Dawn crept through the shutters like a thief, laying thin gray stripes across the warped floorboards.
Anthony stood at the door, fingers curled around the iron knob, the cold grounding him. Outside waited answers—alleys, rumors, the echo of last night's death that hadn't quite taken.
But impulse was sloppy.
Evidence came first.
He released the knob and turned back.
The bloodied shirt lay where he'd dropped it. He folded it with mechanical precision and set it aside. Rust-dark smears stained the floorboards—his blood, dried and brittle. He fetched the bucket from the corner, the water stale and filmed with dust, and tore a strip from an already-ruined rag.
He knelt and scrubbed.
Circle. Rinse. Again.
No wasted motion.
As he worked, he cataloged the wound. The puncture had closed further overnight, the skin pink and faintly warm beneath his fingers. No fever. No rot. Healing far too fast for a human body.
The bloodline's work.
Useful.
Dangerous.
If anyone saw—
They won't.
The stove squatted in the corner, iron belly cracked and cold. He fed it the rags, then the shirt. A spark, a twist of paper, and flame licked upward, devouring cloth and proof alike. Smoke curled briefly up the chimney before fading.
Only then did he tend himself.
He stripped to the waist before the cracked mirror. The body was lean, refined—nothing like Zhang Lu's soft, neglected frame. The wound sat just left of center, no wider than a soli coin. He pressed gently.
Tender. Shallow.
The spear had pierced his heart.
Yet here he stood.
Divine interference, then. Or a pathway trait magnified by forbidden blood.
Either way—leverage.
He washed the dried blood away, the basin clouding pink, then bound the wound with strips torn from an old sheet. Tight. Clean. Presentable.
A rustle came from the bed.
The blanket shifted. A small hand emerged, then a tousled head of white hair.
Liam blinked awake.
Then his eyes widened.
"Brother!"
The boy scrambled free of the blankets and crossed the room in a rush, colliding with Anthony's legs and clinging to him like a lifeline. Thin arms shook. Breath hitched.
"I—I thought you were dead," Liam choked. "You wouldn't wake. There was so much blood. I prayed all night. I didn't know what else to do—"
Anthony stiffened.
Physical contact felt… wrong. Alien. Zhang Lu had avoided it instinctively, and Anthony's own memories held only faint echoes of warmth.
Still, he let it happen.
For now.
"I dragged you to the bed," Liam went on, words muffled against cloth. "You're heavier than you look. I tried to stop the bleeding. I thought—"
Tears soaked into the bandage.
Anthony rested a hand on the boy's hair. Awkward. Measured.
Loyalty confirmed.
He guided Liam back and made him sit on the bed. "Enough," he said calmly. "I'm fine."
Liam scrubbed his eyes red. "But the blood—what happened?"
The lie slid into place without effort.
"Thugs," Anthony said. "Dockworkers. Drunk. Alley off Tussock Street. One got lucky before I scared them off."
"We should tell the police," Liam blurted. "Or a doctor—"
"No."
The word cut cleanly.
"Police don't patrol East Borough for people like us. Doctors cost money we don't have. And I'm healing." He tapped the bandage. "See?"
Liam hesitated, fear warring with relief. "What if they come back?"
Anthony met his eyes.
Internally, he focused.
The whispers rose—fragmented verses brushing the edge of thought. Shadows thickened at the corners of the room, subtle enough to escape notice. He murmured softly, words half-poem, half-prayer:
In night they struck, with borrowed nerve,
But night itself chose whom to serve…
Power flowed—gentle, precise.
He didn't dig deep. Just enough.
A memory settled into Liam's mind: Anthony standing tall in the alley, shadows coiling like living things, the attackers fleeing in blind terror.
Liam's eyes glazed for a heartbeat.
Then clarity returned.
"Oh," he breathed. "Yeah… you scared them. They ran. I remember."
Relief washed through him, shoulders loosening.
Anthony noted it clinically.
No resistance. Minimal cost. No backlash.
Child's mind—or bloodline resonance.
Either way, effective.
"Exactly," Anthony said. "Nothing to worry about."
Belief took root.
Good.
"Go," Anthony added, gathering the coins from the jar. "Bread from Mira's stall. Fresh water. Use the copper."
Liam was already moving. "I'll be quick!"
At the door, he hesitated. "You'll be okay?"
"I've been worse."
The boy nodded and vanished down the stairs.
Silence returned.
Anthony sat at the table, eyes drifting to the poems scattered across it. Original Anthony's handwriting—soft, yearning. Verses about night, mothers, protection.
Weakness.
But weakness had value.
Liam idolized his brother. Followed him without question. That devotion had kept them alive.
Now it could be shaped.
Loyal. Dependent. No power yet—but the same blood flowed in him. Potential.
Risk: emotion. Noise. Attachment.
Mitigation: guidance. Control. Rewards.
Family wasn't sentiment.
It was structure.
Liam returned with bread, salt meat, and fresh water, grinning with pride. "Mira gave extra. Said you looked sick yesterday."
They ate together. Sparse. Necessary.
Anthony praised the errand—briefly.
The effect was immediate.
As afternoon faded, Liam slept, exhaustion finally winning. Anthony stood by the window, watching Backlund breathe—laborers, carts, children darting through soot-gray streets. No watchers.
Not yet.
He slipped the dagger into his coat.
Decision settled.
Liam was worth investing in—for now.
The shadows deepened, stretching long across the room, as if listening.
Far away, in a black-stone castle overlooking the Tussock River, a woman stirred in uneasy sleep. The pendant at her throat pulsed once.
A warning.
She frowned, turning away from it.
Too soon to understand why.