.
A man stood there, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a thick coat. His face was shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, unreadable.
A pause. Then—
"Elias Whittaker?"
Elias's fingers curled around the strap of his bag. The man's voice was steady, matter-of-fact, as if he had been expecting him.
"Yes," Elias said.
The man didn't react. He stepped closer, extending a gloved hand. Elias hesitated for only a second before reaching out, feeling the firm grip of someone who measured people by their handshake.
The man's voice was quiet but firm.
"Welcome to Dunwich's Reach."