The city of Orval did not breathe so much as it wheezed. It was a place of salt-crusted stone and rotting timber, perched precariously on the edge of the Shimmering Sea like a beggar reaching for a coin that would never be dropped. Here, the air was thick with the scent of dried fish, cheap ale, and the metallic tang of spiritual energy that bled from the city's many seals. For Ghaith, the atmosphere was a familiar shroud, a heavy coat he had worn for three years since he had walked away from the silent killings of his youth.
He stood on the balcony of a modest room in the lower district, his hands gripping the railing. The wood was damp under his calloused palms. His eyes, a shade of gray that matched the morning fog, traced the movements of the harbor below. To any casual observer, he was merely a young man of twenty-one, perhaps a laborer or a disgraced merchant. His hair was black and unruly, falling over a brow that rarely relaxed. Beneath his simple linen shirt, however, lay a secret that throbbed with a slow, rhythmic heat.
The seal on his chest, a complex geometry of ink and spirit known as the Flame of the Void, felt like a living coal. It was a circle broken at the apex, a symbol of a power meant to erase existence. In the Village of Silence, where he had been raised, they taught him that the seal was his soul, and his soul was a weapon. They were wrong. The seal was a prison, and lately, the bars were beginning to glow.
A soft footfall sounded behind him, the wood floorboards groaning with a gentle familiarity. Ghaith did not turn. He did not need to. The temperature in the room seemed to rise by a fraction of a degree, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the woman who now stood in the doorway.
May approached him with the quiet grace of someone who had spent her life tending to things that were broken. She was nineteen, with hair the color of autumn earth and eyes that held a gold-flecked depth, as if she carried a piece of the sun within her. She did not speak immediately. She understood the value of his silence. Instead, she leaned against the railing beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact was brief, but it sent a ripple of stillness through Ghaith, momentarily dampening the frantic pulsing of his seal.
Are the ships coming in? she asked, her voice a soft melody that cut through the harsh cries of the gulls.
Ghaith nodded slowly. The tide is high. The Empire's vessels will be docked by noon. They are bringing more than just silk and spice this time, May. I can feel the pressure in the air. The seals of the soldiers are humming.
May sighed, her gaze following his toward the horizon. They call it progress. They call the Black Portals a new age of energy. But my mother used to say that when you tear a hole in the sky, you shouldn't be surprised when the rain starts to burn.
She reached out and took his hand. Her touch was warm, her skin smooth despite the hours she spent grinding herbs and stitching wounds in the small clinic downstairs. Ghaith looked down at their joined hands. His fingers were scarred, the knuckles thickened from years of gripping hilts and snapping bone. Her hand was a testament to life; his was a record of its ending.
You look tired, Ghaith, she murmured, her thumb tracing the line of his palm. You were out again last night.
I have to know who is watching us, he replied, his voice dropping to a low rasp. Orval is a cage, May. The corruption is spreading. The gangs are becoming bolder because the Empire is feeding them. They want the city unstable so they can justify a full military occupation. If they take the docks, we won't be able to leave.
We are already building something here, she said, looking up at him with a fierce light in her eyes. The people in the district, they look to you. Even if you don't want them to. They see a man who doesn't bend, and they want to stand behind him.
I am a killer, May, he said, the words tasting like ash. I don't know how to lead people. I only know how to make them disappear.
May stepped in front of him, forcing him to meet her gaze. You were a killer. Now, you are a husband. You are a protector. And if this city needs a hand to pull it out of the mud, why can't it be yours? You have the Flame, Ghaith, but you also have me. I won't let you disappear into the Void.
She reached up and touched the center of his chest, over the fabric of his shirt. The seal beneath flared white-hot for a second, a sharp pang of agony that Ghaith had learned to endure, and then it subsided into a dull, manageable ache. This was her gift, the Seal of Vivification. While his power was meant to hollow out the world, hers was meant to fill it. Together, they were a paradox—a balance of ending and beginning.
A sudden commotion from the street below broke the moment. A group of men in heavy leather vests, their arms adorned with the jagged, blue-inked seals of the Dockworkers' Union, were shoving a merchant against a wall. The merchant's crates had been overturned, spilling bright bolts of fabric into the muddy gutter.
Ghaith's posture shifted instantly. The slouch of the tired laborer vanished, replaced by the coiled tension of a predator. His gray eyes sharpened, the pupils narrowing.
Don't, May whispered, though she knew it was futile.
I won't kill them, Ghaith said, his voice devoid of emotion. But they need to remember that this street has a shadow.
He didn't use the stairs. He vaulted over the railing, landing silently in the alleyway below. He moved with a fluidity that seemed to defy the weight of the humid air. By the time the union thugs noticed him, he was already standing five paces away, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray cloak.
The merchant, an elderly man with trembling hands, looked at Ghaith with a mixture of terror and hope. The thugs, three of them, laughed. Their leader was a hulking man with a seal on his neck that glowed a sickly neon green—a low-grade enhancement for physical strength.
Step aside, kid, the leader sneered, his fist crackling with a faint static. This is union business. Taxes are due.
Ghaith didn't move. He didn't even look at the man's face. He was looking at the seal on the man's neck. It was a sloppy piece of work, the lines blurred by the overuse of cheap spiritual catalysts. It was a flame waiting to consume its host.
The street is narrow, Ghaith said calmly. You are blocking the way.
The leader growled and lunged forward, his enhanced fist swinging in a wide, clumsy arc. To Ghaith, the movement was agonizingly slow. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even take his hands out of his pockets. He simply pivoted on his heel, the man's fist whistling past his ear.
In the next heartbeat, Ghaith moved. It wasn't a punch so much as a calculated strike with the palm of his hand against the man's chest. He didn't use his full strength, but he allowed a tiny, microscopic spark of the Void to leak through his skin.
The effect was instantaneous. The green glow of the thug's seal flickered and died. The man gasped, his knees buckling as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He collapsed into the mud, shivering, his face turning a ghostly shade of white. He wasn't wounded, but for a split second, he had felt the absolute nothingness that Ghaith carried within him. It was a fear that went deeper than pain.
The other two thugs froze. They looked at their fallen leader, then at the quiet young man in the gray cloak who stood as still as a statue. They didn't wait for a second invitation. They grabbed their leader by the arms and dragged him away, their boots splashing frantically in the puddles.
Ghaith walked over to the merchant and began to pick up the fallen bolts of cloth. The old man tried to help, his hands still shaking.
Thank you, sir, the merchant stammered. I... I didn't know anyone still cared about the old laws.
Laws don't matter here, Ghaith said, handing a bolt of blue silk to the man. Only the space you are willing to hold. Move your stall to the corner of the clinic. They won't bother you there.
The merchant nodded and scurried away. Ghaith stood in the middle of the street, the morning sun finally breaking through the fog. The warmth felt artificial. He looked at his hand, the one he had used to strike the man. It felt cold. It always felt cold after he touched the Void.
He felt the weight of eyes on him. Looking up, he saw May standing on the balcony. She wasn't smiling. Her expression was one of profound sadness, the look of a woman who was watching a man try to wash blood off his hands with more blood. She knew that every time he protected someone, he moved a step closer to the person he was trying to leave behind.
Ghaith climbed back up to the room. The transition from the violence of the street to the sanctuary of their home was jarring. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
It's starting, isn't it? May asked, sitting beside him. The peace we bought. It's spent.
Ghaith looked at her. He thought of the Empire's ships, the Black Portals, and the whispers of a new war. He thought of the seven orphans he had seen hiding in the ruins of the old warehouse, and the way the city seemed to be eating itself alive.
We can't just run this time, May, he said. There is nowhere left to go. The seals are everywhere. The Empire is everywhere. If we want a home, we have to build a wall around it.
You mean an army, she corrected him softly. You want to build a gang.
I want to build a family, he replied. People like us. The discarded. The broken. If we are together, the Void can't take us.
May was silent for a long time. She looked at the small potted plant on the windowsill, a hardy green sprout she had managed to grow in the salty air of Orval. She reached out and touched its leaf, a tiny pulse of light emanating from her fingertips.
If we do this, Ghaith, we won't be able to turn back. We will be targets. Not just for the gangs, but for the Emperor himself.
I am already a target, Ghaith said, standing up. I've been a target since the day I was born. But for the first time, I have something worth aiming for.
He walked over to a loose floorboard in the corner of the room. He pried it up, revealing a wrapped bundle. He unfolded the cloth to reveal a pair of short blades, their metal a dull, non-reflective gray. They were called the Twin Silences. He hadn't touched them in years.
May watched him, her heart heavy with the realization that the life they had dreamed of—a quiet life of herbs and markets and children—was drifting away like the morning mist. But as Ghaith strapped the blades to his belt, she saw the change in him. The hesitation was gone. The shadows in his eyes had coalesced into a singular, burning purpose.
If you are going to be a king of the shadows, Ghaith, then I will be the one who keeps the light burning for you, she said, her voice steady. But promise me one thing.
Anything, he said.
Don't ever let the Void become your home. Keep a piece of yourself here, with me. Even if it's just a tiny spark.
Ghaith stepped toward her and pulled her into a firm embrace. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of lavender and dried sun. For a moment, the seals, the city, and the coming storm didn't exist. There was only the rhythm of two hearts beating against each other—one a furnace of life, the other a cold ember of destruction.
I promise, he whispered into the silence.
Outside, the first of the Empire's ships sounded its horn, a deep, mournful blast that echoed through the canyons of the city. The tide had turned. The age of silence was over, and the era of the Ashen Oath was about to begin. Orval did not know it yet, but its streets were about to be claimed by a ghost who refused to haunt the past any longer.
Ghaith walked to the door, his hand on the latch. He looked back at May, who stood bathed in the pale morning light. She looked like a painting of a saint in a cathedral made of ruins. He realized then that he wasn't doing this for justice or for power. He was doing it because the world was too dark for a light like hers to exist unprotected.
Let's go, he said. We have a city to wake up.
They stepped out of the room together, leaving behind the safety of their anonymity. As they descended the stairs, the seal on Ghaith's chest thrummed with a new kind of energy. It wasn't the cold hunger of the Void, but the steady, directional heat of a man who had finally found his North Star. The path ahead was covered in ash, but for the first time in his life, Ghaith was the one carrying the flame.