The whisper didn't leave when dawn came.
It curled around Abdellah's thoughts as he dressed, slithering between the cracks of his exhaustion. The candle had burned out hours ago, but his shadow still clung to the wall like a stain.
"You felt it, didn't you?" The voice was velvet and venom. "That rage when Othman struck you. You wanted to crack his skull open on the pews."
Abdellah's fingers froze on his shirt buttons. The memory of the slap still burned.
"Next time," the shadow murmured, "you won't hesitate."
The academy bell tolled in the distance—a mechanical, grinding sound, like the gears of some great beast waking. Abdellah fled before his father could shout at him, the shadow pooling at his heels.
2. The Price of Bread
The bakery's warmth taunted him through its soot-streaked windows. Steam billowed from the vents as the automated kneading machines churned out loaves stamped with the Church's sun sigil.
Abdellah lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching loaves change hands. His stomach clenched. The ration card in his pocket was worthless here—Zone 6's baker demanded Suncoins or favors.
"Take one," the shadow urged.
His fingers twitched. The baker's mechanical arm—a crude prosthetic of rusted pistons and Blessed Steel—gripped a cleaver.
A hand grabbed his wrist.
"Don't be stupid."
A girl stood beside him, her skin too pale for the slums, her red eyes gleaming like banked coals. She wore a dress of deep crimson, the fabric shimmering unnaturally in the weak light.
The baker's wife paled, crossing herself. "Veil-touched—"
The girl pressed a blackened Suncoin into Abdellah's palm. "Buy it properly. Or don't. But if you're caught stealing, they'll brand your tongue."
Then she was gone, melting into the crowd like smoke.
The coin in his hand was warm. On its surface, the Pope's face had been scratched away, replaced by a grinning demon.
The Second Humiliation
Philosophy class again.
Othman's relic-laced gloves tapped the blackboard, where today's lesson was scrawled in Blessed Chalk:
"HONOR = OBEDIENCE TO THE CHURCH"
Abdellah's jaw tightened. Outside the barred windows, a steam-crucifix clanked past, its searchlight scanning the streets for shadow-walkers.
"Define honor," Othman barked, stopping at Abdellah's desk.
"Honor is the lie cowards tell to justify cruelty," Abdellah said.
The ruler came down once. Twice. Three times across his knuckles. The Blessed Steel edge drew blood—holy wounds that would take weeks to heal.
The shadow at his feet rippled.
The Alley and the Opportunity
After school, Abdellah took the long way home, through the alleys where the Church's light didn't reach. The air stank of mildew and the ozone-tang of failed wardings.
A man slumped against the wall, his breath ragged. A soldier, judging by the tattered uniform. Blood seeped through his fingers where he clutched his side. A wound from a demon's claw, maybe. Or a heretic's blade.
Abdellah should have walked away.
Then the man groaned, his head lolling. A coin purse slipped from his belt.
Gold. Real gold.
"Take it," the shadow hissed.
His pulse roared in his ears.
The soldier was dying anyway.
The First Kill
The soldier's eyes fluttered open as Abdellah reached for the purse.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other.
Then the man's hand shot out, gripping Abdellah's wrist with surprising strength. "Thief—"
Panic surged.
"Kill him."
The voice wasn't a whisper this time. It was a command.
Abdellah's free hand found a loose brick.
He didn't think.
He swung.
The crack of bone was louder than he expected.
The soldier slumped.
Blood pooled—then vanished, seeping into the cracks between the cobblestones like the alley itself was drinking.
"The purse," the shadow reminded him.
Numb, Abdellah grabbed it.
The coins inside were warm.
The Encounter
She was waiting outside his shack.
Natalia.
Up close, she was even more unnatural. Her red eyes glowed faintly in the dusk, her dress shifting like liquid despite the lack of wind. The scent of jasmine and iron clung to her.
"You swing that brick like a child," she said, tilting her head. "All rage, no finesse."
Abdellah's breath caught. She'd seen.
"Next time," she whispered, stepping so close her lips nearly brushed his ear, "aim for the temple. Quicker. Cleaner."
Then she was gone, leaving only the memory of her smile—and the coin purse heavy in his pocket.
The Reflection
That night, Abdellah counted the stolen coins under his bed.
Enough for food. For clothes. Maybe even a knife from the black market.
His shadow stretched across the floor, darker than it should be.
In the mirror, his eyes flickered black.
"This is only the beginning," the voice promised.
Abdellah clenched the coins until they bit into his palm.
He didn't smile.
But he didn't look away either.