# Chapter 20: The Shadow of the Wastes
The predatory purr of Jex's voice hung in the alley's fetid air, a promise of violence wrapped in a veneer of civility. Soren's exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp focus that had kept him alive in the ruins of caravans and the brutality of the Ladder's lower rungs. He saw the shift in Jex's posture, the subtle way his weight settled onto the balls of his feet. He saw the two other figures melting from the deeper shadows, flanking the narrow exit. They were drifters, Ladder fighters who'd fallen too far, their eyes hollowed out by too many losses and too much Cinder. They were Jex's wolves.
"A finder's fee," Soren repeated, his own voice a low rasp. He didn't move, his hands hanging loose at his sides. He was assessing, calculating. He had no weapon, no armor, and barely enough energy to stand, let alone fight. But he had his Gift, a volatile ember banked deep within him. Using it here, in this confined space, would be a last resort. The backlash would be immense, and the attention it would draw could be fatal.
Jex grinned, a flash of white in the gloom. "Smart man. You see the situation. Information is a commodity, and the woman you're looking for… she's high-grade merchandise. My fee isn't cheap. Let's say… half of whatever Marr is paying you. And a little something for my boys here, for their trouble."
Soren's mind raced. He had nothing. Not a single copper crown. The only thing of value he possessed was the knowledge Marr wanted, and the very fact that he was seeking it. Jex wasn't offering a service; he was running a shakedown. He'd take the information, extort Soren, and then likely sell the same information to Marr, or to the Synod, or to whoever else paid the price. It was the drifter's way: prey on the weak, carve off a piece of their struggle, and move on.
"I don't have any money," Soren said, the truth a bitter taste in his mouth. "Not yet."
Jex's smile didn't falter, but the warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a flat, predatory emptiness. "Oh, I know. That's what makes this so interesting. You see, I'm an investor. I see potential. You're a fallen star, Soren Vale. A man with a powerful Gift and a famous name. That has value. So, we'll work out a payment plan. You'll work for me. A few unsanctioned matches. A few… persuasive conversations. You pay off your debt with your fists. It's the Ladder way, isn't it?"
The offer was a cage. To fight for Jex would be to become a ghost, a tool for a gangster, his name and reputation dragged through the mud even further. It would be a death sentence, a slower one than the labor pits, but a death sentence nonetheless. He would never see his family again.
"No," Soren said, the single word cutting through the alley's tension.
The two drifters moved, their steps silent on the grimy cobblestones. One was tall and whip-thin, wielding a length of rusty chain. The other was broad and squat, his knuckles wrapped in leather studded with metal shards. They closed the distance, boxing him in. The air grew thick with the scent of stale sweat and cheap iron.
Jex sighed theatrically. "A shame. I really did think you were smarter than this. Boys, let's convince him. Break a few bones. Nothing vital. We need him able to work."
The chain-wielder struck first, the metal singing through the air as it whipped toward Soren's head. There was no time for thought, only instinct. Soren dropped low, the chain whistling inches above his scalp, and kicked out, sweeping the man's legs from under him. The drifter went down with a surprised grunt. The second man was already on him, a ham-sized fist swinging in a wide arc. Soren twisted inside the punch, the wind of it ruffling his hair, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. A sickening crunch, and the brute staggered back, gagging for air.
It was a temporary reprieve. He was strong, but he was exhausted and outnumbered. The first man was already scrambling to his feet, his face a mask of fury. Jex himself was drawing a long, thin dagger, its edge glinting in the faint light from the street. They would overwhelm him. He needed an edge. He needed a miracle.
Or he needed a memory.
A name surfaced from the depths of his past, a relic from a time before the Ladder, before his family's debt. A name from the caravan routes, whispered by scouts and smugglers who skirted the edges of the world. Kestrel Vane. A scavenger who knew the wastes better than anyone, a man who dealt in things that couldn't be bought in any market. Secrets. Charms. And, if the rumors were true, remedies.
Soren feinted toward the alley's entrance, drawing the attention of the chain-wielder. As the man lunged, Soren pivoted and slammed his shoulder into the brick wall. Pain lanced through his side, but it was a necessary price. He poured a sliver of his will into the bricks, not a full-blown use of his Gift, but a faint, desperate nudge. Cinder-Heart responded, a hot surge of energy that made his tattoos flare with a dull, angry red. The mortar groaned. A shower of dust and pebbles rained down. It wasn't much, but it was a distraction.
The drifter flinched, shielding his eyes. That was the opening Soren needed. He didn't engage. He ran. He sprinted past the recovering brute and toward the dead end of the alley. Jex shouted in fury. Soren leaped, his foot finding purchase on a stack of rotting crates, then a windowsill, and finally, he caught the edge of the low roof. He hauled himself up, his muscles screaming in protest, the Cinder Cost already beginning its familiar, gnawing ache in his bones.
He didn't look back. He scrambled across the slick tiles, the sounds of Jex's furious curses fading behind him. He dropped down into another alley, then another, a rat in a maze of his own making, until the city's cacophony was a distant roar and his own ragged breaths were the only sound he could hear. He leaned against a cold stone wall, sliding to the ground as a wave of dizziness washed over him. The small use of his Gift had cost him more than it should have. He was weaker than he'd ever been.
But he was free. And he had a destination.
The city walls were a colossal undertaking of stone and iron, a barrier against the grey desolation of the Bloom-Wastes. By the time Soren reached the outer districts, the sky was beginning to lighten, the perpetual twilight of the city giving way to a pale, washed-out dawn. The air here was different, cleaner, but with a sharp, mineral tang that spoke of the ash beyond the walls. The buildings were more ramshackle, built from scavenged materials and patched with whatever was at hand. This was the edge of the world, the place where the city's refuse—both material and human—washed up.
He found Kestrel Vane in a small, cluttered shop tucked between a tannery and a chandler. The sign above the door was a simple, weathered carving of a bird of prey. The smell inside was a complex assault on the senses: dried herbs, chemical sharpness, old paper, and the faint, unmistakable scent of grave dust. Kestrel himself was a wiry man with skin like tanned leather and eyes that held a restless, predatory intelligence. He was sorting through a tray of metal fragments, his movements quick and precise.
"Looking for something, or just admiring the decor?" Kestrel asked without looking up. His voice was like gravel grinding together.
"Kestrel Vane?" Soren's voice was hoarse.
The man finally looked up, his gaze sharp and appraising. He took in Soren's disheveled state, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint but still visible glow of the Cinder-Tattoos on his arms. A flicker of recognition, or perhaps just professional assessment, crossed his face. "I've had that name a long time. Most people who come looking for me are desperate. You look like you've outrun desperation and are now being chased by its bigger, angrier brother."
Soren stepped closer, laying his hands on the counter. "I need a guide. Into the wastes."
Kestrel snorted, a short, sharp sound. He picked up a twisted piece of metal and held it to the light. "No one goes into the wastes. Not unless they're trying to die, or trying to forget how to live. The price for a trip like that is more than you can pay, Ladder man."
"I can pay," Soren said, though he had no idea how. "I have skills."
"Your skills are a liability out there," Kestrel countered, setting the metal down. "The Bloom doesn't like your kind. It gets… agitated. Your Gift will be a beacon, drawing things you don't want to meet. So, no. I don't take suicide jobs. Find another fool."
He turned to go back to his work, dismissing Soren. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at Soren's throat. This was his only chance. He couldn't go back to Jex. He couldn't face Marr empty-handed. He had to get stronger, to find some way to fight back.
"I'm not looking for a charm or a weapon," Soren said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm looking for a flower. The Ash-Bloom. I've heard the rumors."
Kestrel froze. His hand, hovering over the tray of scraps, stopped dead. He slowly turned his head, his eyes narrowing. The casual, dismissive merchant was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous. "That's a dangerous rumor to be chasing. The kind that gets people killed for even whispering it."
"But it's true, isn't it?" Soren pressed, leaning forward. "They say it grows in the deepest parts of the wastes, where the Bloom is strongest. They say it can… soothe the fire. Temporarily."
Kestrel stared at him for a long, silent moment. The shop seemed to hold its breath. "The Cinder Cost is a penance, not a sickness," he said, his voice low and serious. "Trying to cheat it is like trying to cheat the sun. You'll get burned."
"I'm already burning," Soren whispered, the admission torn from him. "I can't fight like this. I can't… I can't lose." He thought of his mother's tired face, of his brother's forced smile. He thought of Rook Marr's cold, calculating eyes. "I'll pay anything. Name your price."
Kestrel's gaze drifted to Soren's forearms, to the dark, swirling patterns of his tattoos. He saw the exhaustion etched into Soren's face, the raw desperation in his eyes. He was looking at a man standing at the edge of a precipice. A sigh escaped the scavenger's lips, a sound of profound weariness.
"Anything," he mused. "A fool's word, but a powerful one. The price for a trip to the Ash-Bloom fields isn't coin. It's risk. My risk, and yours. If I take you, and we get back, you owe me a favor. A big one. Unquestioned. You do something for me, someday, no questions asked. That's the price."
It was a devil's bargain. To be indebted to a man like Kestrel Vane was to be on a leash of a different kind. But it was a leash that might lead him back to his family. It was a chance.
"Done," Soren said, without hesitation.
Kestrel gave a grim nod. "Meet me at the Western Gate in an hour. And wear something you don't mind being ruined by ash and regret. The wastes don't just take your body. They take your memories. Be sure what you're fighting for is still in there when you come back out."
An hour later, Soren stood at the base of the Western Gate, a colossal structure of rusted iron and grey stone that scarred the city's perimeter. The air here was cold, carrying the sterile, lifeless scent of the Bloom-Wastes. A few guards watched him with bored indifference, used to the strange comings and goings of the fringe dwellers. Kestrel arrived as promised, clad in a long, patched duster and carrying a pack made from some kind of scaled hide. He tossed a bundle to Soren.
"Put this on," he ordered.
Soren unfolded it. It was a heavy coat, similar to Kestrel's, and a set of goggles with thick, darkened lenses. The last item in the bundle was a respirator, a simple but effective-looking device of leather and metal filters.
"The air is poison," Kestrel explained, strapping his own respirator over his face. His voice became muffled, mechanical. "It gets in your lungs, your blood, your mind. The goggles are for the dust storms. They'll flay the skin off your bones if you're caught in one without protection."
Soren followed his lead, the world shrinking to the small, distorted view through the goggles and the sound of his own breathing amplified in his ears. The great gate groaned open, revealing a world of monochrome horror. The Bloom-Wastes stretched to the horizon, a vast, dead plain of grey dust and skeletal ruins. The sky was a colourless, oppressive dome, and a fine, powdery ash drifted down like a ceaseless, mournful snow. The silence was absolute, a profound emptiness that pressed in on him, heavier than any stone.
Kestrel stepped over the threshold, his boots sinking into the fine grey dust. He paused, looking back at Soren. The scavenger's eyes were hidden behind his goggles, but his posture was taut, coiled. He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small, smooth stone that glowed with a faint, internal light. He held it out. The light pulsed, pushing back the oppressive grey by a few feet.
"This way," Kestrel's muffled voice said. "Stay close. Don't touch anything. And whatever you do, don't think about the past too hard. The wastes… they listen."
Soren took a deep breath from the respirator, the filtered air cold and sterile. He stepped over the threshold, leaving the city, the Ladder, and everything he knew behind. The shadow of the wastes fell over him, cold and absolute. He was walking into a graveyard, chasing a ghost of a cure, with only a scavenger's warning echoing in his mind.