Kael lingered for a few hours after the hearing, exchanging handshakes with shopkeepers, receiving hearty claps on the back. Here—among his own—people weren’t afraid of his smile.

  As he moved through the makeshift festival, the scent of spiced meats and sweetbread hanging in the air, Kael caught sight of Yuri and Lucy heading down toward Lookout Point. He smirked. Must’ve gone well. Maybe too well.

  The day Yuri managed to hold onto a woman and not earn his title as the district playboy would be the day all the world’s problems sorted themselves out.

  Lookout Point sat at the edge of the harbor, the furthest point east within the containment field. From there, you could see the full sweep of Brassreach in all its layered grandeur—three great bridges stretching across the Cradlebrook River where it emptied into the Sea of Sorrows. Giant shards of sea-glass jutted from the tide like broken gemstones, catching the shimmer of the containment barrier overhead. When the mana field pulsed with power, its reflection danced across the surface of those shards, making them sparkle as if kissed by starlight.

  From there, the city glowed.

  Mage-lights twinkled in the lower districts like scattered embers. The market quarters buzzed with activity in the middle districts even as night fell. And beyond it all, rising above the rest of Brassreach like a crown, stood the royal castle and the royal quarter—its white spires haloed by the jagged silhouette of the Greyvein Peaks.

  For a moment, Kael just watched.

  Watched the people around him—his people.

  Runt was coaxing Oliver into buying her an armful of sweet pastries. He tried to maintain his usual air of aloof disinterest, but he never really stood a chance. Kael could tell by the way the corners of Oliver’s mouth twitched, the way he adjusted his amber glasses like it was all a terrible inconvenience… even as he reached for his coin pouch.

  A little farther off, he spotted Wendy and Merry wheeling Rachel through the festival lanes. They’d stopped at a brightly decorated stall where some sort of sugar-dusted pastry was being sold. Merry looked like she was in a full-blown argument with the shopkeeper—clearly refusing to accept free goods—while Wendy and Rachel laughed behind her, delighting in the chaos.

  Then a young boy ran up to Merry and pressed something small into her hand—a token, maybe? Kael couldn’t quite make it out from this distance. But the smile that softened Merry’s fierce expression was unmistakable.

  He let himself drift for a heartbeat longer, carried on the sound of laughter and the scent of roasted nuts and cinnamon bread.

  He didn’t even register Runt’s approach until she pressed into his side, silent as ever, and handed him a pastry of her own. Warm. Flaky. Generous.

  He looked down at her—those wild, green eyes bright in the lamplight—and smiled. A real one. Quiet. Grateful.

  Around them, the city pulsed with life and light, a brief sanctuary carved out of steel and stone and stubborn hope.

  A moment of peace, Kael thought, taking a bite of the pastry.

  Before the bloody work begins again.

  Oliver approached, the ever-present clipboard tucked under one arm, his expression caught somewhere between hesitation and urgency.

  “I hate to interrupt,” he began, adjusting his lenses, “but we should head back to the boathouse. You missed the meeting last night—understandably—but we need your input. Especially regarding preparations for the Fadefall.”

  He hesitated a beat, then added, “I’ll have the rest of the crew stop by tomorrow after your training session to handle the other matters.”

  Kael gave a lopsided smile. “No rest for the wicked.”

  Oliver didn’t blink. “Not until we realize your dream.”

  Not mine, Kael thought—unbidden, but honest.

  On the walk back, Runt kept darting off—chasing rats, flicking pebbles, getting distracted by the smallest things. Kael started signing at her, testing how much of their silent language she'd retained. If

  it wasn’t fighting or climbing, holding her attention was a battle of its own.

  He flashed a quick set of hand signs: Mark? How many?

  At the same time, he kept his pace with Oliver, who didn’t seem to notice the dual conversation.

  “Give me some highlights from the last meeting,” Kael asked.

  Oliver’s tone turned grim.

  “Profits are bleeding out. Between keeping the district running, formal pay for the toughs—Lucien’s doing what he can with the scraps you give him—and the flood of new migrants, it’s too much. Jobs are drying up, fast. And your whole ‘every worker earns’ rule? It’s getting damn near impossible to enforce.”

  Runt responded with a sign: Four.

  Kael signed smoothly without breaking stride: Dangerous?

  He turned to Oliver. “How long do we have?”

  “Four to six months at this rate,” Oliver said grimly. “Fadefall’s coming fast. The containment field’s already weakening—week by week. Once it dips below threshold, any work outside the wards dries up completely. Only the Adventurer’s Guild maintains a consistent presence beyond the barrier.”

  He hesitated, then added, “And we don’t have enough evokers to cover the gap.”

  Evokers—arcane-forged weapons capable of storing and channeling mana through embedded mage cores. Rare. Expensive. Heavily regulated by the Crown and the Arcanum alike. A single blade, rifle or pistol could last through a night if handled with care. But when used properly, an evoker didn’t just even the odds.

  It could turn the tide of a battle.

  Runt signaled to Kael. No.

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  Kael signed to Runt: Keep watch. Report.

  She gave a sharp nod, eyes scanning the alleys, tail flicking with barely contained energy. He trusted her instincts. If trouble was coming, she’d smell it before it made a sound.

  As they moved, Kael fell into step beside Oliver, his thoughts turning over the looming threat.

  Fadefall.

  The word alone stirred a chill.

  Every year, the great cities of the realm—Brassreach among them—suffer their most dangerous season. The containment barriers, which normally repel wild monsters and roaming horrors, weaken drastically. Not just thin—fragile. Brittle enough to crack.

  Even outside the barrier, magic falters. The mana-starved air becomes too thin for spellcasting. Mages, usually the elite edge of any defense or offensive, are rendered powerless—mute in the face of violence.

  To make matters worse, every major city was built on something ancient, ley lines, mana wells, deep reservoirs of concentrated energy buried beneath the surface. During the Fadefall, monsters—especially those born in, twisted by, or addicted to mana—flock to these cities like starving beasts scenting blood.

  Some come to feed. Others come to conquer. Some, the worst of them, come simply to destroy.

  And this year, the Fadefall was already breathing down their necks.

  Without the barriers at full strength, without evokers or spell blades inside the city, the burden of defense falls on those who don’t need magic to fight. Brassreach will be protected—at least, the upper tiers.

  A contingent of Imperial Vanguard, recalled from the southern border, bloodied but unbroken, will take their places along the royal quarter. Polished armor. Gleaming spears. The illusion of control.

  But who protects the lower districts?

  Not the Bound Wardens—they spill dark blood in other places.

  Not the Imperial Vanguard—they answer to crowns, not coin.

  No. Down here, when the Fadefall comes, it’s not kings or generals who hold the line.

  It’s the beaters.

  The Gilded Palm. The Thornbacks. The Blister Rats. The Copper Teeth.

  And the Ironbound.

  Street-bred, scarred, and sworn to their own code.

  Even the syndicates—the Sly Fox among them—understand.

  Mass death in the lower wards is bad for business.

  And so, for a few brief nights, rivals become allies.

  Old blood feuds are put on ice.

  Because the Fadefall comes for all.

  And in the darkness, it won’t matter which name you fly.

  Only who’s still standing when the sun returns.

  Even common folk, armed with blades and fury, holding the line at their doorsteps.

  Kael clenched his jaw.

  It would be another bloody season.

  “You’ve always brought us through it,” Oliver said quietly. “Your experience, your instinct—it’s why we’re still standing. Four years, and the Iron District is stronger than ever. But we’re bleeding, Kael. The initiatives, the free clinics, the work programs—they’re eating through our coffers. I know you’ll want to keep them. But… may I suggest reopening a few of the gambling dens? Select pleasure houses? Just enough to ease the pressure.”

  Kael stopped walking.

  The air between them grew heavy.

  His voice was low when he spoke—dangerously so.

  “Oliver… did you know your mother?”

  Oliver blinked. “What does that ha—”

  “Everything,” Kael snapped. “Do you have a sister?”

  Oliver hesitated. “…yes.”

  Kael stepped in, close enough that Oliver flinched. His steel-gray-blue eyes locked onto him, hard as forged iron.

  “Would you want your sister working in a place like that?” Kael asked, voice low. “Ten hours a day. Drunk, angry men. Copper pennies. It either hollows you out… or hardens you into something worse.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “That festival earlier—the laughter, the music, those real, genuine smiles? That’s why we do this. That’s the district we built. We’re not the Sly Fox Syndicate. We don’t trade bodies for coin.”

  His voice cracked like frost splitting stone.

  “Would you have me put Runt in one of those places? Just to balance the books?”

  Oliver opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

  Kael didn’t give him the chance to gather himself.

  “For four years,” he said, quieter now, “not a single girl has had to sell herself just to survive here. Not one. Not since we took this district.”

  A breath.

  “And I’ll die before I ever ask someone like Rachel to crawl back into a flesh house just to make the ledgers look clean.”

  Oliver stood in silence.

  Kael looked away, the fire in his voice dimming—but not dying.

  “We’ll find another way. We always do.”

  Oliver and Kael got back into the Boat house, Runt ran full tilt upstairs. Oliver paused by the staircase.

  “I’m sorry,” Oliver said, voice quiet. “I know words won’t fix everything—but I am.”

  He kept his eyes low, hands fidgeting at the edge of his coat.

  “You took a chance on me. Gave me a shot to be part of this… this crazy dream of yours. A dream where people could be free. Happy. Sometimes I look around, and it feels unreal—like I stepped into someone else’s story. We changed things. We really did.”

  He paused, took a breath.

  “But lately… all I see is it slipping. Cracks forming. And I—I panicked. I saw how the others are making coin hand over fist, and I thought maybe—maybe we needed to do the same. I lost sight of what matters. I just wanted to keep this alive.”

  His voice dropped lower.

  “I’m sorry. Sincerely. Please forgive me.”

  Kael studied him in silence. Oliver looked worn down, hollowed out by guilt. He was a good kid. Street smart, sharp as glass, already a budding mage. The kind of person who could run a district, maybe even shape the future.

  But sometimes, even the smartest forget the most important rule.

  Don’t ever forget to treat people like people.

  Kael had fought too long to forget that. He didn’t just take the Iron District—he bled for it. Years ago, He'd marched with the Imperial Vanguard during the Southern Border Wars, fought through the beast kin raids, held the line at Iron claw Ridge, weathered the hell of Marrow Vale, and helped break the Siege of Hollow Bastion. His body bore every scar like scripture.

  He’d seen what the world could do to people.

  And he’d vowed never to become the kind of man who let it happen without standing in the way.

  Sometimes, it takes dying to gain perspective.

  Kael had flirted with death enough times to know its taste—the stillness that lingers when a heartbeat stops, the silence that settles after a comrade’s last breath. He knew it too well.

  Not today.

  He wasn’t going to lose someone else. Not like before. Not like the cold, dead friends whose names haunted him—names he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried.

  When he looked at Oliver, he saw a younger version of himself. Someone who wanted to do right until the world crushed the hope out of him.

  Kael stepped forward.

  Oliver flinched—not out of fear, but surprise. Kael’s presence could do that. The scars on the right side of his face—white, almost silvery—twisted down his neck like living thorns. A mark from another battle. Iron Horizon.

  The name screamed in his mind. A reminder of what it costs to stand for something.

  Without a word, Kael pulled him into a firm embrace.

  No speeches. No reprimand.

  Just the quiet weight of forgiveness.

  He let his actions say what words never could.

  As they made their way upstairs, Oliver hesitated at the landing.

  “I, uh… I’ve got something for you,” he said, voice a little sheepish. “Can you wait a sec while I grab it?”

  Kael nodded. His smile now easy—no edge, no heat.

  “All right,” he said. “Go on.”

  Oliver gave a small, grateful nod and jogged off—lighter now, like someone who’d just been handed a second chance.

  He returned moments later, cradling a wrapped bundle in both arms. Without a word, he held it out.

  Kael took it, unwrapping it slowly. The leather was worn smooth. The spine cracked. Inside, the pages bristled with color-coded bookmarks.

  “Pride and Fury: The Battle-Born of the Southern Reaches”

  By Scholar-Archivist Nemyra Valen, Third Seat of the Olamar Institute

  Kael arched an eyebrow, glancing up. He hadn’t heard of this scholar.

  Oliver was already flushing red.

  “Uh… with Runt’s Name Day coming up, I figured you might want to read up,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It covers the traditional ceremonies, The Trial of Scars, and, um… other stuff. I marked the relevant sections to save time.”

  Kael thumbed through the pages. The kid was practically vibrating with nerves—avoiding his gaze, posture stiff, ears pink.

  “I also, uh… reached out to the Ash Claws. Asked for a meeting.”

  Kael tilted his head. “You what?”

  Oliver cleared his throat, voice barely audible.

  “I recommend... looking at Chapter Five. Page two-oh-six.”

  Kael flipped to the page.

  Stopped.

  His brow furrowed.

  ...Oh.

  There was a beat of silence. Then Kael snapped the book shut.

  “This can wait,” he said, slipping the book under his arm.

  His voice was steady. But his eyes had already shifted—cold, focused.

  He had four rats to squash first.