Val-de-Fer never slept. To Ash, it was a nightmare of clanging metal and choking fumes. The city was built around gigantic blast furnaces that ran day and night to fuel the Empire's war effort. Here, the air did not have the pure, icy taste of the Borderlands; it was thick, heavy with soot and the smell of sulfur that burned his lungs.
Ash walked through the cobblestone streets, head down under his hood to shield his eyes from the lingering light in the evening air. His three silver coins felt heavy in his pocket—a paltry fortune that, he quickly realized, would not get him far.
— "Hey, ghost! Lost something?"
Ash stopped. In front of him, three men blocked the alley. They wore local militia uniforms, but their armor was poorly maintained, and their faces radiated the ordinary malice of those who had a little power over those who had none.
— "I'm looking for a convoy to Magna Solis," Ash replied, his hoarse voice still sharp.
The patrol leader, a massive man with a scar running across his flattened nose, sniffed and stepped closer. — "Magna Solis? A rat from the Borderlands? You'll end up in a mass grave before you see the capital's walls. Show me what you've got in your pockets. Passage fee for outsiders."
Anger rose in Ash, that old, cold companion that hadn't left him since the massacre. He saw the lines of force in the militiaman. He noticed the man putting his weight on his left leg because of an old knee injury. He saw the weak point on the leather strap of the man's scabbard.
— "I have nothing for you," Ash said.
— "Big mouth for a beggar," the militiaman growled, reaching a greasy hand for Ash's collar. "Let's see if you scream as loud when we break your teeth."
The Precision of the VoidAsh didn't step back. As the militiaman's hand reached for him, he spun. Not a trained warrior's move, but the instinctive dodge of an animal sensing danger before it materialized.
He struck—not with a fist, but with the base of his palm, directly onto the man's weak knee.
CRACK.
The sound was sharp and clean. The militiaman screamed as the joint gave way under the precise impact. His two subordinates, stunned by the speed of the attack, drew their iron batons.
— "You're dead, brat!"
Ash ducked under the first strike. His Atom Sight intensified. Despite the light from the floating magical lanterns above them, he perceived the energy flows. He saw a luminous crack along the militiaman's wrist. He grabbed the man's forearm and pressed a specific nerve point. The guard's fingers instantly opened, dropping the baton.
Ash picked up the weapon before it hit the ground and, in a circular motion, struck the second guard on the temple. Not strong enough to kill, but precise enough that the man collapsed like a ragdoll, his senses short-circuited.
The patrol leader, crawling on the ground, tried to draw his dagger. Ash pressed his foot on the man's hand, just enough to make him understand he could break every bone in his foot.
— "The passage fee," Ash murmured, "will come from you."
He grabbed a pouch from the militiaman's belt—about ten gold Sols and a few deniers—before slipping into the dark alleys of Val-de-Fer. He had made his first official enemies in the Empire, but to him, they were just another form of monster.
The "Sold-Out" DormitoryWith the stolen money, Ash could buy a spot in a low-end inn near the south gates. The place was called The Anvil's Rest. It was a massive dormitory where those waiting for convoys to the heart of the Empire were crammed together.
There he saw them: about thirty teenagers, around his age, gathered in a corner of the common room. They wore clean white tunics, a violent contrast to the surrounding grime. They were guarded by men in silver armor bearing the symbol of the Church of the One.
— "Those are the Sold-Out," the innkeeper whispered, placing a bowl of stew in front of Ash. "Picked up by priests in orphanages and poor villages. They have mana. They go to the Academy to become Empire mages. That is, if they survive the tests."
Ash studied the youths. Some cried silently, others wore an air of arrogant superiority. Among them, a girl with short, storm-gray hair caught his attention. She looked neither sad nor proud. She simply stared into the void, her hands trembling slightly.
Curious—or perhaps driven by a loneliness he refused to admit—Ash approached the group.
— "Is it true?" he asked abruptly.
The girl jumped and looked at him. She immediately noted his pale face, torn clothes, and electric blue eyes that seemed to see through her.
— "What?" she asked.
— "Is it true that you're going to the Academy to become gods?"
The girl let out a bitter laugh. — "We're going to become tools, mostly. I'm Lyra. And you? You don't look like a mage. You reek of monster blood and Border dust."
— "I'm Ash. And I'm not a mage."
— "Then what are you doing here? Commoners without mana have no chance in Magna Solis. They use us to power barriers or as cannon fodder in aura infantry."
Ash placed the Duke Korth coin on the sticky wooden table. The dark gleam caught Lyra's eye—and that of a nearby Church guard.
— "Where did you get that?" Lyra asked, her voice shifting. "It's a patronage mark from the Ironbound House."
— "A gift from a man who crushes monsters with thought," Ash replied.
Before he could say more, the Church guard approached. He was tall, wore a long sword at his hip, and his face bore an expression of sacred disdain.
— "A Border savage in possession of a ducal relic?" said the guard, extending his hand. "Confiscated. It must be examined by the Inquisition to ensure no trace of demonic corruption."
Refusing AuthorityAsh felt his blood boil. The coin was his only link to the future, the only price of his father's death.
— "Touch it," Ash said, dropping his voice an octave, "and I'll show you how to gut a fish from the inside."
The common room fell silent. No one insulted a Church guard, least of all in Val-de-Fer.
— "You dare threaten a servant of the One?" The guard placed his hand on his sword hilt. A faint golden aura began to emanate from him. "Kneel, heretic."
Ash saw the aura. Divine Mana, pure energy—but he also saw the flaw. The guard was arrogant; his energy flow wavered at his right shoulder.
Ash did not kneel. He rose slowly.
— "Your 'One' wasn't there when my village burned," Ash spat. "Your 'One' wasn't there when the Barrier cracked. So keep your light for those still afraid of the dark."
The guard drew his sword. The blade shone with sacred brilliance. But Ash was faster. He needed no weapon. He used the table as leverage, kicking it violently to unbalance the guard.
In the chaos, Ash slipped into the soldier's blind spot. He struck the guard's wrist with surgical precision, where the aura was weakest. The impact vibrated the divine mana, sending a feedback wave that numbed the soldier's arm.
The sword clattered to the floor.
Ash did not pursue the fight. He knew he could not win against ten guards. He grabbed his coin and pouch, glancing at Lyra one last time.
— "See you at the Academy, runt," he said, before leaping through the inn window into the rainy night of Val-de-Fer.
Flight Through the ForgesAsh ran through the industrial quarters, hearing the whistles of pursuing militiamen. He was now a wanted criminal in the Iron City. But to him, it was almost comforting. The chase, the shadows, the danger—it was what he knew best.
He eventually hid in the heights of an abandoned foundry, where the heat from nearby furnaces made the air barely tolerable.
Sitting on a metal beam, he looked at his hands. They trembled—not from fear, but from adrenaline. He had stood up to a Church guard. He had struck a militiaman. He was no longer the little Ash from the Borderlands. He was an anomaly beginning to realize that the world was not just monsters to kill, but structures to break.
He closed his eyes, Atom Sight revealing the vibrations of the foundry around him.
Lyra was right, he thought. They want to make us tools.
He pressed Korth's coin to his heart.
But a tool can also turn against the hand that holds it.
The next day, the first convoy to Magna Solis was set to depart. Ash knew he could not board it legally. He would have to sneak in, hide among the cargo, or ride on the roof. No matter what.
He would enter the Empire's capital as he was born: in the shadows, with a hatred burning hotter than all their artificial suns.