The cold note from Elias was a challenge and a lifeline all in one. The stones will guide you. Find the old warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Look for the sign of the hummingbird. Anakin read the words a third time, the neat, precise handwriting a stark contrast to the chaos of his new life. He looked down at the leather pouch in his hands. It was a tangible purpose, a reason to get up and not simply curl into a ball of fear and guilt. He was a fugitive, a walking time bomb, but he was also, for the first time, a messenger.
He stepped out of The Broken Compass just as the sun was beginning to warm the dusty cobblestones. The early morning city was a different beast than the one he had fled the night before. The loud, vibrant hum of the city's Catalysts was still there, but it was accompanied by the mechanical grind of trucks, the distant wail of a factory whistle, and the cheerful chatter of people heading to work. Elias was already out front, sweeping the sidewalk with a long-handled broom, his Catalyst a low, earthy thrum, a steady rhythm against the city's chaotic melody.
"Don't worry," Elias said, without looking up. "I'll let you know if a Warden comes by." His calm voice was a balm, a stark contrast to the paranoia that had taken root in Anakin's mind.
Anakin nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, the pouch of stones a comforting weight against his thigh. He walked with a new sense of purpose, his eyes no longer vacant, but scanning the street for any sign of a Warden. He had to be smarter. He had to think. He found a main thoroughfare and began to follow the faint, almost imperceptible guidance of the stones in his pouch. The closer he walked toward the industrial district, the stronger the hum became. It wasn't an auditory hum, but a subtle vibration in his hands, a feeling that grew more resonant with every step.
The industrial district was a world away from the manicured lawns of Silverwood and the neon-lit sprawl of the city center. The air here was heavy with the smell of scorched metal and engine grease. The people were different too, their Catalysts more muted, more practical. A man's skin rippled with a constant, protective static as he wielded a welding torch. A woman's hands were stained with rust, her fingers coated in a fine metallic dust, her Catalyst a faint magnetic pull that kept screws from dropping to the ground. There were no flashy lights or dramatic flares of power here. Just an honest, grinding rhythm of work.
The stones hummed louder now, a persistent, low-frequency pulse in his palm. He walked past towering silos, abandoned rail yards, and buildings of corrugated steel that seemed to groan under their own weight. He felt a different kind of fear here—not the claustrophobic panic of the night before, but a tense, watchful readiness. He was no longer a hunted ghost; he was a walking liability, and everyone he passed was a reminder of his power's potential for disaster.
He was a few blocks from his destination when he heard a voice.
"Hey, little guy."
He stopped, his heart thumping. Three figures stood in the mouth of a narrow alley, their Catalysts flaring. They weren't Wardens, but something worse. Sparkers. Low-level thugs who used their powers to intimidate and steal. One boy's knuckles were wreathed in flickering blue flames, another's muscles rippled beneath his jacket, his Catalyst a pure surge of physical strength. The third, a girl with a sneer, had hair that crackled with static electricity, causing the fine hairs on Anakin's arms to stand on end.
"You're a long way from home, mute," the first boy said, his voice a mocking imitation of a child's. "Lost your Spark?"
The old panic, the cold claw of terror, started to climb up his throat. This was the exact scenario that had ended with Jax as a statue. His mind screamed at him to run, to turn into a ghost and disappear into the labyrinth of the city. But the memory of Jax's petrified face, the image of his crime broadcast to the world, was a powerful, terrible anchor. He couldn't afford another mistake.
"Leave me alone," Anakin whispered, his voice barely audible. He took a step backward, his hands still in his pockets.
The boy with the fiery knuckles laughed, a puff of hot air that smelled of burnt ozone. He flicked his hand forward, and a small, perfect orb of blue fire bloomed in his palm, a miniature sun radiating heat. "I don't think so. Let's see what happens when you're cornered. What happens when you can't run."
The girl's hair crackled, and the air around her smelled of rain before a lightning storm. She took a step toward him, her Catalyst a silent, electric warning. They were boxing him in. The old me, the one in that other life, would have simply frozen. A statue. A doll. Here, now, my mind was screaming, but the strange, icy calm that was his Catalyst had started to spread from his core.
He didn't call on his power. He simply let it be. He wasn't lashing out this time. He was defending himself. The icy calm spread from his chest, down his arms, and to the surface of his skin. The feeling was profound, a deep, resonating ache, a profound density that was both a shield and a prison. The old me, turned to an object. The new me, choosing to become one. His skin, beneath his jacket, was suddenly as hard as concrete.
The boy's fire orb hit his chest with a soft crackle, a sound like a small twig breaking underfoot. It didn't burn his clothes or his skin. It simply flickered and died out harmlessly in a wisp of gray smoke. The boy's eyes went wide with shock. The girl's static-charged hair fell limp. The third boy, the one with the strength Catalyst, took a step back, his eyes wide with a confusion that was rapidly turning into fear.
Anakin pushed past them, the stones in his pocket humming with a newfound urgency. He didn't turn anyone to stone. He hadn't lashed out in a fit of rage. He had simply stood his ground, a monument of his own making, and the attack had fizzled out against his hardened skin. It was a victory, but a small one. He had controlled his power, if only for a second.
The path the stones guided him on led him to a large, unmarked warehouse. The metal walls were covered in grime and rust. It looked abandoned. But high above the main door, a small sign, barely visible, hung askew. It was a hummingbird, etched in metal, its wings outstretched in a perpetual flight. The stones in his pouch vibrated with a feverish intensity. He was here.
He pushed open the heavy metal door. The warehouse was vast and echoing, filled with the shadows of forgotten machinery. At the far end, bathed in a single beam of light from a high window, a lone figure stood, their back to him.
"You've come a long way," a soft, steady voice said, "for a piece of earth."
The person turned, and Anakin saw that it was a woman, her face a web of fine lines, her hair as white as snow. Her Catalyst was a soft, gentle pulse that radiated from her hands, and the floor around her, the cold, concrete floor, was covered in a delicate, beautiful carpet of flowers, their petals glowing with a faint, ethereal light. They bloomed and died in a matter of seconds, an endless cycle of ephemeral beauty. She held out her hand, a small, knowing smile on her lips.
Anakin pulled the pouch from his pocket and placed it in her outstretched palm. The moment their hands touched, a powerful, silent energy passed between them. He felt the ancient, stony pull of his own power, and the gentle, life-giving pulse of hers. They were two sides of the same coin: one to turn life to stone, the other to bring life from it. He understood then why Elias had sent him to her. He wasn't just a messenger; he was a student.
She gave him a different pouch in return, one that felt lighter, its contents softer and more pliable. "This will help you," she said. "And tell Elias... the earth remembers."
Anakin nodded, not trusting his voice. He left the warehouse and began the long journey back, the new pouch a foreign but not unpleasant weight in his pocket. He was a fugitive, but for the first time, he felt a sense of purpose. He was no longer just running from his past. He was walking toward his future.