The night pressed heavy over Caelth's slums, the air damp with smoke and sewage.
Ash crouched inside the husk of an abandoned tannery, the Codex pressed against his ribs. His heart beat like a drum.
Footsteps echoed outside—deliberate, searching. Not the drunken stagger of slum gangs, not the lazy clank of guards. These were hunters.
He peered through a gap in the boards. Three cloaked figures moved in silence. Their hoods hid their faces, but he saw the faint shimmer of mana wreathing their hands.
And in the center, crimson trim. The mage who had hunted him since the chapel.
Ash's throat tightened.
> Do not panic, the Codex whispered. The battlefield is never lost until the final piece falls. Study the field. Find the cracks.
The tannery was a ruin: broken vats, rotting beams, vats of foul liquid clinging to the air with acrid stench. One exit, already blocked by the hunters.
No way out.
The door creaked. They stepped inside. Mana lit the gloom with cold radiance.
"There," the crimson mage hissed. His hand rose. Fire gathered.
Ash stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall. The heat licked his skin.
This is it, he thought wildly. No tricks left.
But the Codex's whisper cut through panic.
> There is always a trick left. Even rats cornered have teeth.
Ash's fingers brushed a broken flask at his feet. His gaze flicked upward—rotting beams sagging above, heavy with damp.
He acted.
The flask flew, shattering against a vat. Reeking fumes filled the air. A spark of flame leapt from Ash's trembling hand—just enough.
Whoosh!
The air erupted in choking smoke. The hunters cursed, spells faltering.
Ash lunged for the beam. With a grunt, he shoved mana into his palm, pushing—not flame this time, but force.
The beam groaned. Snapped.
It collapsed in a shower of dust and timber. One mage screamed as wood crashed across his back. The others staggered, coughing, blinded by smoke.
Ash darted through the gap, lungs burning.
"After him!" the crimson mage roared, voice muffled.
Ash ran. Through alleys, over heaps of trash, across planks spanning sewage ditches. His body screamed for rest, but the Codex's whispers mapped paths through chaos: turn here, duck there, leap now.
Behind him, spells lit the dark. A bolt of fire scorched the wall inches from his head.
At last, his legs gave way. He collapsed beneath a stone arch, chest heaving, vision blurring.
The Codex's whisper faded, as though even it demanded rest.
He didn't hear the footsteps approach until they stopped before him.
Not a gang. Not a hunter.
Boots of fine leather. A cloak lined with sable.
Ash forced his eyes open. A man stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, bearing the sigil of a noble house stitched in silver. His eyes burned with mana's light—calm, sharp, assessing.
A true mage. Not cloaked in shadow, not skulking in alleys. A noble.
The man studied Ash, then the battered book clutched to his chest. His brows furrowed.
"A gutter child… with the spark?" he murmured.
Ash tried to rise. His body betrayed him. Darkness clawed at the edge of his sight.
The man crouched, gaze level with Ash's. His voice was steady, but dangerous.
"Boy," he said, "where did you learn that flame?"
Ash's lips moved, but no words came. Exhaustion dragged him under.
The last thing he saw was the mage's face, shadowed with something between suspicion and curiosity.
Then—darkness.