Morning smelled like smoke and rice, which was to say: it smelled like home and a small budget.
Darion squinted at a slice of bread hovering over the tiny stove and coaxed sparks from his fingers. A spark caught, burned with theatrical confidence, and died with dignity.
"Behold," Ez announced from the table, "the mighty Igni flame: slayer of breakfasts, igniter of nothing."
Darion side-eyed him. "Careful, boy. Mock me again and I'll feed you raw rice for a week."
Lira stirred the pot. A soft green shimmer spread through the grains beneath her hand, and somehow the kitchen smelled a shade kinder. "Auxesia says breakfast should be edible. Unlike certain jokes."
Sera padded in tying her hair, silver pupils glinting like someone had tucked sequins into them. She picked up a spoon, flicked her wrist; the spoon traced a perfect curve and smacked Ez on the forehead with assassin's precision.
"Ow," Ez said mildly, rubbing the spot. "Morning to you too."
"Accuracy test," Sera said, taking her seat. "Passed."
"Family report," Ez said, counting on his fingers. "We have sparks that fear bread, rice that feels blessed, and spoons that violate human rights. Strata IV legends, all of us."
"Don't forget you," Sera said sweetly. "Our mascot. We keep you for morale."
"Morale's low," Ez said. "Consider upgrading to a cat."
Darion shoved a plate at him. "Eat. You'll need the energy to panic later."
They ate, and talk drifted the way it always did—toward Strata.
"Explain it again," Ez said. "Why are we still here? You awakened. Mother awakened. Sera's eight stars. Why are we still in Strata IV?"
Darion leaned back, chair creaking. "Because Strata isn't kindness. It's math. Cities are sliced into five layers. Strata I—nobles and old families, the ones with power's phone number. Strata II—the strong houses, military, rich who learned how to keep being rich. Strata III—respected awakeners, merchants with teeth. Strata IV—us. Awake but not welcome. Strata V—those the city forgets until it needs someone to clean."
"You left out 'Strata Zero: benches,'" Ez said.
"They're a secret sect," Sera murmured. "One day they'll rise."
Lira hid a smile and ladled more rice. "Your sister could have moved us," she said, voice careful. "Her awakening opened the door to Strata III."
Sera's mouth flattened. "And the rule on the door said two. I could bring two family members. So pick, Ez. Which two? You and Father? You and Mother? Father and Mother? Who stands on the other side of the gate that closes?"
He stared at his bowl. Rice became gravel. "I can't pick."
"Exactly." Sera's shoulder bumped his. "So we stay. Together. We climb when we can all climb."
Darion exhaled through his nose, the sound an iron file makes. "And we pay," he said. "The Lottery tells a nice story about being 'free.' It's not a lie, not exactly. Your name can be drawn for nothing. But if you want your name to be seen—if you want a better slot, a better clinic—"
"You pay," Ez finished. "You bribed them."
Darion didn't flinch. "We borrowed from Master Varian. Two million credits when your sister awakened. Two million marked for you when your name came up. We didn't bribe to cheat, Ez. We paid to be noticed. That's the only thing Strata sells honestly."
Ez bit his cheek. "Four million," he said softly, like naming a ghost.
Lira's hand found Darion's forearm. "We invested," she said. "In you. In her. In all of us. If you fail—" she inhaled, steadied—"then you come home, and we eat boiled rice, and I keep the garden stubborn. If you don't fail, then the door cracks. That is all."
He nodded. He wanted to crack a joke to bleed the pressure away. Sometimes the jokes came easy. Sometimes they arrived late and small. "If I explode, Sera gets the blanket."
"I already called it," Sera said.
"Of course you did."
They finished breakfast the way they lived—pushing plates around and pretending not to count how many grains stayed behind. After, Darion shouldered his old workbag, the leather so patched it was mostly memory.
"I'll stop by Stormborne Foundry before shift," he said. "Tell Master Varian you're scheduled. He'll send a word to the clinic manager if he can."
Ez blinked. "He doesn't have to."
"He knows," Darion replied simply, which was both not an explanation and the only one that mattered.
When the door closed behind him, the house tilted into a quieter shape. Lira rinsed bowls, water running thin and careful. Sera hopped onto the counter like a cat and examined Ez with the particular cruelty of a loving older sister.
"So," she said, "our brave lottery stew. Feel ready?"
"No," Ez said. "I also don't feel brave, stew, or lottery. I feel like a goat someone's fattening for festival day."
"Wrong," Sera said, solemn. "You're the goat that faints halfway up the hill."
"Thank you," Ez said. "Truly encouraging."
She flicked his ear. "Inspiring speech time. Listen carefully because I'm only going to say this once and then I'll go back to being awful: you are not useless."
He opened his mouth.
"Don't argue," she snapped. "You train. Hard. You get up when life throws bricks. You don't quit. That matters. Artemis isn't impressed by people who make excuses."
He blinked. "Since when did Artemis start judging me?"
"Since I did." She smirked. "And I'm scarier."
He laughed, the heaviness lifting for a second. "Fine. If I survive, I'll put that on a shirt: 'My sister is scarier than Artemis.'"
"Make two," she said. "Mother wants one."
Lira, drying bowls with a threadbare cloth, didn't look up. "Only if it comes in green."
Ez stared. "You pretend to be quiet, but you're worse than her."
"Of course," Lira said mildly. "I taught her."
A sharp rap sounded at the door—two quick, one slow. Sera slid down; Ez reached it first and opened to a courier barely older than him, too young for the uniform, too old for the fear in his eyes.
"Veylan household?" the boy asked, glancing between them like the name might be hiding under someone's hair.
"Yes," Ez said.
The courier held out a slim envelope sealed with the city crest. "Clinic schedule. Report tomorrow at nine. Undersigned: City Health Office. Secondary note: Stormborne Foundry has confirmed employment leave and support for patient's family."
Sera's eyebrows rose. "Varian," she murmured.
The boy shifted. "There's also a… uh… a note." He fished out a smaller card and handed it to Ez like it might bite. Thick, clean paper. Three words in precise handwriting:
Come back safe. — V.S.
Ez's throat went tight. "Thank you," he told the courier, because gratitude is a muscle and needed exercise.
When the door closed, Sera plucked the card, read it, then returned it with an unreadable look. "Frame it," she said. "So when you try to be dramatic tomorrow, you remember who'll be unimpressed if you fail."
"Varian Stormborne?"
"Me," she said.
Ez slid the card into the crack between the wall and the shelf, where the important scraps lived: the bent family photo in front of their crooked garden, his half-finished training notes, and the receipt for tools Darion had once splurged on new.
The day bled by in chores and brittle waiting. Sera bullied him through light drills; Lira coaxed her herbs; Darion came home early, smelling of ash, shoulders stiff from daring the world to misbehave.
They ate too much, because mothers fight fear with food. Darion spun a furnace story, Sera heckled his sound effects, and Ez laughed at all the wrong places.
When dusk slid the sky from brass to bruised purple, Sera climbed to the roof and jerked her head for Ez to follow. He did, because she'd have dragged him anyway.
From the parapet, the district sprawled: rusted tin, patchwork tarps, laundry strung like surrender flags. Beyond it all, the inner city's towers stabbed upward, pretending to be stars.