Talso was woken by the rumble of thunder and the crackle of their coils. The city lived by the storms, perched on the edge of a turbulent sea; they caught only a few glimpses of sunlight a year, but the sight of it was an omen to them. Sunlight chased away the storms. Without the storms, there was no lighting. Without the lightning, the lights of Talso would go dark, and they couldn't have that.

  The Tesselate sat in her armchair, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. The bitter liquid burnt her throat with every sip, but to a woman who’d spent her whole life weaving live wires into place, it had nothing on the sting of electricity. Every now and then, she’d glance out the grand arched window at the outside world and the lightning crackling between the towers.

  The distant toll of another thunderbolt rumbled through the city. With it came a (much closer) crash and a ragged cheer. Whatever mad experiment had made that sound, then, it must have succeeded.

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  The Tesselate smiled. Talso went by many names to its neighbors: the City of Lightning, the City of Storms, the Thunderstruck City. Disparagingly, they called it the City of Madmen, neglecting to realize that Talso was nothing without those same madmen. Who else would think to build a city stuck in a nigh-eternal storm? Who else would think to force the lightning to bend to their will? Yes, they were a city of madmen, but at least they admitted it. And at least they treated those same madmen fairly, rather than stealing their inventions for themselves like Harbinger’s Well or Shirou.

  She turned a newspaper page and skimmed the headlines for one of interest. Her window was lit with a sudden burst of white light that was gone as soon as it came.

  The city of Talso reigned another day.