Second's body convulsed one final time—wings folding inward, bones cracking like green wood snapping in a fire—and then he was *small* again.
Robin-sized. Grey feathers. Crooked wing that would never quite work right.
He fell.
Sable lunged. Caught him mid-air. The bird weighed nothing. Felt *fragile* in a way that shouldn't be possible after what he'd just done.
Second's eyes opened. Black. No crimson glow. No cosmic wrongness that made reality flinch.
Just a bird.
He chirped. Weak. Confused. *Hungry.*
Something in Sable's chest *unclenched*. A tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding—tight enough to suffocate—suddenly released. His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From *relief*.
"You're still you," he whispered.
Second pecked his thumb. Indignant. *Obviously. What else would I be?*
Ellaya approached slowly. Boots splashing through black water. She stared at the small bird cradled in Sable's hands. At the creature who—three minutes ago—had been the size of a tower. Who'd torn through plate armor like wet paper. Who'd made a Knight scream.
"Is Second… okay?"
Sable looked at the bird. At the way Second's head tilted, tracking the protein bar wrapper sticking out of Ellaya's pocket.
"Yeah," Sable said. "He's okay."
Ellaya reached out. Hesitant. Like she wasn't sure if touching him was safe. Her small fingers brushed Second's head.
The bird leaned into her palm. Closed his eyes. Made a soft trill that sounded content.
"He wasn't cute earlier," Ellaya said quietly.
Sable thought about the massive form. The talons the size of kitchen knives. The beak that had intercepted a sword mid-swing and *held*. The shriek that had killed the chem-strips just by existing near them.
"No," he agreed. "He wasn't."
Pause.
"But he's cute now."
Second's eyes opened. Fixed on the protein bar wrapper. Chirped. Louder. *Feed me or I'll peck you.*
Despite everything—the bodies, the blood, the exhaustion pressing down like physical weight—Sable's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"Still food-motivated."
"Still Second," Ellaya whispered.
"Yeah." Sable carefully tucked the bird into his coat pocket. "Still Second."
But his mind was already working. Cataloging. Analyzing.
*Animals affected by the Rain. Livestock turning. Not common, but it happens.*
He'd heard stories. Whispers in the Dredge. A farmer's cow that survived the first Rain cycle and came back *wrong*—bigger, stronger, aggressive but not mindless. A pack of rats in Block 14 that had gotten Grace instead of becoming Droplings. Rare cases. One in a thousand. Maybe less.
*Grace infection. Mutation. But retaining intelligence. Personality.*
Most animals just became Torrent-born. Lost everything. Became teeth and hunger and wrongness.
But some—*some*—kept something. Got Grace mixed with infection. Became hybrids. Stronger than normal Grace-bearers. More dangerous than normal Torrent-born.
Sable looked at Second, already falling back asleep in his pocket.
*Robins are territorial. Protective. They pick a place and defend it.*
*What if Second was already infected before I found him? Dormant. Waiting. The Rain hadn't even started yet. Three weeks ago. He was dying. Vulnerable.*
*What if the infection was already there?*
*What if I became his territory?*
The thought settled cold in his chest. Not fear. Just *understanding*.
Second hadn't transformed to fight. He'd transformed to *protect*. Because Sable was his. Because that's what territorial birds did when their home was threatened.
*You chose me,* Sable thought, looking at the small grey shape in his pocket. *Didn't you?*
-----
He turned toward the Knight's body.
Not looking at her face. At what used to be her face. At the geography he'd made with a rock and thoroughness.
Just the armor. The equipment. The *useful* parts.
His hands moved methodically. Medical training overriding revulsion. Bodies were bodies. Living or dead, they all had the same anatomy. Same organ placement. Same structural weaknesses.
The sword was impossible.
Sable grabbed the handle with both hands. Planted his feet. *Pulled*.
It didn't budge.
He adjusted his grip. Braced his legs. Used his body weight as leverage.
Nothing. The blade might as well have been welded to the concrete.
*Two hundred pounds. Maybe more.*
His blue eye calculated automatically: *weight manipulation, can increase or decrease mass of objects and self, explains impossible speed—drops to near-zero weight for bursts of movement, explains bisection kills—blade weighs nothing during swing, increases to hundreds of pounds at point of impact—*
His analytical mind kept going: *explains why her footsteps made that sound, why she sank into concrete when anchoring, why her strikes produced that wind displacement—*
The realization hit cold and certain.
Sable moved to her hip. Found a pouch. Leather. Military-grade. Sealed with a clasp that took him three tries to open because his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Inside: plastic card. Metallic shine. Holographic text that shifted as he tilted it.
And cash. Paper bills. *Ilards.*
Sable counted quickly. One thousand.
A fortune.
In the Dredge, that was six months of food if you rationed carefully. A year of rent in a hab-block that only flooded twice a month. A medical textbook with only half the pages missing and blood stains you could ignore if you tried.
Up here—in whatever world this Knight had come from—probably pocket change. Lunch money. The cost of a single meal in a restaurant with actual chairs.
He took it anyway. Pocketed the bills.
Then looked at the card.
The holographic text resolved as he stared:
**RHEENA VARTHON**
**Bestowed Rank: Anointed**
**House: House of Varthon**
**Valid Entry: Pentec Citadel**
**Blackwater Culling Division**
Sable's blood went cold.
Sable was Bestowed. Entry level. Permanent Grace, but weak. Ellaya was Borrowed. Temporary. Seven days and her regeneration would fade.
The Knight—*this* Knight—was *Anointed*.
Two full ranks above him.
**Borrowed → Bestowed → Paragon → Anointed →Master→ Sovereign → Transcendent**
Fighting her should have been suicide. Absolute. Guaranteed.
*We shouldn't have survived.*
*We shouldn't have even gotten close.*
*If Second hadn't been there—*
He looked at his pocket. At the small bird sleeping peacefully.
*If Second hadn't been whatever the fuck he is—*
*We'd be dead.*
*All of us.*
The gap between Bestowed and Anointed wasn't just power. It was *category*. Like comparing a kitchen knife to a sword. Both could cut, but one was *designed* for killing.
*And The 'Varthon.'*
He knew that name. Everyone in the Dredge knew that name. You heard it whispered in hab-blocks when the power failed. Muttered in food lines when rations got cut. Spat like a curse when buildings collapsed and no one came to dig out survivors.
One of the High Houses. Upper City aristocracy. Pentec Citadel. The kind of people who signed policy documents that translated to starvation three levels down. Who decided which sectors got clean water and which got the runoff. Who *owned* the world in ways that made ownership feel like a law of physics instead of a choice.
*She wasn't just a Knight.*
*She was nobility.*
*Connected. Important. Missed.*
Cold sweat dripped down his neck. His hands started shaking harder—not from fear, from *realization*.
If she was connected to House Varthon—if she was family, a daughter, someone who *mattered*—
They wouldn't just investigate her death.
They'd *avenge* it.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"What is it?" Ellaya's voice. Close. Worried.
Sable looked at her. At her brown eyes. At the trust still sitting there like something fragile he was going to break eventually.
"We need to leave. Now."
He looked back at the card. At the holographic seal. At the chip embedded in the plastic—the access key that would let you through Upper City checkpoints without question.
His hands moved. Snapped the card in half. The plastic cracked. The holographic surface spiderwebbed.
He pulled the chip free. Small. Metallic. Warm from being pressed against a dead woman's hip.
Pocketed it.
Left the broken card on her corpse.
-----
But first.
Sable stood at the entrance to the subway station. Looking back at the carnage.
Thirty-seven bodies. Maybe more. Hard to count when some had been separated into pieces. Most killed by the Knight. One killed by him.
The Upper City would come. Would send a recovery team. Would see this mess and ask questions.
They'd assume Torrent-born. Assume chaos. Assume the Dredge eating itself like it always did—like it was *supposed* to, like it was *designed* to.
Unless he told them otherwise.
Sable's hand moved before his brain finished the thought. Grabbed a strip of cloth from a nearby corpse—some survivor who'd bled out while hiding, who'd made it through the first thirty kills before the Knight found them anyway.
He walked to the Knight's body. Soaked the fabric in her blood.
Still warm. Still wet. Still *fresh*.
Walked to the wall facing the entrance. The one everyone would see first. The one Blackwater would photograph for their report.
Raised the bloody cloth.
Stopped.
*What are you doing?*
*You should be running. Hiding. Becoming invisible.*
*Instead you're—what? Leaving a message? Claiming credit? Signing your name to a murder?*
He thought about Nash. About the way the man had looked at him in this exact station—not with anger, but with *recognition*. Like he'd seen something floating above Sable's head that explained everything.
*"What are you planning to do here, Sinner?"*
Sinner.
Not "Bestowed." Not "survivor." Not "kid who got lucky."
*Sinner.*
Someone beyond redemption. Someone who'd crossed lines and kept walking. Someone the system itself had *noticed* and *measured* and found adequate for something.
The word fit.
Sable pressed the bloody cloth to concrete. Dragged.
THE SINNER WAS HERE
He stepped back. Looked at his work.
A signature. A declaration. A threat wrapped in five words and a dead woman's blood.
This means something, he told himself. This is rebellion. This is making them see us.
Deep down, where the truth lived, he knew what this really was:
A child writing his name on a wall so someone would notice he existed.
A coward pretending his murders had meaning so they'd feel like anything other than survival.
A sociopath performing ideology because "I killed for myself" was too honest.
But the message was already drying. Already permanent.
And Sable needed to believe his own performance.
So he did.
Let them *know*.
The Dredge wasn't just dying quietly anymore.
-----
Sable's home was exactly as he'd left it.
Which meant flooded.
The black water had risen since the Rain stopped—three inches deep in the main room, knee-deep near the basement stairs. It didn't drain. Didn't evaporate. Just *sat* there, warm as blood, smelling like ozone and rot and something organic breaking down in ways chemistry shouldn't allow.
"Stay on the stairs," Sable told Ellaya.
She nodded. Clutched the railing. Watched him wade into the water.
Sable moved carefully. Testing each step. The water could hide anything—Droplings that had crawled in through the vents, sinkholes where the floor had collapsed, debris sharp enough to puncture through boots.
His blue eye scanned automatically. His brown eye just tried not to think about what he was walking through.
He reached his wardrobe. Pulled it open. The hinges screamed—rust and disuse.
Inside: three shirts. Two pairs of pants. One beige coat. One black coat. The sum total of his possessions that qualified as "clean."
The beige coat—the one he'd used as a pillow for Ellaya earlier. Thick. Warm. Better than the bloodstained thing he was wearing now.
He grabbed a white long-sleeve shirt and a new pair of black boots first. The fabric was rough. Cheap. But dry. He stripped off his tattered, burnt shirt and pulled the new one on. It stuck to his bandaged arm—the burn beneath still weeping clear fluid through the gauze—and he ignored the spike of pain.
Opened the drawer above the wardrobe. Medical kit. Bandages, antiseptic, sutures, painkillers he'd stolen from the clinic six months ago and rationed like they were more valuable than food.
He took fresh bandages. A belt. A small bag that could attach to his hip. A multipurpose chain—the kind maintenance workers used, the kind that could be a weapon if you swung it right.
The burn looked *wrong*. Ellaya's regeneration Grace was working—new skin forming at the edges, blisters healing and re-forming in cycles—but it wasn't *fast*. Wasn't complete. The tissue was angry red. Weeping. Scarring in ways that would be permanent.
*Borrowed Grace. Temporary. Weak compared to Bestowed.*
*But still better than nothing.*
He disinfected it. The antiseptic stung like a living thing. Gritted his teeth. Wrapped it fresh—shoulder to fingertips, tight enough to hold but loose enough to let blood flow.
Added the belt. Attached the bag. The chain went on the beige coat—looped through a reinforced section near the collar, ready to grab,
Grabbed rations. Crackers. Protein bars. Water purification tablets that probably didn't work anymore but were better than nothing.
Pulled on the beige coat. It was heavy. Warm. Familiar. The inside pocket still had Second's shape pressed into the fabric from three weeks of carrying him.
"Okay." He turned. Looked at Ellaya still standing on the stairs. "Let's move."
He handed her a cracker. She took it. Stared at it like she'd forgotten what food was.
"Eat," Sable said.
She did. Slowly. Mechanically.
He pulled his old black coat from his wardrobe —Not perfect, but better.
"Put this on. It's cold outside."
Ellaya pulled it on. The sleeves hung past her hands. The hem dragged in the water. But it was thicker than her torn grey dress. Would keep her warmer.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Sable didn't respond. Just headed for the stairs.
-----
Outside, the Dredge had changed.
Not destroyed—*transformed*.
The streets were flooded. Black water ankle-deep in most places, knee-deep where the drainage grates had collapsed. Bodies floated. Human and Torrent-born. After enough time in the water, it became impossible to tell which was which.
Sable walked carefully. Each step tested before committing weight. Ellaya held his hand. Silent. Her brown eyes tracked everything.
They passed a Dropling corpse. Rat-sized. Four legs bent at wrong angles. Someone had crushed its skull with a pipe—the weapon was still lying nearby, bloodstained and abandoned.
Passed a man slumped against a wall. Eyes open. Staring at nothing. No visible wounds. Just… dead. Shock, probably. Or poison. Or his heart had given up before the Torrent-born reached him.
Passed a vendor stall overturned in the water. The merchandise—cheap protein, filtered water, chem-strips—scattered and ruined.
A crow landed on one of the corpses. Started pecking.
Ellaya looked away.
Sable didn't.
*This is the Dredge after the Rain.*
*This is what survival looks like.*
They kept walking.
The street widened. Became a crossing—the main artery merchants used. Smugglers. People with enough money to *leave*. Normally it was crowded. Carts everywhere. Voices haggling. The smell of cooking food mixing with exhaust.
Now it was empty except for abandoned vehicles and more bodies.
And there—half-submerged in black water near the gutter—the docker's body.
Sable stopped.
The man who'd gotten fire Grace. Who'd screamed about being blessed. Who'd charged the Torrent-born like he was invincible because for seven days, he *was*.
His hands were still charred black. Frozen mid-reach. Like he'd died trying to summon flame one more time.
*"I'm a god now!"*
*Then he wasn't.*
*Borrowed Grace. Seven days. Then nothing.*
Sable looked at his own bandaged arm. At the burn beneath that would scar. At Ellaya beside him with Borrowed Grace that would fade.
*Power doesn't make you safe.*
*It just makes you a bigger target.*
*And temporary power? That's just a countdown to weakness.*
He kept walking.
-----
The silence stretched. Their footsteps—his bare feet, her boots—made soft splashing sounds in the water. Second was asleep in Sable's coat pocket. The bird's small body was warm against his chest.
Ellaya spoke quietly.
"She was young."
Sable didn't answer.
"The Knight. The woman in the armor." Ellaya's voice was careful. Testing. "Maybe the same age as you."
"Her ID said twenty-four," Sable said. "Five years older."
"That's still young."
"Yeah."
They walked another block.
"She was crying at the end," Ellaya continued. Her voice was softer now. Smaller. "Asking for help. Asking us to save her."
Sable's jaw tightened. "I know."
"But you still…" Ellaya's voice caught. Stopped. Started again. "You kept hitting her. Even after she stopped moving. Even after—"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because half-measures get you killed."
Ellaya was quiet for a long moment. Processing.
"But she was already dying," she said finally. "Her… her insides were outside. She couldn't fight anymore.
Sable stopped walking. Turned. Knelt down to Ellaya's eye level.
The water soaked through his pants. Cold. Black. Smelling like death.
"You're right," he said. His voice was flat. Empty. Clinical. "She was dying. Slowly. Painfully. Internal bleeding. Organ damage. Shock. She had maybe twenty minutes if she was lucky. Longer if she wasn't."
Ellaya's eyes widened slightly.
"I could have left her there," Sable continued. "Let her bleed out. Let her lie in the dark wondering if anyone was coming to save her. Let her *suffer*."
He held her gaze. Made sure she understood.
"Instead, I made it fast. Thirty seconds. Maybe less." His voice didn't change. Didn't soften. "That was *mercy*."
"But—"
"She killed Nash while he begged for his life. She killed the mother and child while they hid behind a pillar. She killed thirty-seven people like it was a job." His voice went colder. "And it *was* a job. She got *paid* to execute us. To cull us like we were diseased livestock."
Ellaya's face crumpled slightly. Trying to process. Trying to reconcile the crying woman with the monster in armor.
"She didn't feel bad about it until she was the one dying," Sable said. "That's not regret. That's just fear. Fear that it's finally her turn."
He stood. Looked down at her.
"In this world, Ellaya, people are going to try to eat you if you're weak." His tone was matter-of-fact. Like he was explaining weather patterns or basic math. "You are weak. That's why you almost got eaten."
He turned. Started walking again.
"But I'm strong. Because I *refuse* to be eaten."
Ellaya followed. Silent. Her small hand found his again.
They walked.
-----
Halfway to the citadel, Second woke up.
Poked his head out of Sable's coat pocket. Looked around with bleary eyes. Saw the flooded streets. The corpses. The grey-green sky.
Chirped. *Where are we? Did I miss breakfast?*
Sable pulled out a cracker from his bag. Broke off a piece. Offered it.
Second snatched it. Gulped it down in one motion. Chirped again. Louder. *More.*
"You just killed an Anointed-rank Knight and you're still hungry?"
Second tilted his head. *Obviously. What does killing have to do with being hungry?*
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the pain, the corpses floating in black water—Sable's mouth twitched.
Almost a smile.
*Anointed. Two full ranks above me. And Second tore through her like she was made of paper.*
*What the fuck are you?*
He handed Ellaya the rest of the cracker. "You feed him. I'm tired of being pecked."
She took it. Broke off pieces. Second hopped onto her shoulder. Accepted tribute like it was owed to him.
Ellaya giggled. Small. Surprised at the sound coming from her own throat.
For just a moment—surrounded by bodies, walking through a flooded nightmare, heading toward an uncertain future—
They felt almost normal.
-----
The road sloped upward.
Gradually at first. Then steeper. The Dredge had been built in the lowest section of the city—where flooding was guaranteed, where structural failures were expected, where lives were *cheap*.
Middle City sat higher. Better drainage. Better infrastructure. Better *everything*.
The black water receded as they climbed. Ankle-deep became inches. Inches became damp pavement. Damp pavement became almost dry.
The air changed too. Still smelled like ozone and smoke, but the *rot* faded. The organic wrongness that had saturated the Dredge didn't climb this high.
Sable's legs burned. His arm throbbed. His bare feet were cut and blistered from walking through debris.
He kept moving.
Ellaya hadn't complained once. Just held his hand. Kept pace. Stayed silent.
They crested the hill.
And there—rising above the smog, visible through the haze—
The citadel of Prulla.
Not Upper City pristine. Not gleaming towers and impossible architecture. Just *functional*. Concrete walls thirty feet high. Guard towers at intervals. Chem-strips that actually *worked*, glowing steady green instead of flickering.
Middle City. Lower tier.
*Prulla. Home to affordable academies—the kind where you could buy degrees if you had the money and connections. Blacksmiths who made tools and weapons for people who couldn't afford Upper City craftsmanship. Workers. Merchants. People one bad month away from the Dredge but who could still pretend they weren't.*
Safety.
Maybe.
"Is that where we're going?" Ellaya asked.
"Yeah."
"Is your father there?"
"I hope so."
They started down the slope toward the citadel gates. Toward walls that kept Torrent-born out. Toward a place that might—*might*—be better than what they'd left behind.
The gates grew larger. More defined. Sable could see guards now. Armored. Armed. Standing at checkpoints.
Not Blackwater. Local security. Less trained. Less dangerous.
But still a barrier.
Ellaya's hand squeezed his.
"Sable?"
"Yeah?"
Silence. Then, quietly:
"I refuse to be eaten too."
Sable stopped. Looked down at her.
Her brown eyes were hard. Not crying. Not frightened. Just *certain*.
"My mother died because she was weak," Ellaya said. Her voice didn't shake. "She couldn't protect herself. Couldn't protect me."
She looked up at him.
"Sable.. when you killed my bodyguards that tried to harm me, I was scared. Scared at you." Ellaya's voice was small. Shaking.
Sable remained silent.
"But then you took care of me, gave me food, and saved me again."
"But when I saw you killing the woman knight, you got the same face when you saved me from Roland. It felt wrong to me sable." Ellaya's voice, now shaking.
"Is that being strong sable?" Ellaya's questions landed hard.
Sable remained silent
"Yes." Sable replied. Cold and final.
"I'm going to be as strong as you."
Sable stared at her. At this seven-year-old child who'd just watched him execute someone. Who'd seen him write in blood. Who'd absorbed his lesson about strength and weakness like gospel.
*This is what I'm teaching her.*
*This is what she's becoming.*
He should feel guilty. Should feel *something*.
He felt nothing.
Just looked at Ellaya. At the resolve in her face. At the way she'd decided the world worked and what she needed to be to survive it.
"Good," he said.
And kept walking toward Prulla.
Toward whatever came next.
In his pocket, Second chirped softly. Content. Fed. Safe.
Still Second.
Still theirs.
Still *wrong* in ways Sable was only beginning to understand.
Behind them, the Dredge smoldered. Flooded. Dying.
Ahead, the gates of Prulla waited.
And somewhere—in a sterile white room in Pentec Citadel—someone would soon discover that Rheena Varthon wasn't coming home.
That the Sinner had been there.
That everything was about to change.
-----