The hush that follows great danger is never calm. It feels like the world is holding its breath, waiting to scream again.
I limp through the maze of alleys behind Maiden Bridge, ribs sore, legs wobbling. Every few steps I glance down. The mud shows no prints where my feet should be. The Null Overtone—that odd power that lets me live inside gaps and zeroes—still clings to me like a second skin.
Good for hiding.
Bad for feeling human.
Far behind, Brack Morrow's angry roars echo along the river. He'll heal. He'll remember. Worse, he'll talk. If the Concord of Twelve learns a nameless rat triggered a Null-Well without permission, they'll come hunting. The Concord hates loose ends almost as much as it hates loose laws.
I need somewhere quiet, a roof, food—maybe a plan that isn't "keep panicking."
The alley widens at Cantor's Fork, where crooked houses lean together like gossiping grandmothers. A cracked sign swings overhead: "Quill & Candle—Books Bought, Lost, or Found." Its windows are dark; its door, half open. I slip inside.
Dusty lanterns hang from ceiling beams. Rows of bent-spine books bivouac across wooden tables. A single candle burns at the counter, its flame steady in the stale air.
Behind that flame stands Tamsin Quill—thin, sharp-eyed, and dressed in a coat two sizes too big. She looks about nineteen, though the heavy ink stains on her cuffs make her seem older in the way librarians often do. A brass key dangles from her neck.
Her gaze flicks to the dirt on my clothes, then to the chalk smudges on my fingers, and finally to the faint shimmer that dances around my ankles every time I take a step.
"You've touched a Null-Well." Her voice is soft, matter-of-fact, like someone labeling specimens on a shelf. "And lived."
I freeze. "I—borrowed some chalk," I say, unsure why honesty feels safer than lies here. "The Well borrowed me back."
"That is not how borrowing works." She snuffs the candle with a brass lid, then motions me closer. "Before anyone follows you, sit."
I sit on a stool that creaks like it might volunteer for firewood. Tamsin pulls out a pocket glass and inspects the air around me. Where the glass lens passes, tiny pinpoint stars blink in and out—specks of nothing made visible.
"Overtone resonance," she mutters. "Your body's partly in the blank spaces of the world. Fascinating."
"Hurts, too," I say. My voice sounds thin. Now that the chase is over, exhaustion pounds behind my eyes.
Tamsin fishes a jar of gray powder from under the counter. "River salt and quietstone dust," she explains, sprinkling a ring around my stool. "Quietstone grounds Null energy. Sit still five minutes and the worst vertigo will fade."
I do as told. Warmth tingles up my legs, and the dizzy pull of everywhere-at-once ebbs to an uncomfortable buzz.
Tamsin returns with a chipped mug of broth. "Drink. And start at the beginning. Use small words."
So I tell her. I keep it simple:
I'm nameless.
I mapped crossing lines of power under Maiden Bridge.
A tram spark lit my chalk.
The Spectral Interface asked for a Riddle—my self-made rule.
I chose Undefined because rules felt like shackles.
Things exploded. Brack swung. I survived.
Tamsin listens without interrupting. When I finish, she takes a chalk stub from her pocket and writes on the counter:
Power = Mass ÷ Constraint
Under Mass she writes "0 (yours)". Under Constraint she writes "Undefined". Then she draws a big question mark.
"Division by 'undefined' isn't math," she says. "It's a loophole. The Interface shoved you sideways into the cracks of the world. Clever, but unstable."
"I noticed." My stomach cramps. The broth helps, but hunger is a hole bigger than Null.
She wipes the board. "You need an Anchor—something real to tie your nothingness down. A name would do."
"Names cost money. City registrar charges five louds."
"I'm a librarian." She opens a huge registry book, brittle pages yellow as last year's leaves. "We name stray tomes for free. Why not stray boys?"
My heart stutters. A name. A first brick in the wall of being real.
Tamsin taps a quill against her teeth. "Something that reminds you you're more than zero. Suggestions?"
I think of chalk circles, of empty pockets, of the promise I made: solve the impossible fraction.
"Call me Cipher," I say slowly. "Means a zero, but also a code waiting to be solved."
Tamsin smiles. "Poetic and practical." She writes Cipher in the ledger's margin, then, in neat legal script:
I, Tamsin Quill, grant provisional name 'Cipher' to the bearer of this entry, pending city confirmation.
A swirl of ink seals itself like a tiny wax stamp. The book shivers. Magic—minor, but binding. My chest tightens, as if invisible threads pull together around a new center.
The Interface hums in my head:
Anchor detected: Name (Cipher).
Paradox Risk reduced to 20 %.
I exhale. The room seems firmer, colors sharper. My feet leave faint prints in the dust over the quietstone ring. Proof of existence.
Suddenly—
Footsteps slap the street outside. A voice barks orders—Brack, already spreading news. "Null-rat went this way! Find the Quill bookshop!"
Tamsin grimaces. "He works fast."
Doors slam open up the road; iron-shod boots march. Concord wardens wear bright white gloves that glow when they sense illegal power. They'll light up like lanterns the moment they smell the Null-Well residue on me.
Tamsin pulls a lever behind the counter. Bookshelves grind aside, revealing a narrow stair spiraling down.
"Basement escape," she says. "Old smugglers' path links half the district."
She hands me a small satchel—bread, dried kale, a vial of quietstone sand. "Sprinkle if the Overtone flares. And stay simple. The less you stretch reality, the longer your Anchor holds."
I clutch the satchel. "Why help me?"
She shrugs. "The Concord burns books it can't catalogue. You're a living footnote to a rule they say is impossible. That makes you a story worth saving." She presses the brass key into my palm. "Return when safe. There's a price on knowledge, but the first chapter's free."
Shouts get closer. White-gloved silhouettes move past the frosted front windows.
"Go," Tamsin urges.
Inside..
The stair descends into damp dark. I count steps—thirty-three—then crawl through a stone arch into tunnels stuffed with crates. The air tastes of old apples and mildew. Rats scurry but keep their distance; perhaps they sense the Null hum around me.
I move at a crouch until voices fade. When sure I'm alone, I sit, tear bread, and feed my stomach slow. The quietstone vial sits warm in the satchel, a comfort.
Now there is time to think.
Goal one: Stay alive tonight.Goal two: Understand the Overtone without tearing myself apart.Goal three: Keep promise—solve the impossible fraction.
Each goal feels huge, but breaking them into numbers helps:
Shelter.
Teacher.
Test.
Shelter first. I know one place wardens fear to patrol after midnight: the Clockwork Graveyard, a junk field of broken automata where latent sparks often misfire. Null residue might hide among static ghost-charges.
Teacher second. Tamsin knows much but said "return when safe." Until then, I need someone else—maybe the old ironmonger rumored to repair illegal Flux engines.
Test third. Small experiments: Can I step into a crack without getting dizzy? Can I borrow a spark without collapsing?
I flex my fingers. Tiny specks of darkness gather between them—little zeroes drawn to their new master. Or maybe I'm drawn to them.
"Easy," I whisper, like calming a twitchy dog. The specks wink out. Good sign.
First Experiment
A crate lid beside me has a missing knothole. Wood, then a circle of nothing. I focus on that gap.
Rule: Anchor is name. Name is Cipher. Cipher means code, not chaos.
I imagine myself as a single character disappearing into the blank of a page. The edges of the knothole blur, widen, inviting.
I step.
For a heartbeat the world reverses: full becomes empty, empty becomes path. I'm inside the wood, but also inside the air inside the wood—a bead of self rolling between fibers.
Then I'm out the other side, standing in ankle-deep dust. Head rush, but no nausea. Better control.
I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. "Cipher walks through holes," I whisper. Simple words, simple trick—but a miracle for a street urchin who started the night nameless.
But I can't play for long—
I follow tunnel arrows painted in faded glow-ink. After a quarter hour I reach a ladder and climb into an alley behind the clock tower district. Bronze gears taller than houses lie stacked like giant bones. Lightning jars—glass canisters that once powered tram engines—spark faintly under the moon.
Safe enough.
Wind tugs my hair. Dawn is still hours off, but the eastern sky lightens. I curl inside a hollow gear, wrap arms around knees, and pull the satchel close.
Before sleep claims me, the Interface whispers one last line:
Daily Flux cycle resets in 04:12:08.
Recommended task: Define secondary Riddle to stabilize Flux.
I mumble, "Tomorrow. One puzzle at a time."
The Overtone hushes. The gear's iron smell is comforting, like warm bread but metallic. For the first night in years I feel less like a ghost and more like someone with a future.
Someone with a name.
***
Not far away, hidden behind torn canvas, Brack Morrow presses a rag to his broken nose and glares at the glowing bootprints he finally tracked into the Graveyard. Behind him, Concord wardens argue whether it's safe to follow.
Brack spits blood. "Safe? Nothing about that rat is safe. He's worth more than your salaries combined."
He lifts a new war-pick crackling with fresh Pulse-charge and steps forward.
The gear where I sleep gives a soft metallic sigh, as if warning me—Wake before the world takes your name back.