text: Back in my former home, I had a huge map of the old world hung up on a wall. I’d spend much of my time staring at those vast lands, wondering where they had gone. I’d chat to the sailing traders who visited, go home and try and draw their oversevations, comparing them to the map. I’m fairly certain those attempts to chart the new world had been inaccurate, but one thing was certain. Gone were the great continents of Europe, Africa, or the Americas. The world was now scattered into islands. I knew if I ever wanted to learn more, I’d have to travel. Some already did - traders, missionaries, refugees - but none travelled with the sheer purpose of exploring. While that desire to go was always there I am not certain I would’ve ever picked up the courage to leave had the decision not been forced upon me. The island I called my home was Kadear Coalfields. When the sun was out, I often sat on the cliffs overlooking the beach, watching the currents pull the many boats ashore. Traders flocked to the islands for the precious black rock from which the island took its name. Each trader’s boats, their clothing, their mannerisms, even the way they spoke - they were all different, born from another place and culture. From that vantage point, you could see a full microcosm of the world. I still remember the last time I sat watching those boats. It was a final moment of calm and stillness. A breeze was slowly picking up from the east, creating a soft whistling noise through the trees, bringing with it the scent of fresh salt. Small waves lapped underneath the boats as their hulls lifted and fell with the waters. I had just finished work for the day, and was allowing the gently rocking boats to cradle my tired mind, when I was disrupted by the loud screech of aged bike brakes. I turned to see Thomas dismount from his bike. Thomas and I worked together. But a shared determination to achieve, had led to a firm friendship born from respectful rivalry. “Ferdinand, I’m glad I found you,” he said, panting a little from the ride. “They want to have a status meeting tomorrow. I’ve spent most of the day traveling to the mines trying to get the latest numbers. Are you up to date?” I had them all up-to-date within the past week, except one - the Sabina coal pit on the very northern tip of the island. It was nearly a four-hour bike ride. I looked wearily up at the falling sun. “It’s too late to make it there,” I said. “The Citadel applications are next month. You’ll be out of the running.” It was hard to tell if he was worried for my chances, or more delighted that my plight improved his own. Either way he was right - any sign of being uncommitted, and my hopes of a move to the Citadel were done for another year. I thanked Thomas for the forewarning, grabbed my bicycle, and began the long ride north. The journey to the northern tip of the island is one of the more grueling routes. Most of the mine, industry and people were in the south. As of such, as I headed further north, the path became less traveled. Instead of small pebbles, stones some thirty centimeters across began to stick up from the dusty ground, threatening to take out a wheel. Huge dents meant the bike shook violently every few meters. It wasn’t long before I began to feel tired. But it was the mental exhaustion of making sure I spotted the obstacles in time that got to me, rather than the pain in my legs. However, about halfway, there was a moment of relief. The path elevated on the eastern coast, and at the credt I was treated to one of the best views of the Citadel on the whole island. The buildings were a perfect white, almost too pristine and clean like they were birthed that day from the ground itself. Their flat roofs poked up above the lush forest that surrounded them. Even from here, I could make out the reflection of the sky in the wide, expansive windows. Behind the trees, the streets and the ground levels, was a mystery for most of us. I had only seen sketches to feed my imagination: roads lined with brick and not just dirt; flowers that lined the sides of the paths instead of overgrown scrub, the distance between every building, between every tree, between every blade of grass designed to a perfect geometric science. There was a reason it is the most coveted place on the island, and at the time, I was on the brink of being invited. Every year a resident passed on or disgraced themselves and were removed. So each year many of us applied for one of the vacant spots. The very best workers and those who rose to the higher ranks were gifted one of those houses as a reward. There, they got to live with the ruling council in luxury. I was already relatively well off compared to most on the island. However, my walls were a drab brown of exposed brick and hastily applied cement. There were no windows, and light came only from small lanterns. I had earned my home, but it had never been the goal. It had only ever been a stopgap on my way to the Citadel. By the time I reached the Sabrina coal pit, night had truly arrived. There was the faintest of light trying to curve around the horizon, just enough to guide me towards the office and the sanctuary of the lamps hung around the site. As I stepped off the bike, and the heat of the ride wore off, I could feel how frosty the air was becoming. The peaceful evening breeze, was turning into a nighttime chill, and I scurried inside the office to get out of the cold. It took about an hour to get the paperwork ready. It was mostly a matter of grabbing the relevant documents, checking the records, and copying across the relevant numbers. There were some more figures that needed tallying, but that could wait till I was home. Though it was already as dark as it could be, and the frost had arrived, my instinct was telling me to make the return journey sooner rather than later. \ Back on my bike, it didn’t take long for the lights of the mine to fade and for the path to become bordering on a pitch black. Clouds had washed over the island, blotting out the night sky. A strong easterly gale was blowing frigid sea air up over the islands, and with each gust, I could feel my arms ache and shiver. The strong winds were also making it harder to maintain an accurate path through the stones and divots of the makeshift path. I could only see a meter or two of the ground in front of me and I was struggling to decide whether I was better off getting out the cold quickly or going as slowly as possible to ensure I avoided crashing I was about a third of the way home. At that point, the path snaked around to the left, avoiding getting too close to the citadel near the center of the island. The citadel was only for those who were allowed to live there, it was one of the perks, part of its exclusivity. But as a result, the path bent to hug the coast, exposing more or me and the bike to the winds. There was a small hill in the path as it rose over a mound. I reached over the top and began descending. As I did, I could make out little of the path the other side. Gravity pulled sharply on the bike. It accelerated, and I was too slow to react. The front wheel jammed into a divot, stopping it in an instant. The bike bucked, and my own momentum threw me over the handles. I hung in the air a moment, suspended in the darkness, before feeling my right wrist crash into the stony ground. There was the sound of stones shifting and fabric ripping, as my ears became filled with the gray noise of my body sliding down the hill. I felt my knee crack against a sharp rock and I screamed in pain before my body finally came to rest on level ground. It took me a few seconds to process the moment. I was laying down on my side, looking out to the ocean. It was too dark to see it, but I could hear vividly the waves crashing against the rocks, and the blasts of wind blowing up from the cold waters. Slowly my senses came back to me, and my body began to make me aware of where the worst pain was. My elbow was throbbing. It hurt, but it moved. So at least I could rule out a break. Going down my body, my knee was rattling, as if shaken from its joint. I was certain it would begin to swell fast. Finally, there was a large stinging pain down my left calf. I reached out to it. The fabric of my trousers was ripped, and through the gap, I could feel the uncomfortable mixture of gravel and blood. Apprehensively, I pushed myself off the ground, and slowly rose to my feet. I was careful to put weight on my right - my good leg - first. At first, things seemed fine. However, as I leaned onto my left leg, testing it, I could feel the joints in my knee crumple under the additional pressure, and the bitten nerves let out a scream. Up the hill, I could make out the bike, its front wheel still trapped in the divot. I gingerly hobbled forwards. A frustrated, hopeless groan left my lips as it came into view. The front wheel had jammed so hard against the stony ground that the metal rim had buckled and bent to the side. I racked my brain, desperately searching for some solution to make the bike rideable again, but it was fruitless. A thick gust blew in from the coast. I could feel it flutter through the open tear in my trouser, and seep into my body through the open cut. With the wind chill, the temperature had plummeted vastly, and I could feel my core stiffening in the cole. With my bike completely broken, I would have to try and walk either back home, or back up to the mine. Either way, a likely six hours of hobbling through the freezing gales. With the winds, the injuries, the heat quickly sapping from my body, I had to find shelter and soon. I turned so that my back was facing the sea, and the stiff breeze was no longer landing on my face. Ahead of me, I could make out the small halo of light that rose from the lamps at the citadel, casting silhouettes of the buildings against the cloudy sky. The citadel was private, I was forbidden from going there. But even with the dense trees between the citadel and the path, I could still walk there in under two hours. I made up my mind. I would head to the citadel and pray my injuries were enough to forgive my trespassing.I had no choice. I only had one option if I wanted to survive.