The "training" began at dawn. It was less a lesson and more a controlled disaster.
Bramble led him to a secluded, rubble-strewn corner of the cistern, far from the main living area. Thorn was already there, leaning against a mossy wall, her arms crossed. Her expression was unreadable, but her presence was a silent promise of consequences if he slacked.
"Right," Bramble grunted, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Morwen says you need to stop being a liability. So stop."
He tossed a small, rusted metal box at Kaelen's feet. "Open it."
Kaelen stared at it. It was a simple lockbox, crusted with age. "I... how?"
"Not with your hands," Thorn said, her voice cool. "With that." She nodded towards him, a general gesture that encompassed the terrifying power coiled in his chest.
His heart started to hammer. "I can't just... on command. It's not a faucet."
"It is now," Bramble said, unsympathetic. "Or you're useless. And we don't—"
"—keep useless things down here. Yeah, I got the memo," Kaelen finished, a spark of Leo's defiance flaring. He took a shaky breath and knelt before the box.
He placed his hands near the old lock, not touching it. He closed his eyes, trying to find the cold stillness. But all he could feel was their judgment, his own fear, the immense pressure. The void within remained a dormant, icy pool.
"Focus on the lock," Thorn instructed, her voice cutting through his panic. "Not on us. Not on yourself. The lock is all that exists. Find its weakness. Everything has one."
He tried. He imagined the internal mechanisms, the tumblers, the pins. He reached for the void, pleading with it. Come on. Just a little. For the lock.
Nothing.
After a long, silent minute, Bramble let out a disgusted sigh. "Waste of time." He took a step forward to retrieve the box.
The movement, the dismissal, triggered something—a memory of the priest recoiling, of the crowd's hatred, of being worthless. A spike of frustrated fear lanced through him.
The void responded.
It wasn't a trickle. It was a jolt—a raw, unfocused surge of negation that erupted from his palms.
There was no subtle aging, no precise failure. The entire metal box didn't just unlock; it crumbled. It sagged in on itself, dissolving into a pile of fine, reddish-brown dust and flaky rust in the span of a single heartbeat.
Kaelen fell back on his rear, staring at the pile that had once been a solid object. His hands were tingling, cold.
Bramble and Thorn were silent. Bramble stared at the dust, then at Kaelen, a new, calculating glint in his eyes. Thorn pushed off the wall, her thorned fingers tapping her chin.
"Well," she said, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. "That's one way to do it. Not subtle. Not useful. But... impressive."
"That was uncontrolled," Kaelen gasped, his chest heaving. "I told you—"
"You lost your temper," Thorn interrupted. "You let fear and anger take control. Your power is an emotion for you. A reflex. It must become a thought. A choice."
Bramble grunted in agreement. "Again." He walked to a pile of discarded rubble and came back with a thick, rusted pipe. He shoved it into Kaelen's hands. "Not all of it. Just a section. Make a weak point. A small one."
The day continued in this fashion. A cycle of failure, explosive overcorrection, and harsh, minimalist feedback. They gave him tasks of increasing precision: weaken a specific link in a chain, age a single nail so it could be pulled easily, create a hairline fracture in a stone block.
He failed more than he succeeded. The pipe was rendered into a pile of oxide. A section of chain disintegrated entirely. But slowly, painfully, he began to learn. He learned to breathe, to block out the pressure, to narrow his world to the single, tiny point of failure in an object.
It was exhausting. It was mental and physical agony. Each use of the power drained him, leaving him feeling hollowed out and shivering.
During a break, as he gulped down stale water, Wisp appeared beside him, holding out a small, withered apple.
"Here," the boy whispered. "You look tired."
"Thanks, Wisp," Kaelen said, taking it. He focused on a small brown spot on the apple's skin, a tiny exercise. He let the faintest whisper of power touch it. The spot deepened slightly, but the rest of the apple remained firm. A small victory.
Wisp watched, fascinated. "You're getting better."
"Barely," Kaelen muttered.
"Bramble says you're a quick study," Wisp said. "He says you're stubborn. That's good."
Kaelen almost laughed. Bramble had done nothing but grunt in disapproval all day. "He has a funny way of showing it."
"That's how he shows it," Wisp said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then he faded away, leaving Kaelen with the apple and the strange compliment.
The real test came a few days later. Morwen returned from one of her forays into the city's underbelly, her face graver than usual.
"The Hounds are closer," she announced to the gathered Unattuned. "They're sweeping the eastern sewer districts. They'll be in the Gutterway within the week."
A tense silence fell over the cistern.
"We need to collapse the old eastern access tunnel," Bramble stated. "It's the most direct route here. It'll buy us time."
All eyes turned to Kaelen.
He felt the weight of their gazes, the expectation. This wasn't a practice pipe. This was their safety. Their lives.
They led him to a narrow, crumbling tunnel branching off from the main cistern. It was shored up with rotting timber, with water dripping from its ceiling.
"Here," Bramble said, pointing to a section where the timber supports met the stone ceiling. "Weaken the mortar here and here. Precisely. Enough that the weight above will do the rest. Not enough to bring it down on our heads."
Kaelen approached, his heart in his throat. This was it. The moment he proved he was an asset, or a catastrophic failure.
He placed his hands on the cold, wet stone. He closed his eyes, blocking out everything—the drip of water, the anxious breathing of the others, and the thrum of his own fear.
He felt for the mortar. He found its history, its slow dissolution under centuries of dampness. He found the points of maximum strain.
He didn't push. He didn't command. He suggested. He invited the entropy already present to express itself just a little more, a little faster.
It was a delicate, agonizing process. He felt the cold power flow from him, a controlled stream this time, not a flood. He guided it, shaped it, and focused it on the precise points Bramble had indicated.
There was no dramatic crumbling. Just a soft, grinding sigh as the ancient mortar holding the key stones in place turned to powder. The timbers groaned in protest. A shower of dust and small pebbles pattered down.
Bramble grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "Enough! Move!"
They retreated to a safe distance. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a deep, grating rumble, the ceiling of the tunnel gave way. Stone and earth crashed down, completely sealing the passage in a cloud of dust.
Silence descended, broken only by the settling of rubble.
Kaelen stood, chest heaving, covered in dust. He'd done it.
Bramble clapped him on the back, a jarring, powerful thump that nearly knocked him over. "Hmph. Not bad, Decay boy."
Thorn offered a slight, rare nod of approval.
It wasn't praise. It was acknowledgment. He had been useful. He had protected them.
As the others moved off to secure the area, Kaelen looked at his dusty hands. The void inside him felt quieter, more his. It was still a cold, hungry thing, a power of endings.
But for the first time, he had used it to build something: a barrier, a few more days of safety, a sliver of trust.
He wasn't just a heretic on the run. He was Kaelen of the Rusted Chain. And he had just earned his place.