Dusk draped over Slagtown like a shroud of rust. The city's breath—a choking mix of smoke and pallid steam leaking from countless pipes—settled low over the ramshackle tenements. Everywhere hung the scent of metal filings, coal dust, and a darker, harder-to-name corruption that clung to the cracked brick walls, the greasy cobblestones, and the iron gate of the Icon Orphanage, which protested with every creak.
Elara Thorne crouched in the shadowed corner of an abandoned boiler room at the orphanage's back. Her body, slight and fragile compared to most eighteen-year-olds, seemed almost too delicate for this world. Freckles spattered across her nose, subtle marks of a soul not yet fully bound to this body—a soul from a different realm, slower to mature.
Her fingers traced the dark, ominous Ashshade Moss sprouting stubbornly from the bricks, scraping it carefully into a rough clay bowl. Already inside were crushed Nightlight Fungi, faintly phosphorescent; a few drops of distilled liquid she'd coaxed from a crude glass setup and a small stolen condenser; and a pinch of star-dust sand, hard-earned from months of menial labor in Slagtown's black market. The mixture smelled uncanny, a jarring blend of rotting orchids and searing metal.
This was the final ingredient for her Cloaking Elixir. Tomorrow, it would be her shield—and her gamble.
Tomorrow was Awakening Day.
Every child of eighteen would march to the city's Awakening Sanctuary, attempting to summon the distant starlight within and awaken their Stellar Core. Those who succeeded became Vigils or Weavers, earning places at the Silver Star Academy and stepping onto paths that diverged sharply from ordinary lives. Those who failed… well, Slagtown was full of failures, faces lost among the cogs and smoke, their lives ground away by gears and steam—or worse.
Elara licked her dry lips. She did not belong to that half of the world. Or perhaps, she belonged to none of it.
Her soul was from a place ruled by other laws entirely—laws that made her immune to the call of stars and the whispers of corruption. Two years ago, a fever had nearly killed her, waking fragments of memory that told her she was not meant for this world. She would never awaken a Stellar Core.
Her power came from the thick, bubbling concoction in her bowl—and from forbidden knowledge not of this world.
She was a witch. One discovery, one misstep, and the Heresy Tribunal would burn her alive.
Yet she had to appear tomorrow. She had to step into the Awakening Circle and pretend that the Core stirred, that her psionic energy resonated with the starlight. Her cover identity—a low-tier Weaver—was her best shield, her ticket out of Slagtown, her pass toward true freedom.
The Cloaking Elixir would surge her life energy and mental force, simulating the purest psionic pulses. It might fool the detection array, perhaps even a junior Association observer. But what if it failed? What if a high-tier Sage came? What if the potion faltered at the wrong moment? What if the alien instincts of her soul rebelled?
"…It must work," she whispered, voice echoing off the soot-stained walls.
She poured the mixture into a narrow glass vial, corked it, and hid it deep within the boiler pipes, a small warm cavity. One night remained for the magic to settle.
No sooner had she finished than the familiar hiss of a steam engine reached the courtyard. Her heart leapt. At this hour, that sound could mean only one rider.
She slipped outside, eyes straining through rusted railings. A brass-and-dark-steel mechanical cycle had halted at the gate. The rider, clad in a postal uniform, withdrew a letter from the saddlebag and handed it to Sister Lan.
The envelope was fine parchment, edged with the Silver Star Academy emblem—a gear encircling a star.
Sister Lan's usually stern face softened in a rare, almost servile smile. "Elara! A letter from Kaelan!"
Elara padded over, cautious. Sister Lan's sharp gaze scanned her mud-streaked fingers and frayed dress. "Looks like your brother hasn't forgotten you. Remember his favor, Elara. Without him, you are nothing." The words carried patronage—and something sharper beneath.
Elara murmured thanks and retreated to the shadow beneath the stairs. Breaking the wax seal, she read Kaelan's familiar, precise handwriting:
*"Elara,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Although Academy work keeps me busy, my thoughts drift back to Slagtown. By my reckoning, tomorrow is your Awakening. Do not worry—becoming an Acolyte should be natural for you.
I have asked Headmistress Seraphina to observe your Awakening. We shall study together. While Academy rules are strict, under my guidance, no one will dare harm you. Follow my instructions and stay safe.
Eagerly awaiting tomorrow, and our reunion soon.
Your devoted brother,
Kaelan Blackwood"*
Elara's fingers unconsciously crumpled the paper. Beneath his care lay the familiar, bone-deep possessiveness. "Under my guidance…" Each word felt like an invisible chain tightening around her desire for freedom.
Kaelan—nominally her brother, bound to her by orphanage years—had indeed been a prodigy. Two years prior, he had leapt ranks on his Awakening Day, recognized as a Sage, shaking all of Ironanvil City. He left for the Academy, leaving her and Sister Lan behind in Slagtown.
His gifts had been generous—food, clothes, books—all shared with her. But every gift felt like another link in a cage.
Elara tucked the letter away and drew in the mingled scents of coal and stew, trying to steady herself.
Dinner was oppressive with silence. The other children, anxious about their own Awakenings, barely ate. Only the faint clatter of wooden spoons broke the tension.
Sister Lan's voice cut the silence, cold as the hall's draft: "Tomorrow, remember who you represent. You are the face of the Icon Orphanage. Success or failure, maintain your decorum—especially you, Elara."
Her gaze was an icicle. "If fortune favors you and you earn Academy entry, behave, study diligently, and do not shame your brother. Do not stir trouble. The Academy is no place for recklessness."
Elara lowered her eyes to the thin stew, a quiet affirmation escaping her lips. Beneath her skirt, her fingers clenched tight.
Behave? Don't stir trouble? They had no idea of her true plans. Her secret was a thousand times graver than any mischief.
Night deepened.
In the dormitory, the sounds of snoring and restless shifting rose and fell. Elara stared at the mottled ceiling stains, twisted into grotesque shapes by distant factory neon light—monsters of the Shadow Abyss, it seemed, peering hungrily into the human world.
Her mind churned: Kaelan's gentle suffocating control, Sister Lan's warnings, potential pitfalls of the Awakening… and the vial in the boiler pipes, fragile yet holding hope.
Success would grant a mask and passage to a broader world.
Failure would mean fire, or a fate darker still.
Outside, the steam pipes hissed, like the heavy, labored breath of the Iron Anvil Kingdom itself. In a corner of this eternally dark world, a soul from another realm—a hidden witch, harboring secrets and a longing for freedom—waited for the dawn that would decide her fate.
The Elixir completed its final infusion deep in the pipes. Tiny bubbles rose and burst in silence, echoing the unrest in her heart.