Beneath the market square, in the dimly lit chamber that served as a temporary rest area, Elion sat on the edge of a sturdy wooden bench. His posture was relaxed, but there was a faint tension in the way he tapped his fingers against his knee.
The muffled roar of the crowd above still echoed faintly through the stone walls. Wing leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. "I'll give it to him," he said with a low chuckle, "He knows how to talk. The whole city got riled up from his words alone, not a single person I saw there looked against it."
Don looked at Elion, his stare was sharp. "Sounds too promising to be real. With the way he talks, people would follow him anywhere. It's not a stretch to say that with the way things are going now, we would see the city set itself on fire for The Ember Pact."
Wing tilted his head back, letting out a sigh. "I find the idea of burning it all down and starting fresh stupid." He vented out. "Took years, no, decades, for this city to be built up from the ground to what it is now. Tear it down and what makes this any different than the ruins out there?"
He shook his head. "Not to mention that the people from the capital have their eyes on this city. They won't stay silent if something this big happens, it just might ruin everything this place has going for it."
Across from them, Sylira was focused on training. She punched a support post wrapped with a bundle of cloth with a steady rhythm, an improvised punching target. The sound was dull but constant, her knuckles striking with precision and rhythm.
"How about you, Sylira?" Wing asked her, trying to get her to join in the conversation. "The Ember Pact is definitely something," She told them. "It's not the best solution, but with how things are going for this damned city, it wouldn't be the worst one."
Up on the platform, Anora looked out to the crowd. She was using her power to see the reactions of the crowd. Dim embers for the weary, sharp sparks for the dangerous, soft glows for the content.
Then her eyes lit up as she saw something familiar, a golden flame. It's presence cut through the noise like sunlight breaking into a cellar. Her eyes locked on it for only a moment before it vanished, swallowed up by the crowd.
"Anora!" Wing's voice drifted up from the chamber below. "Your take?" She looked down briefly, her tone steady. "It depends who's holding the torch," she said, giving a filler answer before turning her eyes back to the crowd searching.
Wing saw her sudden shift in attitude. But before he could say more, the door to the small back room swung open. Elion stepped inside, the energy from his speech still clinging to him like static.
His coat hung loose over his shoulders, and there was a glint in his eyes that hadn't dimmed despite the crowd dispersing. "Rest time's over," he said, his voice carrying that same cadence that could fill a square.
"We've got a list of meetings around town, and I want all of you there with me. Different districts, different faces, the message needs to spread."
Sylira straightened from where she'd been cracking her knuckles, flexing them like she was itching for something to hit. Wing and Don exchanged brief glances, the earlier conversation lingering unspoken between them.
Anora's gaze lingered on Elion for a moment longer than the others, the memory of that golden flame still flickering at the edge of her thoughts. Thinking that it was a fluke, she decided to stay silent, falling in step as their client turned toward the door.
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The crowd was beginning to scatter, conversations buzzing in the air like restless insects. Pheo slipped from his hiding place, still replaying Elion's words in his mind.
Ashes make fertile ground.
The phrase had weight to it, a promise that cut through the usual hollow speeches he'd heard in other towns. Pheo then caught sight of a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost at the edge of the square.
It was Adam, his hood pulled low, arms crossed. The man's gaze was fixed on the stage where Elion had stood. There was no admiration in his eyes, only the kind of cold assessment one reserves for a threat.
Pheo approached. "Didn't expect to see you here." Adam's eyes flicked to him, then back to the dispersing crowd. "Didn't expect him to be here," he replied, his tone flat.
"You mean Elion? I don't know... I thought what he said made sense. The city could use some–" Adam cut him off, voice low. "The city could use stability, not a spark looking for kindling. Men like him... they can make a crowd believe anything. And that's dangerous."
Pheo hesitated, glancing at the stage again. "Or maybe it's the kind of dangerous the city needs." Adam's jaw tightened. "Or maybe its the kind that burns everyone, whether they deserve it or not."
The crowd noise had thinned to a distant murmur, the square slowly returning to its usual rhythm. Pheo glanced at Adam, debating for a moment before speaking. "Do you know where the Emberlight Athenaeum is?"
Adam gave him a sidelong look. "The library?" his mouth twitched. "You won't find much there except dust and bad company. But if you really want to see it... head west until you hit the old clocktower. Take the alley behind it, the one with the rusted gate. You'll find the place tucked between two crumbling workshops."
Pheo nodded, "Thanks." Adam shifted his weight, already turning to leave. "Don't linger there longer than you need to. And don't make enemies you can't afford." He left with a warning, melting into the street.
The directions Adam gave led Pheo through narrowing streets and into a quieter quarter of the city, where the noise of the market dulled to a creak of old signs and the scrape of boots on uneven stone.
The clocktower loomed above, its hands frozen at some forgotten hour. Just as Adam had said, the rusted gate waited in his shadow. Beyond it, squeezed between two sagging workshops, was a squat building of mismatched stone.
Its heavy wooden doors were marked with deep scratches, whether from wear or something else, Pheo couldn't tell. He took a step inside, the air was heavy with dust and faintly metallic.
Shelves stretched in long, uneven rows, their books stacked without care for order. Candlelight flickered in sconces nailed crookedly to the walls. At the far end of the main hall stood the librarian.
He was young, perhaps only a few years older than Pheo, dressed in dark, simple clothes. His posture was unnervingly still, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
His eyes met Pheo's for a brief moment, their calm and unwavering gaze making the air feel heavier. Without a word, the librarian inclined his head in greeting.
Pheo offered a nod back and moved into the stacks, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the worn rug beneath him. He searched for anything to do with powers or gifts, but the books were mismatched, some barely more than loose pages tied with string.
His fingertips skimmed the cracked spines, tracing faded titles he could barely decipher. Most had nothing to do with what he needed. Philosophy, maps, trade logs, old Concordist treatises...
He pulled another book free, only to find that half of its pages were missing and the rest was written in a language he couldn't recognize. He put it back with a quiet curse under his breath. Another shelf, some more useless junk.
He crouched, searching the lower tiers where the dust lay thickest, and still nothing valuable. His frustration showed in the way he let a book thump back into place a bit too hard.
That was when a shadow fell beside him. He looked up to see the librarian standing, silent as ever, a single book held in one gloved hand. His expression didn't shift, but there was a faint tilt of his head, like he'd been watching Pheo grow more and more lost.
Wordlessly, he offered a book forward. Pheo took a look at the cover: Catalog of Recorded Abilities and Phenomena. Before he could even thank him, the librarian turned and walked deeper into the stacks, silent footfalls barely stirring the dust.
Pheo stared for a moment, then followed behind. The librarian stopped before another shelf and retrieved two more volumes without hesitation, setting them down on a nearby table.
"You... Know this stuff?" Pheo asked quietly. The librarian said nothing, just giving a small, almost imperceptible nod, then returned back to his post. He was like a shadow retreating to where it belonged.
He sat down at the table, opening the first of the books the librarian had chosen for him. He opened the book titled Catalog of Recorded Abilities and Phenomena, expecting organized records or classifications.
Instead, most of the entries were just scattered notes, descriptions written by different hands over the years.
"Saw a boy who could draw heat from his palms, he collapsed after three uses. Possibly hereditary?"
"There seems to be a different color for people who have other abilities, what could be the relation?"
Half the entries contradicted one another. There was no official term, none of them agreed on where such powers came from. He moved onto another book, seemingly more promising at first. Instead of answers however, the writer seemed to drift into personal musings.
"What exactly is the fire that burns when one uses their power? What defines its strength? Is it practice, lineage, or trauma?"
"There is no pattern. Every time I devise one, a new anomaly discredits it."
The margins were full of scratched-out theories and fragmented diagrams. No conclusions, just frustration echoing his own. The last one looked more like a journal than an academic text.
It was written in a single, looping handwriting that grew more erratic toward the end. It talked about gifts awakening in times of crisis being stronger, but every time the author thought he was close to an explanation, the results changed.
By the time Pheo had looked up, his eyes were tired and his hands were tense from turning so many creased pages. The books led him in circles, nowhere closer to understanding the origin of people's abilities or how they could control them.
He closed the last book slowly. The room felt heavier again, the silence pressing in. Somewhere behind him, the librarian stood silently near the doorway, as if he'd been watching the whole time.
Pheo glanced up. "Do any of these books actually say something true?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The librarian tilted his head slightly, a quiet acknowledgement.
"Most records on that topic," he said, voice soft but steady, "are filtered before they ever reach here." The sound of his voice made the room feel smaller. Pheo stared. "Filtered? By who?"
The librarian's eyes lingered on him with a calm that felt almost heavy. "The Capital." He stepped to the side of the table, gaze drifting over the books Pheo had been reading. "They allow just enough to circulate to keep people's curiosity satisfied. But never enough for concrete answers."
Pheo frowned. "So the truth is being hidden?"
"Refined," the librarian replied quietly. "Edited. Anything concrete is removed or buried. What's left is speculation, journals... and circles." Pheo felt a slow chill crawl down his arms. "Why? Why would they do that?"
"So people keep reaching," he said, almost a whisper. "Reaching for something they'll never quite grasp. To keep them searching in the wrong places." With what, he stepped away.
"Wait," Pheo called out to the librarian. "Where can I find what I'm looking for?" He asked him, knowing that continuing to search in the library would be useless.
"You must ask someone who's connected to the capital." He answered him before melting back into the background. Pheo sighed, he didn't want his visit to be a waste, so he grabbed books that piqued his interest and began flipping through them. He wanted to read more about the city, its way of operating and system.
Concordist Authority maintains governance of The Free City and outlying settlements under the hand of the Capital.
Their purpose is to maintain "Order," which includes the suppression of any unregulated use of Gifted abilities within city walls.
There are records that the Concordists' founders were directly appointed by emissaries from the Capital. Their loyalty lies not with the citizens of The Free City, but with the greater hierarchy beyond these borders.
Pheo frowned, eyes narrowing. So the Concordists weren't just a city faction, but an extension of the Capital itself. That would explain the strict laws and filtering of knowledge in the city.
If the Capital feared the truth behind powers, then any ruling system beneath them would be tasked with maintaining that ignorance. It would also explain why a lot of people support the emergence of The Ember Pact.
He turned a few more pages, the handwriting becoming more cautious.
Separate Threat: Cultic presence in the Badlands
Calling themselves "Children of Chaos."
Their doctrine remains unwritten, passed through chanting and ritual. They believe the powers that awaken in people are divine sparks granted by chaos itself. Rumors claim Concordist officials deliberately ignore them, or even benefit from their raids.
He sat back, the pages trembling slightly in his hands. The Concordists weren't just connected to the Capital, they were also possibly turning a blind eye to cult activity outside of the city, maybe even benefitting from it.
It made him think back of his father, the forbidden arts he delved in out of desperation. He thought of how it twisted him, slowly turning him into a fragment of the man he once was.
Pheo didn't know how many pages he'd gone through. He only realized how late it was when the candles around him had burned far down, their wax pooled on the table.
His eyes stung from reading, and the quiet of the Athenaeum had grown heavier, like the building itself was holding its breath. He closed the last journal gently. His head was swimming with fragments of what he'd read, it was a bit too much for one night.
He rubbed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. The librarian still stood near the doorway, motionless. Pheo gave a small nod of acknowledgement, the closest he's come to thanks, and was met with the slightest inclination of the librarian's head.
He slipped the last book back onto the shelf and headed for the exit, the boards creaking quietly under his shoes. Outside, the sky had darkened to deep purples and copper hues, the lamps flickering to life across the walkways like a swarm of fireflies.
Damn, I stayed too long.
Pheo thought. If Adam was already at the hotel, he'd probably have words ready for him, or silence, which in some ways was worse. The streets were quieter now, with most vendors packing up and only the occasional patrol or drunkard wandering between buildings.
He moved quickly, hugging the railings of the upper paths, retracing the layout he'd memorized earlier in the day. The air had cooled, but the city was still creaking with life.
Somewhere below, a violin played a slow and eerie tune. Somewhere else, someone shouted in a language he didn't recognize. It seems that the city was never truly quiet.
By the time he reached the hotel, the lanterns by the entrance glowed a warm amber. He pushed the door open, exhaustion finally settling into his bones as he made his way back to the room.
The hallway outside the suite was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. Pheo pushed open the door quietly, half-expecting to see Adam sitting at the desk or sharpening his blade by the window.
But the room was empty. The beds were untouched. No new belongings. No sound of footsteps. Just silence and the faint hum of wind against the shutters. Pheo exhaled slowly, he dropped his satchel against the wall and peeled off the dusty cloak, letting it fall across the chair.
He pulled off one boot, then the other, grimacing as he flexed his sore ankles. He didn't have the energy to wash up or unpack. He just let himself fall sideways onto the bed, still half-dressed, the fabric of his desert clothes rough against the sheets.
Adam isn't back yet, he thought, eyes half-lidded, He'll be fine...
His vision blurred at the edges. The city sounds outside were distant, muffled. There was a dull ache in his wrists and shoulders from carrying books. His body finally let go, falling asleep in seconds.