[POV: Sparkweave]
The riot was winning.
Sparkweave crouched behind an overturned cart, back pressed against splintered wood, and watched his people tear through the convoy like a wildfire through dry brush. Smoke billowed from burning crates. Steel rang against steel. Somewhere to his left, a Stoneveil guard screamed and went silent.
Through the Static Weave, he felt them all. The dock workers holding the left flank—their connections flickering with adrenaline. The vendors pushing center—steady, determined, doing exactly what he'd asked. And Corin, twenty yards back, a coiled spring waiting for his signal.
The gate is open. Mora kept his word.
He hadn't expected that from the clerk. Most people who walked into Sparkweave's world made promises they couldn't keep. The clerk had looked like a corpse in a borrowed suit, too pale and too quiet, the kind of man who'd fold under pressure.
But the gate was open. The convoy was undefended. And the Stoneveil guards were falling back.
We're winning.
The thought felt foreign. Fifteen years of quiet cuts, careful work, and here he was—watching the plan actually work.
A burning crate collapsed near the convoy. Sparks spiraled upward, orange against the grey Stoneveil sky. Through the smoke, Sparkweave glimpsed the cargo wagons—fifty tons of Stillstone ore, Varis's lifeblood, sitting there like a gift.
But Caia isn't here yet. And Varis won't show without Caia.
That was the pattern. That was always the pattern. Caia appeared first, the Regent's sword, head of his personal guards, his executioner. And Varis followed after, the architect watching his work.
So Sparkweave waited. Watched the sparks rise. Felt his people's heartbeats through the Weave—the web of static he'd spent fifteen years building.
Soon. Very soon.
The Hawk-Crest guards arrived first.
They came from the Upper Terraces in lockstep formation—twenty soldiers in black-and-gold armor, shields locked, moving with the terrible precision of men who had done this a hundred times before.
Sparkweave's breath caught. His fingers dug into the splintered wood of the cart.
Caia.
She walked at the head of the formation. Tall, dark-armored, utterly unamused. The woman who had dismantled half the Uprising's networks over fifteen years. The woman Sparkweave had spent his entire life avoiding.
She's here. Finally.
Through the Weave, he sent a pulse: Caia at the gate. Hold positions. Wait for my signal.
The connections thrummed with acknowledgment. Dock workers gripped their weapons tighter. Vendors fell back to secondary positions. Corin shifted forward, hand on his sword.
Perfect. She's the threat. Focus on her. When she advances—
But something was wrong.
Caia wasn't advancing. She stood at the edge of the chaos, eyes scanning the battlefield, and... waited.
What is she—
Then Sparkweave saw him.
Behind Caia, half-hidden by the wall of guards, stood a man in civilian clothing.
No armor. No weapon. Just a simple grey coat, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the riot with the detached interest of a man observing a theatrical performance.
Sparkweave's blood went cold.
Varis.
The Regent of Stoneveil. The man who controlled half the East Sea's Stillstone trade. The man Sparkweave had been trying to kill for fifteen years.
And he looked... bored.
Varis is alone. Unarmored. Just a petty tyrant who's always let his daughter do the wet work.
Through the Weave, Sparkweave felt his people's focus. Every connection thrummed with awareness of Caia—the black-armored commander, the visible threat. No one was watching the unarmored man in the grey coat.
Good. Let them focus on Caia. When she engages, Corin holds her. The rest swarm Varis.
This is it. This is how we end him.
Varis moved.
"Hold."
One word, quiet and conversational.
Caia stopped mid-stride. The entire Hawk-Crest formation froze.
Sparkweave watched Varis step forward, past the guards, past Caia, into the open space between the convoy and the riot. He walked like a man taking a morning stroll—unhurried, relaxed, utterly unconcerned by the violence around him.
"My Lord Regent." Caia's voice was flat. Professional. "We should secure the perimeter before—"
"I've been patient." Varis's voice carried across the battlefield, cutting through the clash of steel. "Ten years patient. Ten years letting my daughter handle these... inconveniences."
He stopped beside a kneeling man—the convoy captain, Sparkweave realized. The same captain who had been at the gate earlier.
"Your post. Your gate." Varis tilted his head, studying the captain like a specimen. "And you let the chaos reach my convoy."
The captain's face was grey. "My Lord, the perimeter was—"
"Tell me—did you look twice at anyone today?" Varis's smile was thin. "Or did you assume the uniform made you safe?"
He raised one hand.
And the world changed.
The pressure hit Sparkweave like a wall. Invisible. Immense. A crushing weight that pressed down on his chest and drove the air from his lungs. Through the Weave, he felt his people stagger—connections flickering with sudden, terrible fear.
Impossible. Aristocrat bloodlines don't risk the consumption. The failure rate is one in three—
But the pressure was real. The power was real.
Varis ate a Mythic Heart. And he's been hiding it for fifteen years.
Varis clenched his fist.
The convoy captain FOLDED. Not fell—folded, like a paper doll crushed by an invisible hand. His armor crumpled. His bones shattered. Blood burst from his eyes, his mouth, his ears, pooling around his boots as his body was driven into the cobblestones.
Three seconds. That's all it took.
Varis lowered his hand. The pressure eased—slightly. Just enough to breathe.
"Ten years since I had to do this myself." His voice was conversational, almost wistful. "My people forget how red my hands used to be."
Behind him, Caia stood frozen. Her jaw was tight. Her hand rested on her sword hilt, but she hadn't drawn it. Hadn't moved. She was watching her father with something that looked almost like nausea.
She didn't know. Or she knew and hoped she'd never have to see it again.
Varis didn't notice. Or didn't care. He looked across the battlefield. Yellow eyes—predator's eyes—scanning the rioters, the burning crates, the chaos that Sparkweave had orchestrated.
"Let me remind them."
He raised both hands.
And the Static Weave SCREAMED.
The pressure field expanded—not a wave, but a tide, rolling outward from Varis like ripples from a stone. Sparkweave felt it through every connection. His dock workers. His vendors. The beggars with hands too steady for coins.
One by one, they started to fall.
Not gently. Not cleanly. They CRUMPLED, bones bending wrong, joints popping, bodies driven into the cobblestones with the same terrible finality that had claimed the captain.
Through the Weave, Sparkweave felt them die.
No. NO—
Three connections went dark. Then five. Then ten.
Each one a person he'd recruited. Trained. Promised victory.
We never had a chance. We never even knew what we were fighting.
The vendors fell next. Then the dock workers. The pressure field was indiscriminate, crushing everything in its path. Sparkweave could only watch—pinned behind his cart, gravity pressing him into the splintered wood—as fifteen years of work was erased in sixty seconds.
I told them we could win. I said we could sacrifice a few to hold Caia back. I said we could kill him.
He almost laughed.
We thought Caia was the weapon. She's just his shield.
Varis walked through the carnage like he was inspecting a garden. Yellow eyes finding each fallen body. Not checking if they were dead—he knew they were.
There was a smile on his face. Small. Satisfied.
He's not even angry. He's PLEASED.
Something broke inside Sparkweave. Not his ribs. Something worse.
Through the Weave, connections blinked out. One by one. Until only a handful remained.
Until only—
Corin. Corin is still alive.
Corin broke from cover twenty feet behind Varis.
Sword out. Not roaring—focused. Controlled. The way a Surge veteran charges a superior enemy.
Corin, no—
But the protest died in Sparkweave's throat. Because Corin wasn't folding.
The gravity field HIT him—Sparkweave felt it through the Weave, the pressure crushing down—but Corin pushed through. One step. Two. Three. Four.
Varis turned. His eyes found Corin. Something flickered across his face—not anger. Curiosity.
"Ah. The deserter."
Corin didn't answer. He swung.
The blade missed Varis's throat by inches.
Sparkweave's heart pounded. He's fighting. He's actually FIGHTING.
Through the Weave, he felt Corin's presence—no Mythic Heart, just decades of Crown military training forged into muscle and instinct. Pure skill. Pure will. A Surge veteran pushing against a Surge monster.
Corin trained with Varis's best before he deserted. If anyone can—
Hope bloomed. Fragile. Impossible.
Through the fading Weave, Sparkweave sent pulses to Corin.
Pressure's shifting left. Now! Step RIGHT!
Corin reacted. Dodged a crushing wave. Got closer to Varis.
Each pulse drained Sparkweave. Blood trickled from his nose. His vision blurred. The pressure on his chest made breathing agony.
I can't fight. But I can guide him. I can be his eyes.
For thirty seconds, they worked together. Corin's sword and Sparkweave's Weave. The same partnership that had built the network over fifteen years.
Weight slamming down. Duck!
Corin dropped under a pressure wave that would have crushed his skull. Came up swinging his blade.
Varis blocked with a gesture—invisible force catching the blade—but he was actually MOVING now. Dodging. Engaging.
The small smile on his face was gone.
We're making him work for it. We're actually—
Corin's blade caught Varis's cheek.
Not deep. A thin line of red that barely qualified as a wound.
But it was BLOOD. Varis's blood. On Stoneveil cobblestones.
The smile froze on Varis's face.
Sparkweave's heart SOARED. He did it. He actually—
We can win. We can actually WIN. Corin can lead them after I'm gone. He can take what's left of the network and—
Varis touched his cheek. Looked at the blood on his fingertips. His expression shifted from surprise to something cold. Calculating.
"Ten years," he said quietly. "Ten years since anyone made me bleed."
He paused. His yellow eyes found Corin.
"I'd forgotten how much I missed this."
He raised both hands.
The field MULTIPLIED.
Sparkweave felt the Weave SCREAM as the pressure wave intensified. His connection to Corin—his last combat connection—flared with pain.
No. NO—
Corin staggered. His forward momentum died. His knees buckled.
But he didn't fall. Not yet. His sword arm trembled, but he held it up. Defiant. Refusing.
"You... can't..." Corin's voice was a rasp. "...hold... Stoneveil... forever..."
Varis tilted his head. Almost considering.
"I don't need forever," he said. "I just need now."
He closed his fists.
The gravity SLAMMED. Corin didn't just fold—he was DRIVEN INTO THE GROUND. The cobblestones cracked around him. His sword shattered. His legs bent wrong.
He didn't scream. His jaw was too clenched to scream.
But his eyes found Sparkweave across the chaos. Still alive. Still watching.
Through the dying Weave, Sparkweave felt Corin push one last pulse. Not words. Just a name.
Jessa.
And then the connection went dark.
Sparkweave stared at the space where Corin's presence used to be. His oldest ally. His second-in-command. Fifteen years of planning, of fighting, of believing—
Gone.
The Weave was empty now. Every connection severed. Every thread dark.
Except one.
Jessa. Jessa is still there. Half the city away. But still there.
The weight on his chest doubled. His ribs groaned. Varis was walking toward him now, yellow eyes curious. A thin line of red still visible on his cheek.
"You're the one with the name," Varis said, his voice pleasant, almost conversational. "Sparkweave. The symbol of hope woven through my city's darkness."
He tilted his head. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
But Sparkweave wasn't listening anymore.
He named her. With his last breath, Corin named Jessa.
And so will I.
Sparkweave reached for the Static Weave. One last message. One last thread.
The Weave was nearly dead. His power was failing. The range was fifty meters on a good day, and Jessa was half the city away.
It doesn't matter. Push anyway.
He poured everything into the Weave—every spark of power, every thread still clinging to life.
More blood ran down his face. From his eyes. His ears. His nose.
Farther. FARTHER.
The Weave screamed. Or maybe that was him. He couldn't tell anymore.
But somewhere—across the rooftops, through the smoke, past the burning riot and the bodies of his friends—he felt her.
Jessa.
The last connection. The only one Varis didn't sever.
He sent one last pulse. One last message.
"The spark doesn't die with me. It just... moves."
The connection flickered. Held. Then faded.
She heard me. Corin named her. I named her. She'll carry it.
Varis was saying something. Sparkweave couldn't hear it anymore. The pressure was too much. His world was narrowing to a single point of light—the grey sky above Stoneveil, visible through the smoke.
He watched the sky.
He didn't scream.
Quiet cuts deepest.
The pressure tripled. Something broke. Several things broke.
But Sparkweave didn't feel it.
He was already gone.
The spark had moved.
[POV: Jessa Rhil]
The riot was distant thunder, muffled by the tannery's thick walls.
Jessa worked in silence, needle threading through the torn edge of Mora's tunic. The wound in his side was ugly but shallow—the officer's blade had caught mostly flesh, not anything vital. He'd live.
Across the room, Taren sat propped against a support beam. Bruised. Weak. But breathing. Her brother was alive.
He's alive. We did it.
She should feel happy. Relief, at least. But there was something hollow in her chest—something waiting, coiled like a snake in the dark.
Something is wrong.
The needle dipped. Rose. Dipped again. The familiar rhythm of stitching flesh, learned in cellar rooms and backstreet clinics over fifteen years of Uprising work.
Something is—
The pulse hit like a shock.
Jessa's hands froze. The needle stopped mid-stitch.
Static. Electricity. The faint crackle of the Weave—Sparkweave's frequency, the one she'd known since she was sixteen years old and he'd first shown her how to listen.
But it was wrong.
Too strong. Too desperate. Like a dying man screaming into the dark.
No. No, no, no—
She closed her eyes. Reached for the connection—the thread that had always been there, steady as a heartbeat, connecting her to the man who'd given her a purpose when her parents were buried and her brother was taken.
The message came through.
"The spark doesn't die with me."
His voice. Broken. Fading. But unmistakably his.
"It just... moves."
The connection guttered. Like a candle flame in a storm. She tried to hold it—tried to send something back, anything, a word, a pulse—
But it was already gone.
The Weave was silent.
Sparkweave was silent.
He's dead.
The needle slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor with a soft clink.
Mora looked up from the bloody tunic. "Jessa?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
The spark doesn't die. It moves.
He's passing it to me.
All those years. All those careful plans. All those nights in cellar rooms, learning the signals, memorizing the routes, believing that one day they'd watch Varis fall together.
And now—
Her hands started to shake.
She pressed them flat against her thighs, trying to still them. Trying to hold herself together. But the trembling spread—up her arms, into her shoulders, until her whole body was vibrating with something that wasn't quite crying.
Something terrible happened. If Sparkweave is passing the spark to me...
They didn't make it.
Taren reached out from his place by the beam. Touched her arm. "Jessa? What is it?"
She shook her head. She couldn't explain. Not yet.
"It's Sparkweave," Mora said quietly. It was not a question.
Jessa looked at him. The clerk. The auditor. The man who'd opened the gate and made all of this possible.
He saved Taren. He also got everyone killed.
"He's dead," she said. Her voice came out flat. Empty. "They're all dead. Everyone who was at the Anchor. Everyone who was at the riot."
The tannery was quiet. The smell of curing leather and old chemicals hung in the air. Outside, the muffled roar of chaos continued.
"The plan was supposed to work," Mora said. "Hit the ore. Draw Varis out. Let Caia—"
"Caia wasn't the problem." Jessa cut him off. "The message came through wrong. The way it felt when he sent it—desperate, dying. That's not how connections end in battle."
She swallowed.
"Something crushed them. I don't know what. But they didn't die fighting guards."
And we never saw it coming.
Mora sat very still. His face was unreadable—the mask of a man who'd learned to hide his reactions, or maybe a man who simply felt nothing at all.
"Your plan worked," Jessa said. The words tasted like ash. "The gate opened. Taren got out. You kept your end."
She looked at her brother. Alive. Bruised. Watching her with worried eyes.
Then she looked at the empty space where the needle had fallen.
"Sparkweave kept his end too. He gave everything. And in the end—"
Her voice cracked.
Taren is alive. Sparkweave is dead. Corin is dead. Everyone who believed in the cause is dead.
And the Regent is still breathing.
"In the end, it wasn't worth it," she finished. "We saved one. We lost everyone else."
Mora didn't argue. Didn't try to justify. He just sat there, bleeding into a tannery floor, and let her words land without defending himself.
Except I don't hate him. That's the worst part.
"So what now?" Mora's voice was quiet. "Do we stop?"
Jessa laughed. It was a broken sound—half grief, half something sharper.
"Stop?" She shook her head. "Sparkweave didn't die so I could stop. Corin didn't fight so I could go home and pretend nothing happened."
She bent down. Picked up the needle. Her hands were still shaking, but she forced them steady.
"Varis Calder is still alive," she said. "That means we're not done."
Mora watched her. His eyes were too sharp for a clerk—too calculating, too aware. She'd noticed that before, in the cellar at the Anchor, when he'd laid out a plan that was either brilliant or suicidal.
"You want to keep going," he said. "After everything."
"I don't want anything." She started stitching again. Each stitch precise. Deliberate. "Wanting doesn't come into it."
She met his eyes.
"The spark doesn't die, Mora. It just moves."
She paused.
"And it moved to me."
She finished the last stitch. Tied it off. Set down the needle.
Her hand went to her wrist. The blue ribbon was still there—faded, frayed, the same color as the one Taren had pulled from his pocket in the Pit. Family. The only thing worth keeping.
But now there was something else beside it. Something harder. Something that burned.
The spark.
She touched the ribbon one last time. Thought of Sparkweave somewhere in the riot, reaching across half the city with his last breath to tell her—
You're next.
Then she stood.
"We need to plan," she said. "Varis knows we're still moving. He'll be looking for survivors."
Mora was still watching her. His eyes hadn't left her face.
Good. Let him.
"And we'll be ready," she finished.
The spark had moved.
It was hers now.