The light outside the attic window thinned as another day drew to a close, and no one in the Shrouded district bothered to look up.
Far above, fragments of debris drifted across the darkening sky, briefly catching the last traces of light before fading again. Evening patrols were already moving through the streets, boots striking stone in steady rhythms that carried easily through the narrow alleys.
A boy watched through the gaps between the rough wooden bars of the attic window.
He sat with his knees drawn close to his chest, his thin frame folded neatly into the space the attic allowed. His dark hair had grown longer than it should have and had slipped loose from the tie at the back of his head, falling across his eyes. He left it that way. It helped him blend into the shadow.
One hand rested against the wood, fingers long enough to fit easily between the bars. The gaps were wide enough to see through. When the floor creaked faintly beneath his heel, he shifted his weight back at once and went still.
Outside, the light faded further.
He listened and began counting in his head.
One.
Two.
Three.
Boots reached him through the floorboards before he reached four. The sound was familiar enough that he stopped counting. A moment later, the latch below turned.
His mother entered house without pause. She set her bag down and slipped off her boots. Her shoulders lowered slightly once the door closed, though she didn't look up.
From the kitchen came the dull, steady sounds of work. Vegetables striking iron. Water boiling. His father was already there.
The smell followed a moment later. Cooked potato. Bitter. His nose twitched before he realized it had. He didn't like it. They had eaten the same thing two days ago. He remembered because it had burned then, and today it didn't.
No one called his name, so he kept watching the street.
Two patrolmen slowed at the corner outside. The same pair as yesterday. They lingered longer this time, ten seconds longer before moving on. He tracked them without shifting. Somewhere beyond the Shrouded district, a siren rose and cut off halfway through its call.
Below, his mother moved into the kitchen.
The iron pan was already warming. His father stood with his shoulders squared toward the stove, hair falling into his eyes as he worked.
She lowered her voice.
"Did it happen?"
The words carried easily through the floorboards.
His father didn't answer at once. His attention stayed on the boiling water.
"No," he said finally. "Not yet."
A pause followed.
"He's eleven," his mother said.
"I know," he replied. There was strain beneath the calm now. "Some cores take longer. You've seen it."
"And some never fill."
In the attic, he remained still. They spoke quietly, as if distance mattered. As if sound had ever failed to reach him.
"He's different," his father said.
She snorted softly. "A twelve month pregnancy doesn't make someone special."
"You know that's not what I mean."
He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. They looked at each other, something unspoken passing between them.
"High-grade cores take time," he said at last.
"They do," she agreed too quickly.
Silence settled between them.
"I've planned something," his father continued. "I'll talk to Garron."
Her eyes narrowed. "But—"
"That's the only way," he said, firm now.
She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.
Above them, the name sent a dull ache blooming behind the boys eyes. He stayed quiet, listening.
A moment later, his mother raised her voice slightly.
"Ivor."
He waited a breath longer, then climbed down.
The table was already set. His father divided the food evenly, then hesitated before nudging a little more toward Ivor's bowl. His mother handed him a cup of water, her fingers brushing his wrist.
"Eat," she said. "While it's warm."
He nodded and did.
They didn't speak as he ate, but he felt their attention on him, heavy with worry they didn't voice.
His father finished first and leaned back, studying him.
"You don't need to come with me tonight," he said lightly. "I'll be late. You can stay in and practice."
Ivor paused, cup halfway to his mouth.
"Just tonight," his father added. "I'll be back before you know it."
Ivor took a small sip and nodded without looking up.
His parents exchanged a glance.
His father stood and rested a hand briefly on Ivor's shoulder before pulling on his coat.
"Don't wait up."
The door closed behind him.
Ivor and his mother continued eating in silence. The room felt smaller without his father there.
Garron.
The name lingered.
Some names didn't need explanations. They came with pauses. With looks. With warnings that never quite became words.
This was one of them.
Ivor lowered his spoon and stared into his bowl. The familiar pressure behind his eyes tightened, sharp and steady. His breathing slowed as his focus narrowed.
He pushed the bowl away and stood. His chair scraped softly.
"Ivor."
He paused at the ladder.
"Going to sleep?" his mother asked.
He nodded.
"Don't stay up too late."
He didn't answer.
The ladder creaked as he climbed back into the attic. The space closed around him again—wood, shadow, and the narrow window overlooking the street.
He lay down on the thin mattress and stared at the roof. The pressure behind his eyes continuously tugged at him.
He tried to slow his breathing.
The pressure behind his eyes tightened instead.
He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes.
It didn't ease.
He rolled onto his side and focused on his heartbeat.
Still nothing.
Slowly, he sat up and moved to the corner of the attic. One board in the roof didn't sit right. He pressed against it, and it shifted.
Cold night air spilled in.
There was just enough space for a lean body to slip through.
Ivor pulled himself onto the roof and stayed low. The houses below lay quiet.
As he turned east, toward the direction his father had gone, the pressure behind his eyes eased, just a little.