Ash moved.
He snatched the oil lamp from the altar and hurled it at the rafters. Glass shattered, flames leaping greedily into the dry timber.
The cloaked man cursed, his spell faltering as sparks rained down. Ash darted toward the half-collapsed wall, squeezing through a gap no grown man could follow.
"Boy!" The man's voice was thunder, echoing over the crackle of fire. "You cannot hide from me!"
Ash stumbled into the night air, lungs burning. He clutched the Codex tight as he ran through the slums, weaving through narrow alleys he knew better than any noble-born mage could imagine.
Behind him, the chapel's ruin burned like a beacon.
---
For days, Ash barely slept.
The cloaked man haunted his thoughts. Every whisper of boots on cobblestone, every flicker of magic in the night made his heart lurch. He avoided his old haunts, curling in abandoned cellars or midden heaps where only rats shared company.
Yet life in the slums did not pause for fear.
Children still scrabbled in the gutters, fighting over crusts. Gangs still prowled, shaking down the weak. The city's guards never entered; the lords pretended the slums didn't exist, except when they needed cheap labor or scapegoats.
Ash knew hunger too well. A turnip stolen a week ago wouldn't last. He had to eat, had to survive, cloaked mage or not.
So he moved carefully, slipping through shadows, watching for gangs.
Near the butcher's refuse pit, he saw them—three boys his age, scrambling after bones slick with grease. He recognized one: Mairen, a sharp-tongued girl who'd once shared fire with him on a freezing night. Her eyes lit with fear when she saw him.
"Ash," she hissed. "Word is, Torvek's gang is after you."
Ash's stomach tightened. Torvek—the same brute whose throat he had nearly cut.
"They say you pulled a knife on him. He swore he'll skin you."
"I didn't—" Ash stopped. What did truth matter? In the slums, stories killed faster than blades.
Mairen shook her head. "Best run. Best leave Caelth if you can."
Ash laughed bitterly. Leave? Where? Beyond the slums, guards would gut him for trespassing. And yet… the Codex's whispers told him there were paths beyond the gutter.
But not if he died here.
> You cannot face them in the open, the Codex murmured. Yet a fox may slip where wolves cannot. Every rival can be undone, not with strength, but with inevitability.
Ash clenched his fists. He wouldn't live forever on scraps. If Torvek wanted him dead, then he had to strike first.
---
That night, the gang prowled the alleys, torches in hand. Torvek's voice carried, low and cruel.
"Find him. Rat thinks he's clever. We'll see how clever he screams."
Ash crouched above, on the broken beams of a half-fallen roof. His heart thundered. The Codex's whispers guided him: watch the angles, the shadows, the way the firelight blinded their eyes.
When one boy strayed, Ash dropped like a shadow. His fist slammed into the boy's neck; the torch fell sputtering. Ash snatched it, rammed the butt into the boy's gut, and dragged him silently into the dark.
Another torch wavered. "Jerrin? You there?"
Ash hurled a stone. It clattered across an alley, drawing them like moths.
Torvek snarled. "He's playing games. Spread out!"
And that was their mistake.
One by one, Ash struck—never killing, but breaking, disabling, leaving bruised bodies in the mud. Fear spread quicker than fire.
At last, only Torvek remained, bellowing curses. "Come out, rat! Face me like a man!"
Ash stepped from the shadows, torch in hand. The Codex's whisper was calm in his mind.
> Do not waste breath on pride. Use what you have.
Torvek lunged. He was taller, heavier, a predator built of hunger and rage. His fist swung. Ash raised the torch. Flame roared as he thrust it forward, blinding the brute.
Torvek screamed, clutching his scorched face. Ash pressed the torch close enough to make him stagger back, then kicked his knee. The gang leader collapsed, howling.
Ash stood above him, chest heaving. For the second time, he had Torvek's life in his hand. The knife lay within reach.
The Codex whispered.
> Kill him. Remove the threat. The field will be safer with one fewer rival piece.
Ash's hand shook.
He thought of Mairen, of the children in the slums. He thought of himself—always hunted, always cornered.
He pressed the torch closer. Torvek sobbed. "Please—please—"
Ash's lips curled. "Then remember: the rat bit back."
He dropped the torch in the mud, letting the flame sputter. Without another word, he melted into the shadows.
---
Word spread by dawn.
Torvek's gang was broken. The slum brats whispered of Ash with awe and fear: the boy who struck from shadows, who burned without firewood, who walked away untouched.
Some called him cursed. Others, blessed.
Ash called it survival.
But the slums gave no peace.
Three days later, as Ash scavenged near the tannery pits, a shadow fell across him. He froze.
The cloaked mage.
His crimson trim gleamed in the dim light. His smile was thin, cruel.
"Clever rat," the man said softly. "But did you think you could escape me forever?"
Ash's pulse roared in his ears. The Codex's whisper cut sharp.
> Run and die. Fight and die. Only a third path remains—outthink him.
The man raised his hand, mana swirling.
Ash stepped back. His heel caught on stone. Behind him lay only the pit—reeking, acidic, a death sentence.
The mage's spell flared.
Ash gritted his teeth. He had seconds. No strength. No chance. Only wit.
He thought of the gangs, of Torvek, of all the alleys where he had survived by choosing paths others couldn't see.
And as the spell gathered, the Codex's whisper became a command.
> The path to victory lies not in facing him… but in what lies behind him.
Ash's eyes flicked past the mage. And there, at the alley's mouth—
A squad of armored guards.