Michael limped through the muddy alleyways of Emberglass's Lower Ring, the blood caking his shoulder mixing with the filth beneath his feet. Each step was a war between pride and pain. His encounter with the obsidian-armored assassin haunted his thoughts—the precision, the power, the way it ended without explanation. A warning, or a promise?
He didn't know. But he wasn't dead. That had to mean something.
Behind him, the streets chattered with life. Not the vibrant bustle of the upper city, but the wheezing breath of survival—merchants shouting over rotting goods, children stealing from stalls, and Dregs shoving each other for scraps of roasted bone. Magic didn't touch this part of Emberglass. Not unless it was to burn it down.
"Over here," Maera whispered, pulling back the threadbare curtain to a cellar beneath an abandoned tailor's shop. She was older, scarred, and walked with a limp—but her eyes burned with something Michael recognized now: defiance.
He ducked inside, nearly collapsing against the wall.
"You're lucky that armor-clad freak didn't gut you." Torren's voice came from a dark corner. He stepped forward, hands wrapped in binding glyphs that no longer glowed. His core had been shattered—Michael could feel it in the dead weight of his presence. But his spirit hadn't dimmed.
"I don't know what that thing was," Michael muttered, sliding to the floor, "but it wasn't a regular mage."
Torren knelt beside him. "That was a Writ-Knight. One of the Black Veil. You met one and lived. That's… not supposed to happen."
"I'm getting used to things I'm not supposed to survive."
Torren barked a laugh, but there was no joy in it. "That blade of yours… it's going to paint a target on your back the size of a spire. The Arcanum doesn't allow wildcards, especially not in the Dreg slums."
Michael looked down at the blade, resting coldly beside him. It hadn't spoken again since the fight. But it pulsed faintly now, like a heartbeat waiting for a reason to awaken.
"I don't care who they are. If they come for me again… they'd better finish the job."
Maera stepped closer. "Then you'll need more than a sword. You'll need allies. And a cause."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "What are you offering?"
"Rebellion," she said simply. "The Chainborn need a symbol. You're rough, untrained, and one breath away from bleeding out—but you're the first person we've seen stand against a mage and win. You carry the weight of the old myths, Michael. You may not be Bladebound by choice—but you are now by consequence."
Michael didn't answer immediately. His body ached. His mind burned. The sword beside him, though silent, felt heavy with expectation.
He wasn't ready. Not really.
But when had that ever mattered?
Later that night...
Smoke curled into the sky from rooftop chimneys, casting flickering shadows across the clay-brick slums. Michael stood on a balcony overlooking the market ruins, Kaela at his side. She had returned from the upper rings disguised, her face covered by an ash veil.
"You're drawing attention," she said. "The Serpents of Glass want your head for killing that wolf in their territory. The Arcanum wants your head for simply existing. And now the Black Veil has seen you fight."
Michael didn't respond.
"You should run."
"I can't," he said quietly. "If I run, someone else takes my place. Another Dreg gets cut down in the street. Another child watches their parent die because they can't pay a mage's tax."
Kaela studied him, then sighed. "Then train. Fast. Because they're coming."
[Blade Resonance: 8% → 12%]
[New Trait Available: Adaptive Flow – Learn minor movements by surviving them once.]
Michael blinked. His sword flickered with pale light. He clenched the hilt.
"Then let them come."