First Ride

The three machines dedicated to her half of the split ran continuously for weeks, each one steadily producing its share of the nearly three thousand kilometers of strand material the finished cable actually required, roughly nine hundred and fifty kilometers per furnace, mithril and adamantium alike, before there was finally enough raw material to even begin the actual weave.

The final assembly took the better part of two weeks after that: cable strung the full twenty kilometers, threaded through every hexagonal frame exactly as designed, both terminal wheels mounted and tested, the steam engine coupled to the shoreline wheel and run through a full week of unloaded trials before anyone trusted it with an actual passenger.

Colm handled the frame placement personally, walking the tunnel's entire length with his own careful measurements, confirming every hexagonal support sat at exactly the interval the design called for, nothing left to guesswork, every distance verified against his own meticulous survey work.

Nettle's guild built the carts themselves, sturdy little cabins mounted on conical wheels, a rigid arm extending from each one's left side to grip the moving cable, upholstered, at Nettle's insistence, with considerably more comfort than the job strictly required.

"They don't need to be plush," Bram had pointed out, watching the padded benches go in.

"They don't need to be ugly, either," Nettle had said, entirely unmoved, and that had been the end of that argument.

Bram tested the permanent grip attachment personally, riding the prototype cart through a dozen full loops, confirming the rigid arm held steady against the cable without slipping or working loose, the same patient, physical testing he'd brought to the shield drops and the anchor screws.

Claire's contribution stayed exactly where her actual expertise sat, the pressure and flow calculations governing the steam engine's coupling to the main wheel, confirming the drive ratio held steady under sustained load, checking every valve and seal in the engine assembly itself with the same careful eye she'd once given the submarine's boiler. She didn't touch the cable weave, didn't weigh in on the frame spacing, didn't offer an opinion on the cart upholstery, just the systems that were genuinely, specifically hers to get right.

By the time everything locked into place, the whole crew gathered at the shoreline terminal, watching the first fully loaded test cart depart on its own, empty, toward the Drowned Court terminal ten kilometers away.

It arrived an hour and fifteen minutes later, cable running smooth, guide frames clearing without a single snag, cart gliding cleanly past every single hexagonal support along the way.

"...It works," Arista said, quiet, relieved, watching the empty cart settle back into the terminal exactly as designed.

Beelzebub arrived the following day, precisely on schedule, human-passing form settled comfortably into the first properly loaded passenger cart.

"This is considerably more comfortable than I expected," he said, testing the padded bench with genuine approval.

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"Nettle's doing," Arista said, grinning, settling into the seat across from him. "She refused to let it just be functional."

The cart departed smoothly, cable drawing it steadily forward into the tunnel's glowing procession of hexagonal light, frame, luminescent strip, guide loop, frame, light, guide loop, the same patient rhythm repeating steadily the entire ten-kilometer length.

Beelzebub watched the passing lights with quiet, genuine fascination. "You built all of this," he said, "purely so I could visit a kraken."

"I built it so anyone could visit," Arista corrected, though she was smiling. "You're just the first."

They rode in comfortable, easy quiet for a long while, the tunnel's steady rhythm carrying them deeper toward the Drowned Court, until finally the cart emerged into the vast, echoing dome, the ancient mermaid statue rising serene in the distance, the water long since drained away.

Beelzebub stepped out slowly, looking around at the ruins with the same unguarded wonder he'd shown on his first, private visit weeks earlier.

"...Can I ask you something?" Arista said, watching him take it all in. "Your flies go everywhere. Every corner of Hell, half the surface kingdoms by now. How did you never know any of this existed?"

Beelzebub considered the question with genuine thoughtfulness, still studying the ancient architecture around them. "Two reasons, really. Hell was isolated for a very long time, ever since the war. Sealed off, effectively, until you dug a tunnel straight through the middle of it. Before that, my information network extended exactly as far as Hell's own borders allowed, which was to say, not very far at all."

"...And the second reason?"

"Flies don't swim," he said, simple and matter-of-fact. "They can fly a considerable distance, but not indefinitely, and never particularly well over open water. Even setting that aside, the storms themselves made the crossing impossible for as long as anyone could remember. Nothing could get through, until they finally calmed, and someone finally thought to actually test it."

Arista nodded slowly, the pieces settling into place properly. "...That's the same reason you didn't know about the golem continent either, isn't it. Until I actually told you."

"Precisely that," Beelzebub confirmed. "An ancient Lord with eyes in every corner of his own domain, and still entirely blind to anything beyond it. There's a certain humility in that, I've found. However far my flies reach, it was never actually far enough."

They found Squishy near the dome's edge, drifting close against the glass exactly as always, one massive eye tracking their approach with immediate, obvious curiosity.

Beelzebub approached the panel slowly, studying the creature with genuine, careful respect.

"...Hello," he said, quiet, sincere, pressing a hand gently against the glass.

Squishy's rings lit up bright and steady, one massive tentacle drifting close on the other side, mirroring the gesture exactly as he had for every visitor who'd ever taken the time to actually greet him properly.

Beelzebub kept his hand pressed against the glass a moment longer than the greeting itself required, something thoughtful settling into his expression.

"...He's old," he said finally, quiet. "Genuinely old. I can't tell you how old, not with any precision. Just that it's there, underneath everything else. A weight. The kind of age you only really sense in something that's actually earned it."

Arista studied Squishy's rings, still pulsing warm and curious against the glass. "...Really? He behaves like a young pup. A smart, curious pup, but still."

"It's just a feeling," Beelzebub admitted, withdrawing his hand at last. "I couldn't explain the mechanism behind it if you asked me to. But I've met enough genuinely ancient things in my own long existence to recognize the shape of one, even wrapped in something this playful."

Arista watched them both, the Lord of the Seven Hells and a curious, gentle kraken, meeting quietly across a pane of hexagonal glass, and said nothing at all, letting the moment simply be exactly what it was.