The aftermath of the Silent Ravens' probe had left marks deeper than shattered glass or spilled frost. The city, vast and layered like a labyrinth of chrome arteries and rusted bones, responded to rumor like a body to infection. Word of a child alchemist in the slums, too young, too strong, to fit the expected charts of talent and power, had spread—not as an announcement, but as a hum beneath the streets.
Vendors in the lower markets sold with one eye on their scales and the other on the sky. Grav-cabs avoided the eastern lanes where black-feather drones had been sighted. Smugglers in the docks chewed bitter gum, whispering about new tariffs the Guild might slap on independent haulers if they couldn't keep the Ash Rats contained.
The Ash Rats themselves were restless. Their loss still stung, and worse, it made them look like fools. They'd sworn revenge, but no oath could erase the humiliation of seeing one child dismantle their grip. Their leaders hissed in back-alleys, planning raids to restore face, yet all their talk circled the same new obstacle—that boy. Some spat the name like a curse. Others wouldn't say it at all.
Far above, the Spire flickered with new calculations. Merchant Consortium ledgers updated quietly, adding speculative entries marked only with question-marks and red glyphs. The Guild dispatched silent envoys into the lower districts, hands hidden, eyes bright. They wanted certainty, leverage, anything to anchor what was rapidly becoming unstable rumor.
In the undercurrent of all this, whispers grew louder about talent rankings. Comparisons spread like fire among the common folk—what level is the boy ?, what rank is his talent? S? SS? That line of thought made men shift uneasily, because a child with a talent even one tier higher than their own nullified decades of work. Rank mattered more than numbers. A B-rank at Level 20 could crush a C-rank twice their level. Everyone knew this. Everyone feared the math.
And so they recalculated Jade without even knowing him. They turned him into ledgers and multipliers, a variable that broke their comfort. The streets carried it, and the Ravens sharpened it into a blade.
Rumor was ash, but ash carried sparks.
In taverns, mercenaries clinked mugs and muttered about contracts that might pay double if they survived "the boy." Some swore he was no child at all, but a Spire experiment slipped loose. Others said he was a fraud, smoke and mirrors hiding a guild-trained killer. A few—too few—spoke softer, suggesting he might just be a child, and that thought was usually laughed down. Nexus did not allow innocence to exist long enough to be real.
In the slums, where alleys twined like veins of rust, the air grew heavier. People bolted doors earlier. Candles were lit but curtains drawn. A new pattern of footfalls haunted the rooftops, too deliberate to be drunkards, too silent to be thieves. Everyone pretended not to notice. Pretending was survival.
And across the city's systems, the Ravens moved. Not with open blades this time, but with whispers and signals, testing every net that could catch a boy who should not exist. Their feathers drifted on currents of shadow, slipping through vents, perching on windowsills. They gathered data, marked movements, and when they returned to their masters, they carried only one message: He has not broken yet.
The city took that silence and spun it into dread.
....
Inside the shop, silence had weight.
The frost had long since melted, but the memory of the Ravens' intrusion lingered in every corner. Shuttered windows hummed faintly from Gorvoth's coils, a jury-rigged lattice meant to mute scanners and confuse drones. The floorboards still bore cracks where Jade's aura had bled raw.
Niamh hovered, her hands busy with nothing—straightening jars, folding cloth, then unfolding it again. She was a fortress of motion, brittle and trembling. Her rank might be F, her fists no match for assassins, but she had raised Jade in a world that ate weakness. Her instinct was to shield, to smother danger with presence alone.
"Those men… those shadows…" she finally muttered, half to herself. "How long before they come back? Before someone stronger decides they want you cut open on a table?" Her voice cracked, the edges lined with the old fear she carried from the day she found him discarded like trash.
Jade sat on the counter, blindfold in place, long silvery-blue hair spilling around his shoulders. He said nothing at first. His aura curled inward, pulled tight so the room barely felt it. To anyone else, he might have looked like a child lost in thought. But his dual irises burned quietly beneath the cloth, reading deeper currents than sound or sight allowed.
"They already have," he said at last. His voice was calm, far too calm for a boy his age. "Every probe, every rumor—they're preparing. But so am I."
Niamh turned sharply, her hands clenching. "Preparing? You're seven. Seven, Jade. They don't care what you are, they'll cut you apart anyway. You shouldn't even—"
"Enough," Gorvoth cut in. His voice was gravel, steady as stone. He leaned against the wall, pipe unlit, arms folded across his broad chest. The lines around his eyes were hard, not from fear, but from recognition. "You've both seen the signs. The city's teeth are out. Whether the boy wants it or not, he's part of the game now."
Jade looked up at him, expression unreadable. Gorvoth held that gaze for a long moment before adding, "And the game doesn't forgive weakness."
Niamh's lips thinned, but she said nothing more. She sat heavily on a stool, hands wringing her apron.
The silence stretched, filled with the faint buzz of the coils and the occasional hum of a grav-car passing outside.
Jade broke it.
"The Ravens won't stop with probes. They'll escalate until they know everything. My strength. My limits. What I am. That's their method. They'll bleed me slowly if I let them." His voice lowered, cold threading the edges. "I won't let them."
A faint pulse rippled from him, barely restrained mana that raised the hairs on their arms. Frost kissed the edge of the counter. But darker than the frost was the flicker beneath—the quiet hum of void, like shadows waiting for permission to move. Gorvoth noticed, eyes narrowing, though he said nothing.
Jade closed his hands, forcing the aura inward again. "I'll train harder. Faster. The system won't let me be caught unprepared."
Niamh flinched at the word—system. She didn't know what he meant, not really, but she had heard him whisper it before. She didn't press. She never did.
Gorvoth finally pushed off the wall, picking up the satchel of dampeners he'd been mending. "Training is good. But don't mistake power for invulnerability. These aren't alley thugs. They're old hands. They'll use poison, tech, politics. Things frost and blades won't always cut through."
Jade tilted his head slightly, a strange, almost detached calm in the motion. "Then I'll learn to cut deeper."
The words left Niamh shaken, but Gorvoth's grim smile suggested he approved.
Outside, the city muttered like a beast in its sleep. Rumor burned, alliances shifted, and the Silent Ravens prepared their next strike.
Inside, in the dim warmth of the little shop, three people gathered their strength—one with frost and shadows, one with iron and old tricks, one with nothing but stubborn love.
For now, that was enough.