The bolt-hole was tucked away behind a collapsed maintenance shaft, buried deep in the guts of Ironhaven. Up above, the Spires looked shiny and perfect in the holo-ads. Down here, nobody bothered to look.
Up in the sky-piercing towers and floating platforms, the air was clean, the lights never flickered, and registered Forged walked like gods.
Down here, in the Depths and Undercity, the forgotten scraped by in the bones of the old world—abandoned subway lines, service tunnels, and pre-Shattering infrastructure the guilds never bothered to reclaim.
Sublevel 9 was as far down as anyone with sense would go. Below that was the Abyss, sealed off, but the Calamity Rift still leaked its poison up through the cracks. You could smell it.
Ebon could walk the route in his sleep. Left at the pipe that never stopped leaking. Down the ladder with half the rungs missing. Through the crawlspace that always reeked of mold and that weird rift stink.
He moved slowly, every breath making his ribs ache. The black veins under his skin itched, crawling and restless, like something was trying to claw its way out.
The envelope in his pocket felt heavy. Ten thousand creds. Enough to change something—maybe even enough to drag them out of this hole. If they were lucky.
He ducked through the final curtain of hanging cables and into the small chamber they called home.
Four familiar faces turned toward him.
Mira Lee was perched on an overturned crate, sharpening a scavenged knife with a whetstone. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy tail, and she wore the oversized jacket Ebon had won in a fight last month before the finals.
"About time, kid," she said without looking up.
Ebon managed half a grin despite the pain. "'Bout time you stopped calling me that. I'm eighteen now, remember?"
Mira snorted, finally glancing up. "You'll always be the dumb kid who let me pick his pocket first day down here. Age don't change facts."
Little Jax—eleven, freckles, red hair sticking up like he'd been electrocuted—dropped the scrap picture he'd been drawing and ran over. "Thorne! You won? You really won?"
Lena, nine and tiny, peeked out from behind Mira's crate. Her long braids framed wide eyes. She clutched her patched stuffed bear tighter. She didn't speak and looked frail, probably due to her low-grade fever.
Tomas, twelve and already built like he could take a punch, leaned against the wall, counting out ration tins. "He's walking, isn't he? Means he won."
Ebon pulled out the envelope and tossed it to Tomas. The boy caught it, eyes going wide as he felt the weight.
Mira's gaze flicked to the bandages visible under Ebon's torn shirt, then to his neck, where the black veins showed faintly above the collar.
"You look like hell," she said flatly.
"Feel like it too."
"How are you feeling after getting stitched up?"
"More or less fine."
Jax tugged at his sleeve. "Did you really break Klane's ice with your hand? People in the market were talking. Said you had black spikes."
Ebon ruffled the boy's hair. "Just rumors."
Lena edged closer, staring at his bare forearm. The veins there pulsed once, like they knew she was looking. She reached out a finger, then pulled back.
Mira stood, sheathing the knife. "Show us."
Ebon hesitated. Suddenly, the room felt like it was closing in.
He flexed his right hand.
Pain shot through it—sharp and familiar.
A single black spike pushed out through the skin on his knuckle, small and shaky. It caught the weak light from their one glow-lamp, the facets glinting like ice.
And with it came the certainty he'd been trying not to name.
Jax gasped. Tomas took a step back. Lena's eyes went wide.
Mira just stared, expression unreadable. Her hand tightened once on the knife hilt.
"Doc said I Forged," Ebon said quietly. "When I almost died in the ring."
Silence stretched.
Mira shrugged, too casual. "Great. Now you're one of em." She paused, her voice going a little softer. "But you're still our idiot."
Jax swallowed. "Does it hurt?"
"Every time."
Tomas weighed the envelope in his hands.
"This much… we could move up. Mid-levels. Real lights. No rifts leaking in the walls."
Ebon nodded slowly. He'd been thinking about it ever since Doc stitched him up. But first, he had to figure out what he was now.
***
Later that night, after the kids were asleep on their pile of old mattresses, Ebon slipped out into the tunnels.
Mira watched from the shadows as he disappeared.
"Don't do anything stupid, kid," she whispered to the empty air.
He didn't hear her.
Three sublevels down, in an abandoned maintenance bay, Ebon stood alone beneath a flickering emergency light.
He clenched both fists.
Pain shot up his arms, hot and bright.
This time, two spikes pushed out. Longer. Steadier.
He stared at them, breathing hard.
He drew back and punched the concrete wall.
The impact echoed like a gunshot. Dust rained down. The spikes held.
For the first time since the cage, Ebon let himself smile.
Small. Grim.
Determined.