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(1) In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (2) The same was in the beginning with God. (3) All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. (4) In him was life; and the life was the light of men. (5) And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. (6) There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. (7) The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe. (8) He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. (9) That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. (10) He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. (11) He came unto his own, and his own received him not. (12) But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: (13) Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. (14) And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth. (15) John bare witness of him, and cried, saying, This was he of whom I spake, He that cometh after me is preferred before me: for he was before me. (16) And of his fulness have all we received, and grace for grace. (17) For the law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ. (18) No man hath seen God at any time; the only begotten Son, which is in the bosom of the Father, he hath declared him. (19) And this is the record of John, when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, Who art thou? (20) And he confessed, and denied not; but confessed, I am not the Christ. (21) And they asked him, What then? Art thou Elias? And he saith, I am not. Art thou that prophet? And he answered, No. (22) Then said they unto him, Who art thou? that we may give an answer to them that sent us. What sayest thou of thyself? (23) He said, I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord, as said the prophet Esaias. (24) And they which were sent were of the Pharisees. (25) And they asked him, and said unto him, Why baptizest thou then, if thou be not that Christ, nor Elias, neither that prophet? (26) John answered them, saying, I baptize with water: but there standeth one among you, whom ye know not; (27) He it is, who coming after me is preferred before me, whose shoe’s latchet I am not worthy to unloose. (28) These things were done in Bethabara beyond Jordan, where John was baptizing. (29) The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world. (30) This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred before me: for he was before me. (31) And I knew him not: but that he should be made manifest to Israel, therefore am I come baptizing with water. (32) And John bare record, saying, I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it abode upon him. (33) And I knew him not: but he that sent me to baptize with water, the same said unto me, Upon whom thou shalt see the Spirit descending, and remaining on him, the same is he which baptizeth with the Holy Ghost. (34) And I saw, and bare record that this is the Son of God. (35) Again the next day after John stood, and two of his disciples; (36) And looking upon Jesus as he walked, he saith, Behold the Lamb of God! (37) And the two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus. (38) Then Jesus turned, and saw them following, and saith unto them, What seek ye? They said unto him, Rabbi, (which is to say, being interpreted, Master,) where dwellest thou? (39) He saith unto them, Come and see. They came and saw where he dwelt, and abode with him that day: for it was about the tenth hour. (40) One of the two which heard John speak, and followed him, was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother. (41) He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias, which is, being interpreted, the Christ. (42) And he brought him to Jesus. And when Jesus beheld him, he said, Thou art Simon the son of Jona: thou shalt be called Cephas, which is by interpretation, A stone. (43) The day following Jesus would go forth into Galilee, and findeth Philip, and saith unto him, Follow me. (44) Now Philip was of Bethsaida, the city of Andrew and Peter. (45) Philip findeth Nathanael, and saith unto him, We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph. (46) And Nathanael said unto him, Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth? Philip saith unto him, Come and see. (47) Jesus saw Nathanael coming to him, and saith of him, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile! (48) Nathanael saith unto him, Whence knowest thou me? Jesus answered and said unto him, Before that Philip called thee, when thou wast under the fig tree, I saw thee. (49) Nathanael answered and saith unto him, Rabbi, thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel.

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The city of Veridion wakes before its people do. At 4:47 each morning, the municipal pump stations along the Cerulean Canal begin drawing water from the deep aquifer, and the pipes beneath the cobblestone streets of the Old Quarter groan with a sound that residents have learned to sleep through. By five o’clock, the bakers on Saffron Row are already dusting their worktables with flour, and the smell of cardamom and burnt sugar drifts eastward toward the river docks. The dockworkers arrive next, their boots clattering against the wet stone, hauling crates of citrus and salted fish from the night ferries that run between Veridion and the island settlements of the Meridian Strait.

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By sunrise, the Central Exchange opens its iron gates, and the merchants who have waited in line since dawn push through with their ledgers tucked under their arms. The Exchange is a vast hall of green marble and brass, built three centuries ago after the Great Fire, and its vaulted ceiling still bears the scorch marks that the architects chose to preserve as a reminder. Traders shout prices for saffron, indigo, whale oil, and clockwork components, and the noise echoes off the walls until it becomes a single continuous roar. A clerk named Maren Tolliver records every transaction in a leather-bound ledger that she guards with her life, because the ledger is the only proof that the city’s debts and credits exist at all.

West of the Exchange, the Artisan District hums with the work of watchmakers, bookbinders, and glassblowers. The glassblowers of Ember Lane keep their furnaces burning day and night, and the heat that radiates from their workshops makes the whole street warmer than the rest of the city by several degrees. Children play in the alleyways between the workshops, dodging carts of sand and crushed limestone, and the older apprentices chase them off with brooms when they get too close to the molten glass. In the evenings, the glassblowers gather at the tavern called The Cracked Lens, where they drink dark beer and argue about the proper temperature for annealing, a debate that has continued unresolved for forty years.

North of the Artisan District lies the University of Veridion, a sprawling complex of towers and courtyards that climbs the hillside in uneven tiers. The university’s astronomers maintain the observatory on the highest peak, and their charts of the northern constellations are considered the most accurate in the known world. The head astronomer, a woman named Dr. Isolde Varn, has spent the last decade cataloging the slow drift of the stars, and her notebooks fill an entire room in the university’s archive. She believes, though she has never published this belief, that the stars are not fixed in place but are moving away from one another, and that the universe is larger and stranger than anyone has yet dared to imagine.

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South of the university, the residential terraces descend toward the harbor in a series of switchback streets lined with plane trees. The wealthiest families live in the upper terraces, in houses of white stone with walled gardens and private cisterns. The poorest live near the water, in tenements built from salvaged ship timbers, where the floors flood twice a year and the roofs leak constantly. Between them, the middle terraces hold the shops, the schools, the clinics, and the offices of the city’s many guilds. A person’s address in Veridion tells you almost everything about their life, and everyone knows it.

The harbor itself is the heart of the city. Two hundred ships moor there on any given day, flying flags from a dozen nations, and the customs house processes them all with a bureaucracy that is slow but incorruptible. The harbormaster, a retired sea captain named Elias Brandt, knows every ship that enters and leaves, and he keeps a private log of the ones he finds suspicious. He has never been wrong about a ship, not once in thirty years, and the smugglers who operate in the Meridian Strait have learned to avoid Veridion entirely rather than risk his attention.

At night, the city changes character. The lamplighters walk their routes at dusk, carrying long poles with wicks that they dip into the gas jets along the main avenues. The theaters in the Cultural Quarter open their doors, and the opera house on Marble Hill fills with the sound of strings and voices. The night markets along the waterfront sell fried dough, grilled skewers, and spiced wine to sailors and students alike, and the fortune-tellers who set up their booths near the fish market do a brisk trade in love potions and protective charms. The city watch patrols in pairs, their lanterns swinging, and they know better than to interfere with the night markets as long as the vendors pay their fees and keep the peace.

Veridion has survived plagues, sieges, earthquakes, and three separate revolutions. It has been ruled by kings, by councils, by a brief and disastrous experiment with direct democracy, and now by a mayor and a parliament that argue constantly but govern competently enough. Its people are proud, stubborn, and suspicious of outsiders, but they are also generous to those who earn their trust. They believe, against all evidence, that their city is the center of the world, and in a sense they are right, because for most of the people who live there, the world begins and ends at the city walls.

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Beyond those walls, the countryside stretches out in a patchwork of farms, orchards, and vineyards that feed the city and depend on it in turn. The farmers of the Cerulean Valley grow the wheat that becomes the city’s bread, and the vintners of the eastern hills produce the wine that fills its cellars. The roads between the farms and the city gates are crowded with carts at harvest time, and the gatekeepers collect tolls from every one of them. The tolls pay for the city watch, the pump stations, the lamplighters, and the endless repairs to the cobblestone streets, and the farmers grumble about them every year but pay them anyway, because they know that without the city they would have nowhere to sell their grain.

The river that runs through Veridion is called the Aurel, and it divides the city into its northern and southern halves. Three bridges cross it: the Iron Bridge, which carries the main road and the tram lines; the Stone Bridge, which is the oldest and narrowest and is reserved for pedestrians; and the Merchant’s Bridge, which is privately owned and charges a toll that the city has tried and failed to abolish seven times. The Merchant’s Bridge is the subject of more lawsuits than any other structure in Veridion, and the lawyers who argue those cases have grown wealthy on the fees.

Along the riverbanks, the city maintains a series of public gardens that are open to everyone. The largest is called the Queen’s Garden, though there has not been a queen in Veridion for two hundred years. It contains a maze of hedges, a pond full of carp, a bandstand where concerts are held on summer evenings, and a statue of the city’s founder that is missing its left arm, the result of an accident during the last revolution that no one has ever bothered to repair. Children climb on the statue’s remaining arm, and lovers carve their initials into its base, and the city council has voted six times to restore it and six times postponed the expense.

The people of Veridion celebrate a dozen festivals each year, but the most important is the Festival of Lanterns, which falls on the first full moon of autumn. On that night, every household lights a paper lantern and releases it into the sky, and the whole city glows with thousands of drifting lights. The festival commemorates the end of the Great Plague, when the survivors lit lanterns to guide the souls of the dead toward the sea. It is a solemn occasion and a joyful one at the same time, and the streets fill with music and dancing until dawn. Visitors come from all over the region to see it, and the inns are booked solid for months in advance.

The city’s economy depends on three things: trade, manufacturing, and knowledge. The trade flows through the harbor and the Exchange. The manufacturing happens in the Artisan District and the industrial suburbs along the eastern rail lines, where factories produce textiles, ceramics, and the precision instruments for which Veridion is famous. The knowledge is generated at the university and the great library, and it is exported in the form of books, maps, and trained professionals who leave to work in other cities and send their earnings home. The balance among these three pillars is delicate, and every mayor since the last revolution has promised to protect it and has failed in some way.

The city’s greatest challenge is water. Veridion sits on a limestone plateau above a deep aquifer, and the aquifer is slowly being depleted. The pump stations draw more water each year, and the water table drops a little lower each decade. The city engineers have proposed a series of solutions: a canal from the Aurel, a desalination plant on the coast, a system of cisterns and rain catchments. Each proposal is expensive, and each has been debated for years without resolution. In the meantime, the residents of the lower terraces buy their water from tanker carts, and the wealthiest families drill private wells that reach deeper than the law allows. Everyone knows that the water will run out eventually, but no one wants to be the one to pay for the fix.

Despite its problems, Veridion endures. Its people wake each morning, draw their water, bake their bread, open their shops, and go about their business. They complain about the mayor, the taxes, the traffic, and the weather. They argue about the price of saffron and the proper temperature for annealing glass. They light their lanterns on the first full moon of autumn and watch them drift toward the sea. They bury their dead, marry their children, and teach their grandchildren the names of the streets. And they believe, against all evidence, that their city is the center of the world, and in a sense they are right, because for most of the people who live there, the world begins and ends at the city walls.

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