The first thing Juan Castillo Fabronas saw when he stumbled out of the blinding light was smoke. Thick, heavy, unnatural, nothing like the battlefields of Orovia, where the air smelled of blood and gunpowder. This was different. It was a city's breath, an iron lung exhaling steam and soot, filling the sky with an artificial haze.

  He coughed, gripping his aching ribs. The cobblestone beneath his boots felt solid, too solid. He turned his head, and the sight before him almost made him stagger back.

  A city.

  Not like Seville. Not like the settlements of Orovia. This place was... wrong. A monstrous fusion of metal and stone, of towering brass towers with gears the size of windmills turning at their sides. Bridges stretched between buildings like spiderwebs, smoke billowed from chimneys that spewed gray clouds into an already choked sky. Men and women walked in strange garments, leather and heavy cloth, some with mechanical limbs, others with goggles covering their eyes. The hum of machinery filled the air, drowning out the voices of the crowd.

  Juan's heart pounded. This was no world he knew.

  "Where in the bloody hell am I?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  He stepped forward, his battered boots clicking against the stone. He was getting looks. People eyed his armor, his musket, his foreign face. He didn't like it. It felt as though he were a lost goat walking into a wolf's den.

  A voice barked from ahead. "Oi! You there!"

  Juan turned. A guard stood in his path. His uniform was nothing like the Spanish soldiers he had served with. It was dark, trimmed with bronze, and he wore a breastplate that hissed with steam at its joints. His arm, Juan realized, was not made of flesh, it was a machine, clanking and whirring as the man moved.

  "You don't look local," the guard said, stepping forward. "Name and purpose?"

  Juan swallowed. His English was not perfect, but he knew enough. "Eh, I am.." he paused, thinking, then puffed his chest. "Juan Castillo Fabronas. A great soldier, you see. Very famous. And very very muy vuerte."

  The guard was unimpressed. "Good for you. Entrance tax is four crowns."

  Juan blinked. "Eh?"

  The guard sighed. "Four crowns to enter the city. No money, no entry."

  Juan patted his belt. Nothing. His money, his Spanish money was worthless here anyway. Panic crept into his chest.

  "But-but I am soldier! I-"

  "No exceptions." The guard crossed his arms. "Got something to sell?"

  Juan's mouth went dry. He looked down at himself, then at the one thing of value he still had. His armor, battered but still bearing the mark of his homeland.

  He hesitated.

  "Eh... how much?"

  The guard smirked. "Depends. Blacksmith's row is that way." He pointed.

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  Juan clenched his teeth as the blacksmith appraised his armor. The man was short, bald, and had a pair of mechanical spectacles that zoomed in and out as he inspected the metal.

  "Fine craftsmanship," the blacksmith muttered. "But old. Primitive." He ran his fingers along the edge. "I'll give you ten crowns for the whole set."

  "Ten?! Madre de Dios, this armor is worth much more! You rob me!"

  The blacksmith shrugged. "Take it or leave it, foreigner."

  Juan fumed. He wanted to punch the man, but he had no choice. With a final curse, he removed his armor piece by piece, feeling naked without its weight.

  Minutes later, he walked out of the shop with ten heavy bronze coins in his palm. He had never felt so humiliated in his life.

  Juan wandered the streets, feeling the weight of his own disgrace. The city was a maze of steam vents and flickering lamps, its alleys filled with the sound of mechanical gears turning and merchants shouting in languages he did not understand.

  As he passed a market stall, a woman sneered at him. "You look lost, foreigner."

  Juan scoffed. "Lost? Me? Ha! I know exactly where I go."

  The woman laughed. "Oh yeah? Then tell me, where's the nearest inn?"

  Juan hesitated. "Eh... I-"

  She smirked and walked away. Juan growled, shoving his hands in his belt. He was tired, frustrated, and most of all, humiliated.

  Then he saw it, a dimly lit establishment tucked between two towering buildings. Laughter and shouting spilled from its doors, accompanied by the jingle of coins.

  A gambling den.

  The gambling den smelled of sweat, smoke, and bad decisions, the air thick with desperation and the lingering stench of spilled drinks. The dim gaslights flickered, casting eerie shadows over the hunched figures gathered around worn-out tables, their fingers twitching with anticipation.

  Juan had wandered deep into the city, past steam-powered carriages hissing down the streets and mechanical street lamps buzzing with electric hums. The winding alleyways had swallowed him whole, and the further he walked, the heavier his ten crowns felt in his pocket. He needed a way to make more. A place like this? Full of drunks, fools, and desperate men? It was perfect.

  He stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the dim light, and scanned the room. A row of tables stood in the center, men grumbling as dice clattered against wood. A card game played out in the corner, where a sharply dressed man shuffled a deck with inhuman precision, his fingers moving like a machine. Juan ignored them. The dice were where his luck lay.

  The game was simple, a familiar one. Some kind of dice rolling. Juan had played before. He had won before.

  So, with a smirk and misplaced confidence, he placed his first bet.

  And he won.

  Then he won again.

  And again.

  The gamblers around him grumbled, some glaring but too caught in their own misfortunes to care. Juan grinned, feeling the old thrill of luck rushing through his veins like the strong wine of Castilla. He started talking big, bragging, boasting.

  "Ah, you see? In Spain, we play this better, eh?" He slapped the table, laughing, the coins glinting before him like the riches of a king. "You people don't know how to win, only how to lose."

  A mistake.

  His luck turned.

  At first, it was just a minor loss. A single bad roll. Then another. And another.

  Then, suddenly, he was losing everything.

  The coins vanished from his hands, slipping through his fingers like sand. His winnings turned to debts in a heartbeat, and the elation in his chest curdled into something cold, something ugly.

  His hands were shaking. No, no, this cannot be! He doubled down, hoping to chase his losses. The dice hit the table, spun, and stopped—

  Another loss.

  The man across from him, a large brute with a scar down his jaw and fists like anvils, leaned forward. His lips curled into something between amusement and menace. "Got anything left, foreigner?"

  Juan felt sweat forming on his brow, trickling down his back. He patted his belt, searching for something, anything of worth.

  Nothing.

  His mind raced. He was Juan Castillo Fabronas! He had fought for Spain! He was—

  "I, eh... you give me chance, si? I-"

  The brute grabbed his wrist. Hard.

  "No free chances here."

  Juan gulped. The room had grown quiet. The gamblers around him, once uninterested, now watched with hungry eyes. The weight of their gazes pressed down on him like a judge's verdict.

  "I will pay! I, I will work!"

  A shadow stirred in the corner. A thin man, draped in dark clothing, leaned forward. His voice was smooth, practiced, dangerous.

  "Oh, you'll work," he murmured. His smile was all teeth. "Welcome to debt, Se?or Fabronas."

  To be continued.