There is no sky here.
Not really.
Somewhere, high above the choking clouds and smoke-choked rooftops, it still exists, probably —
But no one in the Lower Quarter remembers what it looks like.
The light that touches this place isn't golden.
It's the color of old bones and dying coals.
It flickers between buildings like it's trying to leave.
The wind doesn't blow here.
It drags.
Dragging with it a thousand things too small to name —
Ash flakes, burnt paper, prayers that were never answered,
And the breath of people who don't bother speaking anymore.
They call it The Low.
Not the official name. There's a proper one, somewhere. On maps, in archives, in ledgers etched in gold.
But the people here just call it The Low.
Because that's what it is.
Lower than the capital.
Lower than the sect temples.
Lower than the livestock pens of outer towns.
Lower than notice.
Somewhere between the rag-wrapped alleyways and half-buried stone paths, a small body sat with his back against a cracked wall.
Not lying down. Not resting.
Not even really waiting.
Just… still.
There was something unnatural about the silence that wrapped around him.
Not heavy. Not loud.
Just the kind of silence you noticed only after you tried to listen for anything else.
There was no cough.
No shuffle of feet.
No rat scurrying past his legs.
It was the kind of silence that came just before something important was about to happen.
Not good. Not bad.
Just… change.
His knees were drawn close to his chest, but not tightly.
His hands rested palm-down in the dirt.
His head tilted slightly toward the wall, not slumped, not lifted.
He didn't breathe loud.
He didn't blink often.
He didn't seem to notice the blood crusted on his bottom lip.
If a passerby looked at him from a distance, they might've thought him asleep.
If they looked closer, they might've mistaken him for dead.
But he was neither.
He was just...
waiting.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Footsteps. Three men. Maybe four.
Boots. Not shoes.
Too heavy. Too measured.
Soldiers.
The boy didn't look up.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he already knew who they were.
One of the boots stopped beside him.
Its toe bumped against his shin.
Not a kick. Not yet.
Just enough to say: You. You're the one.
"Is this him?" someone asked. The voice was bored. Paper-thin.
Another voice replied, deeper. Dry.
"Don't need him to be anything. Just breathing."
The first voice chuckled without humor.
"Not for long."
Still, the boy didn't move.
"Name?" one asked, this time directly to him.
No answer.
Not a flinch. Not even a breath faster.
"Hmph." A small grunt. "Mute? Stupid?"
Still nothing.
The soldier raised a hand.
Maybe to strike. Maybe to lift him.
The boy spoke.
Just one word.
Not a plea. Not a name.
"No."
His voice was quiet. Scratchy.
Like someone who hadn't used it in days.
But clear.
Clean.
Final.
And for just a moment—
A breath, maybe less—
One of the soldiers hesitated.
Because there was no fear in that voice.
Not even fatigue.
There was only… memory.
Like someone who had already lived this before.
And maybe, somehow, that made it worse.
"Doesn't matter," said the leader, clearing his throat.
"Drag him. Strip the name. Burn the scroll.
We don't need a history. Just a body. The Furnace will do the rest."
The boy did not resist as two of them pulled him to his feet.
His legs wobbled.
Not out of fear.
But because the weight of standing after hours of stillness was something his body had to remember again.
His wrists were bound.
Not with chains. Not iron.
Just a simple, fraying cloth.
Why waste iron?
He wasn't going to survive the night anyway.
But still…
Even as he walked, even as the dust clung to his bare feet,
Even as his knees buckled once, twice—
He didn't ask for help.
He didn't scream.
He didn't speak again.
And none of the soldiers noticed
That the boy's lips moved,
Just once, as they passed through the gates of the Lower Quarter.
They didn't hear it.
But he whispered it.
"This time, I will not burn quietly."