Chapter 11 — Among Those Who Do Not Matter
The place Brannik took him did not have a name.
It did not need one.
It was a low-roofed structure built from mismatched stone and warped timber, wedged between two abandoned warehouses near the river's industrial quarter. Smoke leaked constantly from a crooked chimney, carrying the smell of boiled grain, damp wood, and unwashed bodies. The sign above the door had long since fallen, leaving only two rusted nails protruding from the beam.
Inside, the air was warm, heavy, and alive.
Men and women crowded rough tables, their clothing patched and worn, voices low but constant. Laughter erupted from one corner, coughing from another. No one looked twice at Adrian as he entered.
That alone told him everything.
This was a place fate did not visit.
Brannik pushed the door closed behind them and motioned toward a narrow staircase at the back. Up close, the porter was stockier than Adrian had first thought, his arms thick with old muscle. His beard was unkempt, his nose crooked from at least one badly healed break, and his black eyes were sharp with survival instinct rather than ambition.
"Don't cause trouble," Brannik said. "Don't ask questions. Pay on time."
Adrian nodded. "Understood."
Brannik grunted and turned away.
The room he was given was barely more than a storage loft. A thin mattress lay on the floor, stuffed with straw that crackled softly when Adrian knelt beside it. A single shuttered window looked out over the river, its glass clouded with grime. The walls were bare stone.
No sigils.
No pressure.
No watching eyes.
Adrian sat down slowly, leaning back against the wall as exhaustion finally caught him.
His body shook.
Not from fear.
From release.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
For the first time since arriving in Gala Prime, nothing pushed back.
The Loom did not press.
The world did not correct.
No invisible hand tried to guide his next move.
This was freedom.
And it was fragile.
Adrian did not leave the building for two days.
Not out of fear—out of discipline.
He slept.
He ate thin porridge and stale bread.
He drank water until his stomach hurt.
The body he inhabited had been abused for years. Starved. Weakened deliberately. It would not recover through force. It required patience.
On the third day, he began to move.
Not swordplay.
Walking.
Stretching.
Breathing exercises carried over from another life—simple, controlled, designed to rebuild muscle and tendon without strain. He moved slowly, deliberately, careful not to aggravate his wounds.
Every morning, he rose before dawn and stood near the river, watching the water flow.
People passed him without looking.
Dock workers with hunched shoulders and calloused hands. Fishermen hauling nets. Women carrying baskets too heavy for their frames. Children darting between them all, laughing and shouting.
None of them mattered.
And because they did not matter—
Fate left them alone.
Adrian observed carefully.
When a fisherman slipped on wet stone, he fell and scraped his hand. He did not miraculously avoid injury. When a dockworker misjudged a load, he strained his back and cursed.
No heroic reversals.
No divine timing.
Just consequence.
"Good," Adrian murmured.
This was the environment he needed.
Brannik watched him with growing curiosity.
"You don't drink," the porter noted one evening, leaning against the doorframe as Adrian returned from the river. "Don't gamble. Don't talk much."
"I'm not here to forget myself," Adrian replied.
Brannik snorted. "Then why are you here?"
Adrian considered the question.
"To remember," he said finally.
Brannik stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "As long as you pay."
Adrian paid.
On the fifth day, he asked for work.
Brannik raised an eyebrow. "You look like you'd snap in half lifting a crate."
"Then give me two," Adrian said calmly.
Brannik laughed, a short bark. "You're mad."
But he gave Adrian work anyway.
Carrying sacks.
Sweeping floors.
Hauling refuse.
The labor was brutal.
His muscles burned constantly. His injuries flared. His hands blistered and bled. But Adrian welcomed it.
This was honest strain.
At night, he collapsed onto the straw mattress and slept deeply, dreamlessly.
No executions.
No platforms.
No blades falling.
The nightmares faded.
On the seventh night, Adrian trained again.
Not in secret corridors.
Not in abandoned yards.
In his room.
He closed the shutters, lit a single candle, and drew the dagger.
The blade felt lighter now.
Not because it had changed.
Because he had.
He moved slowly at first, repeating the same controlled arcs he had practiced in confinement—but something was different. His balance was better. His grip steadier. His breathing synchronized with motion.
He did not imagine opponents.
He imagined inevitability.
A cut was not an attack.
It was a conclusion.
Hours passed without him noticing.
When he finally stopped, sweat soaked his shirt and his arms trembled violently. He sat down hard, chest heaving, staring at the blade.
No pressure came.
No correction followed.
The Loom did not care what happened here.
Adrian smiled faintly.
"This," he whispered, "is where I grow."
Far away, panic spread quietly.
Magister Alaric Fenrow stood before the fate array, his composed expression cracking for the first time.
The indicators were wrong.
Not fluctuating.
Not spiking.
Wrong.
"Repeat the sweep," he ordered.
The acolytes obeyed, their hands moving over glowing sigils. The array shimmered—then stabilized into a pattern that made Alaric's stomach twist.
Adrian Falkenrath's presence had not vanished.
It had diffused.
"He's… outside density," one acolyte whispered. "His probability is overlapping with non-indexed lives."
Alaric clenched his fists.
"That shouldn't be possible."
Verena Holt stood beside him, golden eyes narrowed. "He's hiding among those without narrative weight."
Alaric turned sharply. "That's impossible. An anomaly that large—"
"Is shrinking," Verena finished quietly. "On purpose."
Silence fell.
"He's not running," Alaric said slowly. "He's nesting."
Verena's lips thinned. "Then we have a far greater problem than defiance."
On the tenth night, Adrian made a decision.
He stood by the river again, watching moonlight ripple across the dark water.
He could leave the city.
Disappear entirely.
Live quietly.
Survive.
The option was there.
Easy.
Tempting.
Adrian closed his eyes.
And saw Clara.
Saw her standing alone in that cold estate, bearing consequences meant for him.
Saw the Church tightening its grip.
Saw fate continuing unchallenged.
He opened his eyes.
"No," he said softly.
Survival alone was not enough.
He would return.
Not soon.
Not loudly.
But deliberately.
Adrian turned back toward the lights of Blackridge Dominion, silver eyes cold and focused.
"I'll come back," he murmured. "When I can cut what follows me."
The river flowed on, uncaring.
And somewhere deep within the unseen machinery of the world—
Fate adjusted.
Too late.