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Keeper's Adage:
"Beware the face in the ash-fogged glass, wanderer. It wears the scars of battles fought in forgotten halls. To seek your reflection is to stir the deep silt; the past you dredge may drown the man you are."
– From the Lamentations of the Fractured Self, Keepers of Stories Archive
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Ash breathed through Embermark. Not the choking plumes of a fresh fire, nor the gritty dust of neglect. It moved. It slithered down rain-slicked alleyways like whispered secrets, pooled in stagnant corners, and finally, drawn by some unseen current, curled upwards against a cracked windowpane deep in the Sinks. Hatim, leaning against the cold, grimy glass, flinched as the ash-fogged reflection resolved. The face staring back wasn't the boy he remembered. Cheekbones jutted sharply above hollows deepened by hunger, framing eyes that held too many winters. A ragged scar, unfamiliar and stark, traced a pale line from temple to jawline. A stranger stared back, marked by a history he didn't recall etching under House Valerian's indifferent rule.
How long? The silent question hung, thick as the air. The ash, swirling lazily against the pane, offered nothing. It never did.
He pushed off the glass, the chill lingering on his skin. His bare feet met the uneven cobbles—stone worn smooth by generations of the Sinks' desperate tread and scarred by neglect. The first step was hesitant, the second firmer, then the rhythm took hold.
Slap-slap-slap. The sound echoed, too loud in the narrow canyon between leaning towers of dark glass and rust-scabbed steel. Each stride sucked in the city's breath: clove from hidden hookahs, the metallic tang of distant forges, and beneath it all, something older. Dank, heavy, clinging to the back of his throat like the memory of a forgotten grave. The veins of Akar pulsed faintly beneath the stones, a distant, vital thrum from the Ashen Throne far from the Verge and Crowns.
Behind him, the fractured reflection in the window seemed to hold, a phantom trapped in glass, watching his retreat.
Hatim ran.
Not the desperate sprint of immediate panic, but the weary, ingrained flight of prey. His soles, toughened by years dancing across fire-warmed iron grates and shattered pavement, found purchase on the slick stones. The alley walls pressed closer, stained with decades of soot and nameless fluids, amplifying the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of his passage. Ash, fine as powdered bone, coated his tongue, gritted between his teeth, and settled deep in his lungs with each gasping breath. It carried whispers, fragments of languages his blood recognized but his mind had learned to bury. He climbed, subtly, leaving the leaking pipes and desperate sigils of the deepest Sinks behind, aiming for the chaotic bustle of the Middens—the closest he dared go toward the wealthier tiers.
"—Thief! Rat-spawned gutter-crawler!"
The shout, thick with rage and phlegm, shattered the relative quiet from a side street still in the upper Sinks. Hatim didn't turn. Didn't need to visualize the florid face of the spice merchant he'd just relieved of a single, hard-boiled egg. He knew the shape of fury. Embermark shifted around him, a living maze of decay. He ducked instinctively beneath a sagging awning strung with dripping glass bottles. Inside each, a sickly green luminescence pulsed—bottled breath from some deep, corrupted root. The wizened shopkeeper beneath hissed, a gnarled hand darting out like a spider, but Hatim was already past, a shadow dissolving into the next choked passage, pushing further up.
He burst into a wider lane, the cacophony hitting him like a physical blow. This was the Middens. The air vibrated with shouts, the clang of metal, the hiss of steam from pipes snaking up building faces. Stalls crammed every available space, hawking everything from rusted gears to dubious meats roasting over slag-fed braziers. The assault of smells was overwhelming: burnt fat, pungent spices that stung the eyes, the yeasty sweetness of syrup-glazed pastries piled high on a woman's trays just feet away. Hunger, sharp and physical, twisted his gut. The clove-sugar-yeast scent wasn't just smell; it was the ghost of a thousand stolen breakfasts, now amplified by proximity. He forced his legs onward, weaving through the dense crowd, feeling dangerously exposed. This was as far from the Sinks as he ever ventured. The Verge, with its guarded gates and finer goods, was a world away—unseen, unreachable, a place he'd only heard of in the muttered boasts of smugglers and the bitter envy of Sinks rats.
Movement flickered at the edge of vision. A rusted chain uncoiled from a butcher's stall, swinging a meat hook crusted with dark residue. Hatim threw himself sideways, shoulder scraping rough brick, breath catching in his throat. The hook whistled past, missing by inches. The ash, disturbed by his movement, swirled thicker, carrying the layered stench: burnt fat, acrid alchemical runoff drifting from roof vents, the cloying sweetness of decaying jasmine fighting a losing battle against the pervasive rot. Embermark was a festering wound that dabbed on cheap perfume.
A ripple of unnatural stillness passed through the crowd ahead. A figure emerged, draped in layers of shimmering cloth so fine it seemed utterly alien amidst the Middens' grime—woven from captured moonlight and shadow. It moved with eerie weightlessness, the fabric swallowing any hint of form or face. Only a scent remained—cold, ancient, like dust from a sealed tomb. It brushed past Hatim without acknowledgment, leaving a chill deep in his marrow that had nothing to do with the air. He broke into a sprint again, pushing past the lingering dread, the impossible image seared into his mind. What was that doing down here?
His ribs a cage of hollow ache, his stomach a clenched fist. It didn't matter. Survival was the only currency. He spotted a crevice off the main thoroughfare—a dark seam where two ancient brick buildings leaned precariously together, still within the Middens' sprawling edge. He slid into the gloom, the raucous sounds of the market lane abruptly muffled, replaced by a profound, dusty silence. The light faded, swallowed whole.
Here, the ash hung suspended, undisturbed. It carpeted the ground in a soft, grey blanket. Hatim braced a hand against the rough brick wall, gasping. The stone wasn't cold. It pulsed with a deep, subterranean warmth. Akar. The city's lifeblood, flowing in veins from the distant Ashen Throne beneath the feet of the Ascended. A low, resonant hum vibrated through his palm, the heartbeat of Asha, slumbering far away.
A sound. Not the city's hum. A deliberate exhalation, disturbingly close.
"Still running like a cornered rat, Hatim."
The voice materialized from the thick shadows near the alley's dead end, smooth as oiled smoke. Hatim didn't startle. He knew that voice like a bad habit.
Lugal detached himself from the gloom. He leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, one boot propped casually against the brickwork. His smirk was a knife-slash in the dimness, his face all sharp angles and alley-born cunning beneath a fringe of lank, dark hair. His worn leather coat, etched with faint, shifting glyphs—symbols that squirmed if stared at too long—seemed to drink the weak light. "Lost him," Lugal stated, his amusement a tangible thing. "Sloppy. Lucky he moved like a sack of wet sand. Middens merchants get soft."
Hatim spat, the saliva thick with ash, his chest still heaving. "You followed. Why?"
Lugal's only answer was to raise his hand. Between thumb and forefinger, he held a small glass vial, no longer than his little finger. Inside, liquid gold swirled. Not metal, not light reflected—it was alive. It coiled and pulsed with an inner luminescence, forming intricate, hypnotic patterns as if seeking a forgotten shape.
Hatim's body locked. Every muscle tensed, coiled like a spring trap. The hollow ache in his gut was momentarily eclipsed by a colder, sharper dread. "Where?" The word scraped out, flat and hard.
Lugal's grin widened, predatory and weary. "Doesn't matter whose pocket it fell from. Not mine. Yet." He tilted the vial, watching the golden light dance across his knuckles. "Payment. For the one fool enough—or hungry enough—to finish a little errand."
Hatim's gaze remained fixed on the vial. Pure Akar. Uncut. Unbound. Untamed. His mouth felt stuffed with ash. "What errand?" he asked, already tasting the bitterness of the answer.
Lugal's grin vanished. The shadows around him seemed to deepen, the alley narrowing further. "For a Nobel." He emphasized the word, making it clear he meant one from the Crowns, far, far above them. "Up top. Past the Verge, past the Crowns guards."
The words dropped like stones into the thick silence. The distant clamor of the Middens, the constant hum of the city, even the swirling ash—all seemed to pause, holding their breath. The warm pulse of Akar beneath Hatim's feet stuttered, then surged, a deep, resonant thrum vibrating up his legs. He felt the cold kiss of fate brush the nape of his neck. The Crowns? Impossible.
Then—a flicker. Tiny, ember-red motes of light. Babs. One, then three, then a small constellation. Insectile, fragile, shedding glowing dust like miniature dying stars. They drifted towards the vial, drawn to its impossible purity. Predators? Pilgrims? Lugal snapped the vial back into a hidden pocket. The radiant light died instantly, plunging them back into the alley's thick gloom, the Babs scattering like startled sparks.
"You in?" Lugal's voice was low now, stripped of mockery.
Hatim's own heartbeat thundered in his ears. His empty stomach clawed at his spine. But this wasn't sustenance. It was an invitation to immolation. "That kind of job... it burns more than it pays," he muttered, the words tasting like the ash in his throat. "Nobels don't deal with Sinks rats. We don't even see the Verge."
"So does starving slow," Lugal countered. His gaze was unreadable in the dark. He reached into his coat, not for the vial, but for a small, wrapped bundle. He tossed it. Hatim caught it on reflex. Stale bread. Hard. Bitter. Undeniably real. He bit into it, the crust scraping his gums, the meagre sustenance a stark counterpoint to the vial's impossible promise. No thanks were offered; none were expected.
Lugal pushed off the wall, his coat shifting like restless shadows. "You're not ready," he stated flatly. "Didn't think you'd even consider it." He turned to leave, then paused, a silhouette against the slightly brighter gloom of the alley mouth leading back towards the Middens' chaos. "Try Bolun's Forge."
Hatim stiffened. Bolun. The name carried weight. Bolun operated in the Verge—a place of guarded gates, clean air, and goods untouched by Sinks grime. A place Hatim had never seen, only imagined.
Lugal smirked at his reaction. "Yeah. That Bolun. He's got scrap work. Dirty. Pays coppers. But it's safe. Safer than Crowns work."
Hatim swallowed hard. The idea of stepping into the Verge, even for scrap sorting, sent an illicit thrill through him. But Lugal was already melting into the ash-haze without a backward glance.
Hatim stood alone in the silent alley, the pulse of Akar a steady thrum beneath his feet, the weight of the impossible offer—and the sheer scale of the world above the Middens—settling on him like the ever-present ash.
Only when the last echo of Lugal's footsteps faded did he move, stepping back into the Middens' uneasy flow.
He walked now, the frantic energy of the chase bled away, leaving bone-deep fatigue. His steps tapped a slower rhythm on the cobbles, matching the city's grinding heartbeat. He navigated the Middens' crowded lanes, passing rusted grates exhaling steam, cracked mosaics depicting forgotten glyphs half-buried under grime. Metal vines, thick as pythons, choked the bases of skeletal towers, their purpose lost beneath centuries of soot. Embermark wasn't built; it had erupted, a beautiful, festering scar on the world, its layers stark and separate: Sinks, Middens, and above them, the unseen Verge, Crowns, and the myth-shrouded Ashen Throne at its heart—worlds away.
Ash fell steadily, a grey snow. It painted the stooped shoulders of old men huddled over tiny braziers, filled the lines on careworn faces like grout, dusted the hair of children building crumbling castles in the gutter. A beggar nearby traced shaky, intricate sigils into the ash-layer with a broken fingernail, his lips moving in silent, desperate prayer to Asha or perhaps the distant Ascended.
Hatim passed a girl in a cracked porcelain mask, whispering secrets into a length of dead, corroded pipe. A man rocked gently on his heels, cradling a small glass cage where a single, weak flame flickered, imprisoned. Vendors hawked dubious wares over bubbling slag-pots, their arms stained black to the elbow. Above, the bruised purple sky was veined with faint, unnatural lights that pulsed like dying embers.
Hatim kept his gaze down, a hood drawn low, moving with the weary anonymity of the perpetually exhausted, just another shadow from the Sinks haunting the Middens' edges. He knew his place. The Verge might as well have been another continent.
Then—
"Oi. Whispered Void."
The voice cracked through the ambient noise like a whip. Hatim froze mid-step. Not fear, yet, but the cold certainty of trouble found.
Two figures stepped from the deeper shadow of a crumbling archway, blocking his path. Tiri, all greasy grin and eyes like chipped flint, fingers tapping a rhythm on the hilt of a knife tucked in his belt. Masad, looming behind him, a wall of muscle draped in scavenged leather and rusted plates, his massive fists clenched like stone mauls, his silence more threatening than any shout.
Not enforcers. Just bigger, meaner street rats.
Hatim didn't move. Didn't speak.
Tiri clicked his tongue, a dry, mocking sound. "Still playing pretend? Still think shadows hide you down here? Or up here?" He gestured vaguely at the Middens.
Masad simply cracked the knuckles of one massive hand. The sound was like pebbles grinding together. "Dump him in the Asha pits," he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "Let the whispers sort his truth. See what the god thinks of gutter trash."
The market's murmur died around them. Stalls fell quiet. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Eyes turned, then quickly looked away. This wasn't law—just cruelty, plain and simple. No one interfered.
Hatim shifted his weight, a fraction, muscles coiling for evasion or impact.
Too slow. Too tired.
Tiri moved first, a blur of spite. A fist slammed into Hatim's ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a sickening whoosh. Before he could fold, Masad's massive hand clamped onto his shoulder, spinning him, then a hammer-blow from the other fist crashed into the same ribs. Hatim hit the ash-coated cobbles hard, the world exploding into white pain and swirling grey. Heat flooded his bones, fierce and nauseating. The deep thrum of Akar beneath the stones vibrated through him, resonating with his own frantic, fading heartbeat.
Silence. Heavy. Expectant.
Then, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Stopping beside him.
A hand entered his swimming vision. Calloused. Strong. Not gentle, but not cruel. Certain. It gripped his arm.
"Enough."
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the heavy silence like a honed blade through rotten cloth.
Tiri's mocking grin vanished, replaced by wary confusion. Masad hesitated, his massive fists still clenched, but his aggression faltered under the sheer, quiet authority of that single word.
The crowd remained frozen. Watched.
Beneath the grime and ash at the center of the square, fragments of buried street-glass caught some unseen light, flaring with a sudden, pale luminescence. Ancient, half-obscured glyphs etched into the cobbles flickered—cold, spectral fire, undeniable and real.
Hatim, blinking through pain and ash, forced one eye open. A figure stood over him, silhouetted against the bruised sky. Hooded, nondescript, wearing the city's grime like a second skin. But within the deep shadow of the hood, twin points of light gleamed—eyes like molten gold, hard and watchful as forged steel. And beneath the worn outer layer, Hatim caught the faintest, impossible glimmer of shimmering cloth at the figure's collar. The scent hit him then, cutting through the ash and blood—cold, ancient, like dust from a sealed tomb. The impossible figure from the Middens crowd.
"We need to go. Now." It wasn't a request.
Hatim, ribs screaming, lungs burning with ash, had no strength for questions, only dazed recognition. He grasped the offered arm. The grip hauled him up with surprising strength. Leaning heavily on the stranger, he stumbled forward. The hooded figure moved with that same unnatural weightlessness, turning them into a narrow, reeking alley mouth that led down, back towards the Sinks. The crowd parted silently before them. Behind, the ash swirled, thick and restless, closing over the square like a curtain falling on a grim act, erasing their passage.
The market remained frozen for a heartbeat longer. Then, like a released breath, the clamor cautiously resumed. Fire hissed under a pot. A vendor tentatively called out a price. A child's nervous laugh pierced the air. The city remembered how to breathe, how to forget.
But deep below, where the warm veins of Akar twisted through the bedrock from the Ashen Throne, threading the city's rotten foundations…
Something stirred.
Something remembered the touch of gold, the scent of fear, the weight of a Nobel's errand, and the presence of one who walked draped in moonlight and tombs amidst the trade and grime of the Middens.