Altef had never really recovered from the Great Terror.
Eight years had passed since the first disappearances began—quiet at first, just a neighbor vanishing from their porch, a child gone from the playground, a merchant's stall left empty with coins still scattered on the counter. All that remained was the choking reek of sulfur hanging in the air like bad news no one wanted to acknowledge. Then the vortexes started appearing: swirling black tears in reality, edged with violet fire, spitting out grotesque things that dragged people screaming into Hell itself.
No one knew why. Not really. The priests called it divine judgment. The scholars muttered about rifts in the veil. The common folk just called it the end of safety.
In response, the Retriever Guilds rose. Every year they recruited the gifted—those born with the spark of true magic, the kind that could burn demons, seal portals, or pull souls back from the abyss. They trained them hard, sent them down in squads, and sometimes—only sometimes—they brought someone back. The fortunate few. The rest became statistics, names on missing posters that eventually yellowed and curled at the edges.
Liam Atta, seventeen now, wasn't one of the fortunate few. He wasn't even one of the gifted. He had no spark, no flame, no whisper of power. What he had was a mother taken nine years ago—almost ten, if you counted the months precisely—and a nine-year-old sister whose blood betrayed her every day.
The construction site sat on the edge of the Lower Districts, where the new aqueduct was supposed to bring clean water to the slums but mostly brought dust and noise. Liam hefted another boulder, shoulders burning, palms raw even through the cheap work gloves. The rock was bigger than his torso, veined with quartz that caught the late-afternoon sun like broken glass. He didn't grunt. He didn't curse. He just walked it twenty paces, dropped it into the pile with controlled force, then turned back for the next one.
From the shade of the foreman's tent, the supervisor—Mr. Harrow, graying beard, perpetual squint—watched him.
"That boy's one of a kind, isn't he?" Harrow said, not quite to himself.
The lead worker, a broad man named Tobin with a scar across his left cheek, nodded slowly. "Yeah. Gold to this site. I really feel for him."
Harrow raised an eyebrow. "And why's that?"
Tobin adjusted his orange plastic helmet, the strap worn thin. "He's Liam. World's been brutal to him since he was a kid. Mother got dragged when he was—what, eight? Nine? His father's some big-shot official in the Central Guild, Overseer or something, but he doesn't lift a finger for them. Pays the bare minimum for the girl's medicine when the healers threaten to cut her off, then acts like it's charity."
Harrow exhaled through his nose. "Explains the fire in him. Kid works like he's trying to outrun something."
"He's just been forced to grow up too fast," Tobin muttered. "World didn't give him a choice."
Liam dropped the last log of the day. It hit the ground with a heavy thud that vibrated up through his boots. Dust billowed around his ankles. He straightened, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, and let out a long, quiet breath.
"Finally. Last one."
He didn't smile. Smiles were for people who could afford them.
Harrow approached, pulling a small leather pouch from his belt. The coins inside clinked softly—copper mostly, a few tarnished silver bits.
"Good work today, Atta," Harrow said, voice gruff but not unkind. "You finished an hour ahead of schedule. Again."
Liam took the pouch without looking inside. He already knew the weight. "Thank you, sir."
Harrow hesitated. "You heading straight home?"
"Pharmacy first. Then home."
The supervisor nodded once, like he'd expected that answer. "Get some rest, kid. You look like you're carrying more than rocks."
Liam gave a small, tight nod and walked away before the conversation could stretch into pity.
The streets of Lower Altef were alive with the usual evening chaos: vendors hawking day-old bread, kids chasing a leather ball through alleys, the distant shouts of hawkers . Sulfur lingered in the air here too—not strong, but enough to remind everyone the world had teeth. Liam kept his head down, shoulders squared, moving like someone who'd learned early that eye contact invited trouble.
The pharmacy sat on the corner of Iron Lane, a narrow shop with peeling green paint and a sign that read Remedies & Relief – No Credit. The bell above the door jingled when he pushed inside.
Old Mrs. Veyra looked up from her ledger. Her eyes softened when she saw him.
"Liam. Right on time."
He set the pouch on the counter, counted out the coins—twenty-three coppers, two silvers. Exactly what he'd calculated.
"Zola's usual," he said. "The red vial and the white tablets. And… if there's any discount this week?"
Mrs. Veyra sighed, but it wasn't cruel. She reached under the counter, pulled out the small paper packet, and slid it across. "I knocked off three coppers. Don't tell the guild inspectors."
Liam's throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she said quietly. "The price on the crimson root went up again. If her episodes get worse…"
"I know." He pocketed the medicine. "I'll find more work."
She watched him leave without another word.
The walk home took him through the maze of tenements—crumbling brick, laundry strung between windows like flags of surrender, the smell of cooking fat and despair. Their room was on the fourth floor of a sagging building that leaned slightly toward the street, as if tired of standing upright.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, legs still aching from the day. The door creaked when he pushed it open.
Inside smelled of boiled herbs and old paper.
Zola sat cross-legged on the thin mattress they shared, sketchbook open on her lap. She was drawing again—quick, sure lines with the stub of charcoal she'd found behind the market. A bird this time, wings spread wide, flying over something that looked suspiciously like a swirling black vortex.
She looked up when he entered, eyes bright despite the faint shadows under them.
"You're back," she said, like it was a surprise every time.
"Yeah." He kicked the door shut behind him, set the medicine packet on the rickety table. "Got everything."
Zola closed the sketchbook carefully. "You're limping a little."
"I'm not."
"You are. Your left leg's dragging."
Liam exhaled, sat on the edge of the mattress. "Just tired. Long day."
She scooted closer, studying his face like she could read the truth in the lines of dust on his cheeks. "You worked too much again."
"I worked enough."
"You always say that." Her voice was small but stubborn. "You came home late yesterday too. And the day before. And your hands—" She reached out, turned his palms up. The skin was cracked, red in places, calluses thick as leather. "They look worse."
He pulled his hands back gently. "They're fine. Pharmacy gave us the discount. We're good for another week."
Zola didn't look convinced. She hugged her knees to her chest. "I hate that you have to do all this because of me."
Liam's chest tightened. "Stop."
"I mean it. If I wasn't sick—"
"Then I'd still be working," he cut in, softer than he meant to. "Because that's what we do. We keep going. For Mom. For us."
She bit her lip. "Do you think… she's still out there? Somewhere?"
He hesitated. Every time she asked, it felt like pressing on a bruise that never healed.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But if she is, we're getting her back. One day."
Zola nodded slowly, then leaned her head against his shoulder. "Promise you won't work yourself to death first?"
He wrapped an arm around her, careful not to squeeze too hard. "Promise."
She stayed quiet for a moment, then whispered, "I drew you today. In the picture. You were flying. Like the bird."
Liam looked down at the sketchbook. The bird had his messy hair, his determined jaw. Behind it, faint lines suggested a city skyline—and something darker in the distance. A vortex.
He swallowed. "Looks good."
"You like it?"
"Yeah. I like it a lot."
Zola smiled—small, real, the kind that made the room feel less heavy.
Outside, the city kept moving: carts rattling, voices rising, the faint sulfur stink drifting on the wind.
Inside, two kids sat together on a thin mattress, one carrying the weight of the world, the other trying to lighten it with charcoal lines and stubborn hope.
Liam stared at the stack of bills on the table—hospital notices, rent demands, pharmacy reminders. They were growing faster than he could earn.
He thought about the Retriever Guild posters he'd seen on the way home: High Bounties – Hell Ants – Scavengers Welcome – No Magic Required.
No magic required.
He'd laughed at them once. Mocked himself for even reading the words.
But tonight, with Zola's breathing soft against his arm and the medicine packet crinkling in his pocket, the idea didn't sound so impossible.
Not anymore.