So this is my first fan fiction. I'm still not sure how I want it to end up, I just have the beginning of an idea.
All reviews welcome! Let me know what you think!:)
Please enjoy!

Lyra walked along the street, her smog mask covering her nose and mouth. The sound of the mechanics echoed through the grimy alleys, partially muffled by the thick air and overpowered by the delivery drones whirring above. The air was particularly dense and the smog heavy. The mask was barely able to filter the heavy air as she hurried through the cramped, garbage-strewn walkways. The city hadn't had a decent rainstorm for some time, and the state of the city clearly showed it. She looked up, hoping maybe to catch a glimpse of the sun, but only saw the swirling smoke and grime lit dimly by the lanterns flickering above, their flames dancing in the wake of the delivery drones.

Glancing around, she pulled her hood more securely around her face. It wouldn't do to be recognized by someone in the lower district. Her father was one of the wealthiest mech merchants in the city and some of the scumbags half hidden in the corners, covered in filth, wouldn't think twice about shaking her down for a few credits. Hurrying forward she kept a watchful eye, always keeping one hand clutched to the missive in her cloak pocket.

After ascending a few flights of stairs, the ground began to slope up, and the thick grime slowly fell away into a cleaner district. Granted it was far from clean, but the smog was thinner here, more of it having settled into the lowest parts of the city. On a good day, the wind would blow through the merchant's level, clearing the air enough to see the blue sky unlike the lower level where the wind couldn't move through the buildings to blow it away. She'd often envied the wealthier merchants and aristocrats who lived one level above the constant smog.

"Heck, I'd even live on top of the blooming watch tower if it meant not having to wear this blasted mask," she muttered to no one in particular. A man carrying a bag of spare parts walked past her and chuckled under his breath, obviously amused at the overheard sentiment.

Her father claimed that once upon a time, many years ago, when Kilsyth was built there hadn't been such distinct division between the rich and poor. It had started out as a small town, built on the river to power the mills with the mountain at its back. As the years passed, the town had grown and the wealthier merchants became wealthier. Kilsyth became the central hub for trade Tryndling, and soon thereafter, the capital.

The second and third levels were carved from the mountain to accommodate the growing population and the ever increasing flow of merchants, but then the smog settled. With the expansion of mech trade, the smog levels increased, slowly coating the lower levels until filth and smog became a way of life. The occasional rain would clear the city for a day or two, but the smog would ultimately return, creeping back into the city and coating every surface.

Many years later, after the city was ingrained in its ways just as much as the grime was ingrained in its very stones, the Mech Wars began. Lyra had been fifteen when the first war started, that's when the watchtower was built. A massive structure running through the core of all three levels and rising high above, it housed the most impressive mechanics from all around the world.

Powered through wind turbines and water wheels, its mounted cannons were enough to deter serious threats. At the base, the tower housed the city's mech engineers, a lowly bunch of grimy men who usually kept to themselves. The mid-section housed the city militia while the third layer trained and housed the pompous noble guard.

The highest section rose majestically from the city, served as the watchtower. A giant bell hung in its rafters, similar to the ones in church, but much bigger. Much louder. The sound of that bell would always ring in her ears. The first time it had chimed, she had nearly lost her life to the firestorm the Draken airships rained upon Kilsyth.

"Miss, are you lost? Do ya need directions?"

A kind voice snapped her attention back to the present. Pulling her eyes away from the watchtower, she smiled kindly, "No thank you, I was merely caught in memory."

The old woman nodded as she glanced towards the tower. "Aye, there are many memories tied with that tower. I pray the Draken airships don't come this far again." The woman's wrinkled face turned back to her, "I don't think the city could take that again, nor its people."

Lyra smiled sadly as she laid her hand on the woman's shoulder. "The border guard will stop them long before they get here. Tryndling is much stronger, and this time we do not stand alone." Idly she fingered the missive in her pocket.