The morning came soft and slow.
Brandon stirred awake to the faint crackle of a television downstairs and the rich smell of breakfast drifting through the air — bacon sizzling, butter melting over pancakes, and the faint sweetness of syrup mingling with grits and eggs. It was the kind of aroma that made getting up worth it.
He shuffled into the kitchen in a T-shirt and loose sweats, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His mom stood by the stove, spatula in hand, humming along to the morning news anchors chatting about weather and city events.
"Mornin', sleepyhead," she said, flipping a pancake. "I was about to send your father up there with the smoke alarm."
Brandon grinned, sliding into a chair. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would. Man's got a gift for yelling up staircases." She smiled and gestured toward the counter. "Go on, help yourself before your father eats all the bacon."
He didn't need telling twice. He piled his plate high with pancakes and bacon, the kind that cracked between his fingers.
As he ate, the TV in the background switched to a segment about the city's founding anniversary. The anchor's voice was cheerful, almost too cheerful for morning news.
"Tomorrow marks the four-hundredth anniversary of New Ashara's founding by the noble Velren family," she said. "Once known as protectors during the early flood eras, the Velrens helped rebuild the surviving coastlines into the city-state we know today. The commemorative gala will be hosted at the Central Bank Plaza — an institution originally funded by the family itself."
His mom glanced at the screen with a scoff. "Protectors, my foot. Velrens didn't rebuild anything — they owned everything from the start."
Brandon smirked. "You don't believe the stories?"
"Oh, I believe some," she said, lowering the stove heat. "Your great-grandfather used to say the Velrens never died out. Just stopped showing up in daylight. They say they built this city on more than steel and stone. Blood had a part in it, too."
Her tone was casual, but a faint unease touched her words.
Brandon chuckled, trying to shake off the chill creeping up his back. "You sound like those street preachers by Midport Station."
She shrugged. "Funny thing about preachers — sometimes their crazy sounds more like history than prophecy."
He finished his breakfast quietly, the drone of the newscast fading into talk about power outages downtown and another round of mysterious assaults near the piers.
By early afternoon, Brandon was at Tariq's apartment surrounded by screens and soda cans. Between the whir of fans and the hum of electronics, New Ashara's architectural pulse drifted in, steady and omnipresent.
Tariq quizzed him lazily. "Symmetric encryption — one key or two?"
"One," Brandon answered. "Asymmetric's public and private."
"Still showing off," Tariq muttered. "You dream in code, don't you?"
"Only on bad nights."
Their laughter filled the room, but when the lights flickered, humor faded to wary silence.
"You see that blackout last night?" Tariq asked, tapping the side of his monitor. "Happened again near the harbor. People swear they heard something big moving in the tunnels afterward. That's the third time this month."
Brandon frowned. "Yeah. I caught it on the district logs — same hour every time. Same grid zone, too."
"Maybe the Velrens are paying their electric bill in blood again," Tariq joked, but no one laughed.
From the couch, one of their friends snorted nervously. "You all hear the new rumor? That bank executives who work for the Velren Trust are pale because they only hold their meetings underground."
Lena, typing notes on her tablet, added, "And don't forget the 'moon syndicate' — the crime families tied to them. Half the city's behind their doors: politicians, cops, even priests."
"Nice bedtime story," Brandon said, but his voice lacked conviction.
The silence that followed said everything. New Ashara's myths were too old and too consistent to feel like stories anymore.
Saturday came bright but sharp-edged, and Brandon found himself in the garage with his father. The air smelled of oil and dust; sun slanted through the small window onto a decades-old workbench.
"Alright," his dad said, pointing a wrench. "Spark plug's loose again. Try it."
Brandon crouched down and examined the engine. "You sure this thing's not cursed?"
"That's quitter talk," his father grinned. "Old things only stop when they feel forgotten."
They worked in easy rhythm — wrenches turning, tools clinking — until his father broke the silence. "You've been quiet lately. Rough week, or the city getting heavy again?"
Brandon wiped his hands on a rag. "Both, maybe. Feels like everyone's running on edge. Blackouts, rumors, weird news… even Maya mentioned seeing golden lightning over the bay last night."
His dad stilled for a heartbeat. "Golden lightning, huh? Haven't heard anyone talk about that since I was a kid. Folks used to claim it was the Velrens watching from the towers — their sign before taking someone important."
Brandon froze. "That a legend or a warning?"
His father smiled faintly. "In this city? Both."
They got the mower running soon after, sputtering proudly to life. Brandon felt the weight in his chest ease slightly — the kind of satisfaction that came from fixing something tangible in a world full of unseen problems.
Later that week, he visited his brother's apartment for his nephew's first birthday. Streamers and balloons crowded the living room. The air smelled of cake and frosting, and the sound of a toddler's laughter filled the space like sunlight.
"Man, you spoil this kid," his brother teased, watching Brandon assemble a miniature race track.
"He deserves a head start," Brandon said, smiling.
His sister-in-law appeared with the baby on her hip. "And it's good for you to have someone to spoil, mister workaholic."
Brandon laughed, adjusting a toy car on the track. "Consider it my weekend therapy."
As the day wound down, his brother joined him out on the balcony. The night was alive — neon light tangled with mist, and the hum of the city rose like a quiet, endless heartbeat.
"You doing alright?" his brother asked.
"Yea... I'm doing alright. Mostly. Just tired."
"Seems like everyone's tired lately," his brother said, eyes distant.
" Well, when you live in a city that never sleeps you stay up with it"
His brother chuckled snorted. HE then sat next to Brandon and sighed
"Mom's been saying you've had weird dreams again."
Brandon didn't answer. His gaze wandered across the skyline, where the tallest spires of New Ashara shimmered faintly gold before fading back to white.
His brother exhaled slowly. "You know, Grandpa used to tell us a story. About how the Velrens didn't just build this place — they fed it. Said the first lights that shone across the harbor weren't electric. They burned red. That's why this city never sleeps — it can't. It's hungry."
Brandon looked at him, half laughing, half uneasy. "You sound like Mom."
"Yeah," his brother said quietly. "But she's never been wrong about what's real in this town."
Below them, the streetlights flickered like candle flames. Somewhere, lightning crawled across the horizon — not white, but gold.
When Brandon blinked, it was gone.
He turned away and smiled at his brother. "Let's not tell Mom we're buying into old ghost stories."
"Deal," his brother said, laughing.
They went back inside to the warmth of cake and family. Brandon's nephew reached for him, giggling, and for a few quiet moments, the city's myths and worries felt oceans away.
Under the false daylight of neon and noise, the Velren legacy watched — faceless, waiting for night to fall.