Chapter 1
___The rocks within his hands fell, sliding from his forlorn grasp.
. . .
___The rhythmic ticking of gears and cogs turning filled the otherwise silent room.
. . .
___The waters coursing through the canals of the sewer moved steady; an unbroken path. Voices of malice had reached his fallen body, yet were muffled by the pained thoughts within his head. Pulsed veins, and strained muscles. The Qadir's head continued to push against the knees brought all the way up to his chest. Even then, Khayri managed to take breathes in from a garette that he longed for. Despite the wars that had stained lives, both from nations and private affairs, people continued to strive for animosity.
___Were dreams hopeless? As it stood, even the denizens within the decrepit halls of Crookback took what liberty they had in front of them for granted. Contrasting from the masks of the so-called "downtrodden" lives of others, the shrapnel of a splintered hope lingered within him. How many centuries would need to pass before something altered from the never-ending cycle of needless bloodshed?
___Grains of sand trickled down the figure of the hourglass. Little by little. Nearby, a gear-fueled lamp uneasily flickered.
___It was only a few weeks since the creases of his sandals had set foot on a new land. It was too early to shatter a change. It was too early to cease his attempts to create the light.
___Smoke rose from the carapace of his figure.
. . .
___A bloodstained palm pressed against his abdomen.
