The sun hadn't yet broken the horizon when the sky began to change.
Kirato stood in the empty street, arms crossed, watching the darkness give way to something else. Not dawn. Something stranger. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, and he'd been standing here long enough that his legs had gone from aching to numb. How long had it been? An hour? Two? Time felt slippery when you were running on fear and stubbornness instead of rest.
Clouds rolled in from the sea—thick, dark, and moving far too fast to be natural. The air pressure shifted, making his ears pop. The temperature dropped so suddenly that goosebumps rippled across his arms. He rubbed at them absently, watching his breath suddenly visible in the air. Within minutes, the clear night sky had transformed into a churning mass of gray and black, lightning flickering in the distance like trapped nerves firing.
Behind him, the brothel door creaked open—that specific creak he'd learned meant the left hinge needed oil. Maya stepped out, pipe already lit, smoke curling upward to meet the coming storm. Even in the pre-dawn gloom, he could see the exhaustion in the way she moved, like gravity had gotten heavier just for her.
"That's him," she said quietly.
Kirato glanced at her. Her face was difficult to read in the dim light, but something in her voice had shifted. Not quite relief. Not quite fear. Something caught between the two. "The clouds?"
"He always did have a flair for the dramatic." There was something in Maya's voice—relief, maybe. Or nostalgia. Or that complicated mix of emotions that came with seeing an old friend after years of silence. "Commander Hector Ashfield doesn't do subtle entrances."
Thunder rumbled, low and distant, and Kirato felt it in his chest like a second heartbeat.
Then Kirato heard it. Laughter. Deep, booming laughter that echoed down the empty street like a challenge to the dawn itself. The kind of laugh that made you turn your head even if you didn't want to. The kind that took up space.
A figure emerged from the morning fog—massive, broad-shouldered, a white coat draped over his shoulders and billowing slightly in the wind that he'd probably created himself. The star badge on his chest caught what little light there was, gleaming silver like a challenge. A cigar jutted from his mouth, smoke mixing with the mist in a way that made the whole scene look staged. Theatrical.
Behind him, three soldiers struggled to keep pace, weighed down with packs and weapons, their boots heavy on the cobblestones. Their breathing was labored—they'd clearly been marching for hours. The Commander didn't seem to notice or care. He walked like a man who'd never been tired a day in his life.
He looked up, spotted Maya, and his grin widened—sharp and bright, morning light glinting off a golden front tooth that caught the dim light like a tiny sun.
"MAYA!" His voice boomed across the street, loud enough to wake half the district. Kirato winced at the volume. Inside the brothel, he heard someone yelp in surprise, probably jolted from whatever restless sleep they'd managed. "Been too long, old friend! GAHAHA!"
He strode forward like he owned the city, like the cobblestones had been laid specifically for his boots to strike. Each step was heavy, purposeful, the kind of walk that said I'm here and you're going to know it. Maya descended the steps to meet him, and for a moment, they just stood there—two old soldiers, smoke rising between them like ghosts of old battles.
Kirato watched Maya's face shift through half a dozen expressions in the space of a breath. Recognition. Fondness. Worry. Relief. The kind of complicated emotions you could only have for someone who'd seen you at your worst and stuck around anyway.
Then Hector pulled the cigar from his mouth and his grin softened into something genuine, something that made the hard lines of his face look almost gentle. "Still smoking that old pipe?"
Maya raised an eyebrow, pulling the pipe from her own lips. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—the first real smile Kirato had seen from her since the night began. "Still smoking those cheap cigars?"
"They're not cheap!" Hector's laugh boomed again, and this time there was genuine offense in it, the kind of mock outrage between old friends who knew each other's buttons. "They're affordable. Big difference!"
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the fear, the raid coming tonight—Maya smiled. Just a little. The kind of smile that made her look younger, less worn down by whatever weight she'd been carrying. "It's good to see you, old friend."
Hector's expression shifted, the humor fading into something more serious. Real concern flickered across his features—the kind you couldn't fake. He stepped closer, voice dropping to something almost gentle. "It's good to see you too, Maya. Though I wish to hell it were under better circumstances." He glanced at the brothel, taking in the boarded windows, the tension visible even in the building's posture, then back at her. His eyes were searching her face, reading things Kirato couldn't see. "Your message didn't say much. Just 'I need help. Now.' So here I am."
"Thank you for coming." Maya's voice was soft now, and Kirato heard something in it he'd never heard before. Vulnerability. Like she'd been holding herself together by sheer will and now, finally, could let someone else carry some of the weight.
"Don't thank me yet." Hector replaced the cigar, taking a long drag. His hand shook slightly as he did—just a tremor, barely visible, but there. Human. Tired. "I don't even know what I'm walking into."
"Come inside," Maya said, turning toward the door. "I'll explain everything."
The common room felt too small for someone like Hector.
He filled the space just by existing—not through size alone, though he was certainly large enough, but through sheer presence. The kind that made people sit up straighter, made conversations pause, made even the air feel heavier. It was like someone had turned up the gravity in the room, made everything more real.
Rose was there, along with Amber and two of the other women. They'd been cleaning, preparing, moving furniture to barricade windows. Now they just stared, hands frozen mid-task, dust rags hanging limp. One of them—Lila, Kirato thought—had been halfway through hammering a board across a window. The hammer was still raised, forgotten.
Hector swept his gaze across the room, taking in everything—the boarded windows, the exhausted faces, the tension thick enough to cut. His eyes were sharp, cataloging details the way a soldier did, seeing things beyond what was visible. Then his eyes landed on the figure standing in the back corner.
Kirato.
Arms crossed. Expression flat. But his eyes were sharp, tracking Hector's every movement, every breath, every shift in weight. Waiting. Ready. His whole body was a coiled spring.
Hector's grin returned, spreading across his face like sunrise. "And who's this?"
Before anyone could answer, Hector moved.
One moment he was standing near the door. The next, he was directly in front of Kirato, so close their faces were inches apart. So close Kirato could smell the cigar smoke on his breath, see the fine scars on his weathered face, count the gold flecks in his eyes.
Kirato's hand had been moving—instinct, reaching for his power, that familiar vibration building in his chest—but Hector was already there. Too fast. Impossibly fast. The kind of speed that made you question what you'd just seen, made you wonder if he'd teleported instead of moved.
"So THIS is the kid!" Hector's golden tooth flashed as he grinned wider. His breath was warm against Kirato's face. "Maya told me about you in her letter! Said you've got spirit!"
Kirato blinked, still processing the fact that this man had crossed the room faster than he could react. His Tremor hadn't even had time to activate. His heart was hammering in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system with nowhere to go. His hands were shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the aborted motion, the power that had started to build and had nowhere to discharge.
Hector clapped a massive hand on Kirato's shoulder—hard enough that Kirato's knees nearly buckled. The weight of it was immense, like being held down by a boulder. Warm. Solid. Real. "Good! We'll need that tonight!" He laughed again, that deep rumbling sound that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest, somewhere beyond normal human lungs. "GAHAHA! You've got good instincts, kid. I saw that hand move. Most people freeze when I do that."
Kirato pulled back slightly, rolling his shoulder, trying to work feeling back into it. His arm tingled where Hector had gripped him, like the circulation had been cut off and was just now returning. "You're... Commander Hector?"
"THE Commander Hector Ashfield, if we're being formal!" He released Kirato and turned back to Maya, gesturing broadly, his coat swirling with the motion. "Hey, Maya! Why don't you lend me this kid after all this is over? He's got potential! I could use someone with his energy in my unit!"
Maya raised an eyebrow, taking a slow drag from her pipe. The smoke curled up between them, and through it, Kirato saw her expression—half amused, half exasperated. The look of someone who'd heard this pitch before. "You can have him after we deal with Nuro."
Hector blinked. His grin faltered for just a moment. "Nuro? What Nuro?"
The room went silent.
Even the sound of breathing seemed to stop. Rose's hand, which had been moving to adjust a barricade, froze mid-motion. Amber went very still, her eyes widening. The other women exchanged glances—the kind of wordless communication that came from shared fear.
Maya's expression hardened. Her jaw tightened, and she set her pipe down on the nearest table with more force than necessary. It made a sharp crack against the wood that made everyone flinch. "You mean you came all this way and you don't even know what's happening?"
"You said you needed help!" Hector spread his hands, still grinning, but there was something uncertain in his eyes now. Something that said oh shit, did I miss something? "I came! That's what friends do!"
"The Nuro guild is planning to raid this building tonight," Maya said, her voice tight, controlled, the kind of calm that came from barely contained fury. "After midnight. They're coming for me specifically, and they're willing to burn the entire place down if anyone resists. They'll kill everyone here if they have to." Her hands were trembling slightly. She pressed them flat against the table to still them. "Everyone, Hector. Rose. Amber. Lila. All of them. Dead or worse."
Hector's grin didn't falter. "Oh. Is that all?"
"Is that—" Maya's voice rose, cracking slightly. "Hector, this is serious! We're talking about armed guild members, possibly dozens of them, coming to—"
"GAHAHA!" Hector's laugh cut her off. He waved his hand dismissively, cigar smoke trailing like ribbons in the air. "Maya, Maya. You're worried about some guild thugs? Please. I've dealt with worse before breakfast."
In the back of the room, Kirato felt something hot and sharp twist in his chest.
Casual. This man was being casual about it. About Rose potentially dying. About Maya being taken. About everything they'd been preparing for, everything they'd been terrified of all night. All the fear, all the preparation, all the sleepless hours—and he was laughing.
His hands clenched into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms. He welcomed the pain. It gave him something to focus on besides the rage building in his chest.
"Hey," Kirato said, his voice low and dangerous. The word came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw. "Maybe you don't understand. These aren't just 'thugs.' They're—"
"I understand perfectly, kid." Hector didn't even look at him. Didn't even acknowledge him beyond the words. Just kept staring at Maya, kept smoking his cigar like they were discussing the weather. "Guild members. Trained. Armed. Probably Awakened, some of them. Coming in the night when they think you're defenseless." He took another drag from his cigar, slow and deliberate. "Standard raid tactics. Nothing I haven't seen before."
"Then maybe you should take it seriously!" Kirato stepped forward, his power stirring in his chest—that familiar vibration building with his anger, responding to his emotion like it always did. Heat spread through his limbs, making his fingers tingle, making his vision sharpen. "These are people's lives! Our lives! You can't just—"
He moved without thinking, reaching for Hector's collar. His hand shot out, fingers grasping for the white fabric, ready to grab, to shake, to make this man understand—
The wind hit him like a wall.
Kirato stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing. His boots scraped against the floor as he fought for balance. It hadn't been a push—not a physical one. Just wind. Sudden, forceful, precisely aimed. Cold air that had come from nowhere and everywhere at once, hitting him square in the chest hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. It had come from the open window behind Hector, a blast of cold air that had repelled Kirato before his hand could even get close.
His chest ached where the wind had struck. His eyes watered from the sudden cold. He could still feel it on his skin, could still feel the pressure of it.
Hector still hadn't turned around. He was looking at Maya, not Kirato. Hadn't even acknowledged the attempt. His cigar didn't even waver in his mouth.
Kirato stared at the window. At the dark clouds visible through the gap in the boards. At the wind that was somehow still moving wrong, circling the room in patterns that had nothing to do with natural airflow. He could feel it now, could feel the way the air pressure was all wrong, the way the drafts moved in spirals instead of straight lines.
He's controlling it, Kirato realized, his stomach sinking. The weather outside. The wind. All of it.
And he'd done it without even looking. Without even trying. Like breathing. Like blinking. So casual he probably hadn't even noticed doing it.
The gap between them wasn't just large. It was insurmountable. A chasm. An ocean. Kirato could spend his whole life training and never cross it.
"Kirato." Maya's voice was gentle but firm. The voice she used when she was trying to defuse something before it exploded. "Stand down."
Kirato stepped back, his jaw tight enough to ache. His teeth were grinding together. His power settled, the vibration in his chest fading to nothing, leaving behind a hollow feeling that was somehow worse. Useless. That's what he was. Useless against someone like this. All his training, all his practice, all the times he'd felt proud of his control over his Tremor—worthless.
Hector finally turned, and his expression had shifted slightly—less jovial, more appraising. He looked at Kirato the way you'd look at a horse you were considering buying. Assessing. Measuring. "You've got fire, kid. I like that. But save it for the people who actually deserve it." He nodded toward the window, toward the storm gathering outside. "The guild members coming tonight? They're the enemy. Not me."
"Then act like you care!" Kirato snapped. His voice cracked slightly on the last word, embarrassing him.
"I do care." Hector's voice had lost its humor entirely now. For the first time since entering, he looked serious. Really serious. The kind of serious that made you understand why he was a Commander. "That's why I'm here. But panicking doesn't help anyone. Fear doesn't win fights. Preparation and confidence do." He turned back to Maya, his voice softening slightly. "You said they're coming after midnight. That gives us all day to prepare. And you called me here because you knew I could help. So let me do that."
Maya studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for something—reassurance, maybe. Or certainty. Finally, she nodded, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just..." She exhaled slowly, and the breath seemed to carry some of her fear with it. "It's been a long night."
"I bet." Hector's grin returned, gentler this time. Warmer. The kind of smile you gave to someone you actually cared about. "But you're not alone anymore, Maya. That's why you sent for me, right? Because you knew I'd come. Because you knew I'd help."
"I did."
"Good." He looked around the room, taking in the boarded windows, the barricades, the frightened faces. His eyes lingered on each woman for a moment—seeing them, really seeing them, not just as pieces on a board but as people. Scared people. "Then here's what we're going to do. First, I'm going to set up some defensive measures—weather-related, nothing they'll see coming. Second, we're going to fortify this place properly. And third..." He paused, making sure he had everyone's attention. Even Rose had stopped what she was doing, was watching him with hope starting to kindle in her eyes. "Nobody outside this building knows I'm here, right?"
Maya nodded. "That's right."
"Perfect." Hector's grin was sharp now, predatory. The kind of expression that made you glad he was on your side. "Then I'm your trump card, Maya. The Nuro guild thinks they're raiding a defenseless brothel. Instead, they're walking into a trap with a Commander waiting for them. By the time they realize what's happening, it'll be too late."
For the first time since the night began, hope flickered in Maya's eyes. Real hope. The kind that made her stand straighter, made her look less like she was drowning. "You really think we can win?"
"I don't think, Maya. I know." Hector replaced his cigar and crossed his arms. His coat settled around him like armor. "Trust me. By the time tonight is over, the Nuro guild is going to regret ever hearing your name."
The conversation continued—Hector explaining his defensive strategy, Maya asking questions about positioning and timing, the tension in the room slowly easing as hope took root like a stubborn weed pushing through concrete. Rose moved closer to listen, her medical mind already cataloging potential injuries, preparing for the worst while hoping for the best. The other women began to relax slightly, reassured by the Commander's presence, by his confidence that felt unshakeable.
Then Hector's head snapped toward the door. His eyes narrowed, his whole body going still in that way predators did when they sensed something wrong.
"Someone just used a Tether."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Maya frowned. "A what?"
"Communication power." Hector was already moving toward the door, his boots heavy on the floorboards. Each step was measured, purposeful. He pulled it open and looked at his soldiers stationed outside. The morning light silhouetted them, making them look like paper cutouts. "Was that you?"
One of the guards nodded. He didn't quite meet Hector's eyes. "Yes, Commander. Checking in with the perimeter team."
Hector's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Strange. I didn't catch the frequency."
The guard shifted slightly, his weight moving from foot to foot. Nervous energy. "Different encoding, maybe? We've been testing new protocols—"
"Maybe." Hector's eyes swept back into the room. His gaze moved across Rose, then Amber, then Kirato. Each person got a long look, the kind that stripped away pretense, that tried to see past skin and bone to whatever truth lay beneath. He exhaled slowly, something uncertain flickering across his face—doubt, maybe. Or suspicion. Or just the weight of command, of being responsible for everyone's safety.
Then he looked at Maya. "You should hide somewhere safe tonight. Alone. Easier to extract one person if things go wrong."
"We're not leaving her alone," Rose said immediately. Her voice was firm, the way it got when she'd made up her mind about something. Stubborn. Loyal. The kind of voice that didn't accept arguments.
Amber moved closer to Maya, her voice soft but clear. "I will stay with her."
Maya met Hector's eyes. "You can't convince them, Hector. "
Hector studied all three of them—Maya, Rose, Amber. The silence stretched for a moment too long. Long enough that Kirato could hear his own heartbeat, could hear the creak of the building settling, could hear someone breathing too fast in the corner.
Then he turned away, his coat swirling with the motion. "Your house, your rules."
He moved back toward the window, but his jaw stayed tight. His hand clenched and un-clenched at his side—a nervous gesture, human, the first sign of uncertainty Kirato had seen from him. Something about that Tether activation didn't sit right. But he couldn't put his finger on what. It was like a word on the tip of your tongue, a name you couldn't quite remember, an itch you couldn't quite reach.
Outside, the guard returned to his post, expression carefully neutral. Professional. Unreadable.
Inside, Amber stood close to Maya, looking small and frightened. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisted together. She looked young suddenly. Vulnerable.
Nobody said anything more about it.
Hector wasted no time.
Within the hour, he'd transformed the area around the brothel into something that felt more like a military perimeter than a residential district. His three soldiers moved efficiently, taking orders without question, their movements synchronized from years of working together. They communicated with hand signals more than words, a silent language born from battlefield necessity.
Kirato watched from the doorway as Hector stood in the street, eyes closed, cigar clenched between his teeth. Smoke curled upward, mixing with the fog. The Commander's hands moved in slow, deliberate patterns—not quite gestures, more like he was feeling the air itself, testing its currents, reading its mood. His fingers traced invisible lines, his palms pressed against nothing, and somehow the world responded.
The clouds responded.
They rolled in thicker, darker, gathering overhead like they'd been summoned. Like they were answering a call only they could hear. The fog that had been light and patchy became dense, oppressive, clinging to the buildings and turning the street into a maze of gray shadows. Kirato watched as the visibility dropped—twenty feet, fifteen, ten. Maybe less. He held his hand out in front of his face and could barely see his own fingers through the thick mist.
"Weather manipulation," Rose said quietly, appearing beside Kirato. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. Like they were witnessing something sacred. "I've heard about it, but seeing it is..."
"Different," Kirato finished. His throat felt dry. He swallowed, tried to find moisture in his mouth and couldn't.
"Yeah."
They watched as Hector opened his eyes and nodded, satisfied with his work. He looked tired now—not exhausted, but there was a strain around his eyes, a tightness in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. Using his power took something from him. Cost something. He turned to one of his soldiers, his voice carrying clearly through the fog. "Mark the safe paths. White chalk on the corners. Our people need to know where to run if things go south."
"Yes, Commander."
"And set up the perimeter markers. I want to know the moment anyone crosses into the fog zone."
The soldier saluted—a crisp motion, practiced a thousand times—and moved off, disappearing into the mist within seconds.
Hector caught Kirato watching and grinned. Some of his energy had returned, though there were still shadows under his eyes. "Want to help, kid?"
"With what?"
"Come here. I'll show you."
Kirato descended the steps, Rose following close behind. Her presence was comforting somehow—a reminder that he wasn't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Hector led them down the street about twenty paces, then stopped and gestured to the fog around them. His movements were slower now, more deliberate, like he was conserving energy.
"See this?" He waved his hand through the mist. It swirled around his fingers, clinging to his skin like it was alive. "This isn't just cover. It's a weapon. Anyone who doesn't know these streets will get lost in seconds. They'll walk in circles. Panic. Make mistakes."
"And you can control it?" Rose asked. Her healer's mind was already working, Kirato could tell. Already thinking about how this would affect breathing, visibility, spatial awareness.
"To a degree." Hector pulled his cigar out and tapped ash onto the cobblestones. The ash disappeared into the fog immediately, swallowed by the gray. "I can't see through it any better than they can—I'm not omniscient. But I can feel disturbances. When people move through my fog, it's like... ripples in water. I know they're there. I know roughly where." He grinned, but it was strained now, tired around the edges. "Gives me an edge."
Kirato frowned. A question was forming in his mind, one he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. "What about us? What if we need to run?"
"That's why we're marking paths." Hector pointed to a building corner where one of his soldiers was drawing a white chalk line. The mark was clear even through the fog—bright, deliberate, impossible to miss. "Follow the marks, you'll get to the main street. From there, you know your own city. Just get to the docks and disappear into the crowds."
"What about you?" Rose asked. Her voice was soft, concerned. The way she asked questions about patients.
"I'll be busy." Hector's grin faded slightly, and for a moment, Kirato saw something in his eyes. Not fear, exactly. But awareness. Understanding of what was coming. "My job is to hold them here. Keep them focused on me. Give you all time to evacuate if it comes to that."
"You can't fight them all alone," Kirato said. The words came out more forcefully than he intended.
"Watch me."
There was no bravado in Hector's voice now. Just cold certainty. The kind that came from experience. From having done impossible things before and survived them. From knowing exactly what he was capable of and what it would cost.
By midday, the preparations were complete.
The fog had settled into every corner of the district, thick and unnatural. It pressed against windows, seeped under doors, filled lungs with moisture that made breathing feel heavy. The sky above churned with dark clouds that occasionally flickered with distant lightning—brief illuminations that made the fog glow from within, turning it into something alive and hungry.
The air felt heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Like standing on a precipice. Like the world was holding its breath.
Inside the brothel, the women moved quietly through their routines. Packing small bags with essentials—clothes, coin, documents, anything that couldn't be replaced. Checking escape routes, making sure windows opened smoothly, that doors weren't blocked. Trying to keep busy, trying not to think about what was coming. But it was there in every movement, every glance, every breath. Fear. Waiting.
Maya sat in her room, smoking her pipe, staring at nothing. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling, forming shapes that meant nothing, dissolving into nothing. Her hands rested in her lap, still for once. Tired.
Amber brought her tea—a small gesture, thoughtful. The cup was warm between her hands, steam rising to mix with the pipe smoke. "You should rest," she said softly. "You've been awake all night."
"I'll rest when this is over." Maya didn't look at her. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle distance, seeing something Amber couldn't. "One way or another."
Amber set the tea down on the desk with a soft clink. "We'll be okay. Commander Hector is here. He's—"
"Strong. Yes." Maya finally looked at her, and her eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. "But strength isn't always enough, Amber. Sometimes the enemy is smarter. Or luckier. Or just more willing to burn everything down to get what they want." She took a shaky breath. "I've seen strong people die. Seen them fall because they were outnumbered, or betrayed, or just made one wrong move at the wrong time."
"They won't get you," Amber said firmly. Her jaw was set, her eyes fierce. "I won't let them."
Maya smiled, tired but genuine. The kind of smile that hurt a little. "You're a good girl, Amber. Thank you."
Amber left the room quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She stood in the hallway for a moment, hand still on the doorknob. The metal was cool under her palm. She could feel her own pulse in her fingertips, too fast, too hard.
"I won't let Maya get hurt." Kirato heard Amber's muttering.
Then she moved on, her footsteps soft on the floor.
Afternoon bled into evening.
The sun moved across the sky, hidden behind Hector's clouds, visible only as a diffuse glow that gradually shifted position and then faded. The light drained from the world slowly, reluctantly, like water spiraling down a drain.
Hector made one final sweep of the perimeter, checking his weather patterns, adjusting the fog density in certain areas—thicker near the main approach, thinner near the escape routes. Making sure the storm overhead was primed and ready, that the lightning was building, that the wind would respond when he called it. His soldiers had taken up positions—two at the front entrance, one at the back. Not enough to stop a raid, but enough to sound the alarm. Enough to buy precious seconds.
"They'll come after midnight," Hector said to Maya as they stood in the common room. Most of the women had retreated upstairs, trying to get what rest they could before nightfall. The floor above creaked occasionally with their movements. "That's standard for this kind of operation. Wait until people are tired, off-guard, asleep if possible."
"And you'll be ready?"
"As ready as I can be." Hector's jaw tightened slightly. His hand moved to his chest, pressing there briefly. Checking something. Pain, maybe. Or just exhaustion. "But I need you to understand something, Maya. I can't go all out here."
Maya frowned, her pipe pausing halfway to her lips. "What do you mean?"
"This isn't a battlefield. It's a residential district. Civilian homes on every side." Hector gestured toward the window, toward the fog-shrouded buildings beyond. Toward the families sleeping in those buildings, the children, the elderly, the people who had nothing to do with any of this. "If I unleash the full extent of my weather manipulation—if I call down the kind of lightning strikes I'd use in open combat, or create wind strong enough to tear through enemy formations—I'll level half this district. Kill dozens of innocent people who have nothing to do with this." His voice was quiet now, heavy with the weight of it. "I'll destroy homes. Families. Lives."
"So you're handicapped."
"Restrained," Hector corrected, and there was an edge to his voice. Pride, maybe. Or stubbornness. "There's a difference. I can still fight. Still defend. But I have to be surgical about it. Precise. No massive area attacks. No devastating storms." He pulled his cigar from his mouth and stared at the glowing tip like it held answers. "It gives them an advantage they wouldn't have on a real battlefield."
Maya's expression darkened. Her hands tightened around her pipe until her knuckles went white. "The Nuro guild knows this."
"Of course they do. That's why they're hitting you here instead of trying to ambush you on the road or in the wilderness." Hector's voice was grim, but there was respect in it too. Respect for an enemy who'd thought things through, who'd found the weakness and exploited it. "Urban raids are harder to defend against when you're trying not to kill bystanders. They're counting on my restraint."
"And if you didn't restrain yourself?"
Hector was quiet for a moment. The silence stretched between them, heavy with implications. "Then I'd win. Easily." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Not boasting. Just stating truth. "But Thorncoast would have a lot of funerals to hold." He replaced the cigar, the motion slow, deliberate. "That's not happening. I became a Commander to protect people, not slaughter them."
"Even if it means putting yourself at greater risk?"
"Especially then." Hector's expression was resolute, carved from stone. "That's what separates us from people like the Nuro guild, Maya. They don't care about collateral. We do. Even when it costs us." He looked at her, really looked at her, and his eyes were sad. Tired. "Even when it might cost us everything."
Maya studied him, then nodded slowly. Understanding passed between them—the kind that came from shared experience, from having made impossible choices and lived with the consequences. "You're a good man, Hector Ashfield."
"I'm a soldier," he said simply. "But thank you."
He moved toward the window, looking out at the fog-shrouded street. His reflection in the glass looked ghostly, insubstantial. "If things go wrong tonight—"
"They won't."
"If they do," Hector continued, his voice firm, brooking no argument, "you run. Don't try to fight. Don't try to negotiate. Just run. You understand me?"
Maya looked at him for a long moment. Her throat worked, swallowing something—fear, maybe. Or tears she wouldn't let fall. "You sound like you're expecting to lose."
"I'm expecting variables I can't control." Hector blew out a stream of smoke. It hung in the air between them, thick and gray. "I'm good, Maya. But I'm not invincible. Especially not when I'm fighting with one hand tied behind my back." He met her eyes, and his gaze was steady, honest. "Promise me you'll run."
"I promise."
"Good." Hector's expression softened. The hard edges of the Commander melted away, leaving just a tired man who cared about his friend. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you called me. Even if things go to hell tonight, I'm glad I was here."
"So am I." Maya's voice was quiet, thick with emotion she was trying to control. "Thank you, old friend."
They stood there in silence, two veterans who'd seen too much, lost too much, and were still somehow standing. Still somehow fighting. The weight of their shared history hung between them like a bridge—all those years, all those battles, all those people they couldn't save.
The storm rumbled overhead—controlled, restrained, waiting.
Night was coming.
The sun set slowly, reluctantly, as if even the sky knew what was coming.
Kirato stood in the kitchen, checking his knife for the third time. The blade gleamed in the dim light, sharp enough to cut paper. He ran his thumb along the edge—carefully, not enough to break skin, just enough to feel the keenness of it. It was a good knife. Well-balanced. The kind you could trust.
It would be useless against Awakened powers, but it made him feel slightly less helpless. Slightly more like he had some control over what was coming.
When Lila poked her head in, he nearly dropped it. "Rose is looking for you. Back steps."
He nodded and headed out, his heart already picking up pace. Rose. She'd want to talk. Want to make plans. Want to make him promise things he couldn't promise.
Rose found him exactly where she'd expected—on the back steps, sharpening a kitchen knife that would be useless against Awakened powers but made him feel slightly less helpless.
"Still haven't studied," she said, sitting beside him. The wood was cool beneath her, damp from the fog. She could feel the moisture seeping through her skirt.
Kirato didn't look up. The scrape of the whetstone against steel was rhythmic, almost meditative. "Don't need to."
"Really?" Rose's tone was light, almost teasing—trying to distract them both from what was coming. Trying to pretend this was just another normal evening. "How many chambers does the heart have?"
"Four." Kirato tested the blade's edge against his thumb. The metal was cold, unforgiving. "Everyone knows that."
"And what do they do?"
"Pump blood. Keep you alive." He finally glanced at her, and Rose saw the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. "Why does it matter?"
Rose was quiet for a moment, staring at her hands. Healer's hands. Hands that had saved people, mended wounds, brought comfort. Hands that had also failed. That had felt life slip away despite everything she did. Would they be enough tonight? Could she save anyone when the Nuro guild came? Or would she just watch people die, helpless, useless?
"I don't know," she said softly. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I just... I always thought there was something more to it. The heart, I mean. Why four chambers? Why not three, or five?" She shook her head, feeling stupid suddenly. Childish. "Probably just me overthinking."
"You always overthink."
"And you never think enough." She nudged his shoulder gently. The contact was warm, solid, real. Proof that they were both still here, still alive. "Balance, right?"
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant rumble of Hector's thunder. The storm was building. Waiting. Just like them. The air smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet, like ozone and possibility.
"Rose?" Kirato's voice was quiet. Almost reluctant.
"Yeah?"
"If things go wrong tonight..." He didn't finish. Couldn't finish. The words stuck in his throat like broken glass.
Rose reached over and took his hand. Her fingers were warm, steady. Smaller than his, softer, but somehow stronger. "Then we run. We survive. We find each other on the other side." She squeezed gently, willing him to believe her, to believe that they could make it through this. "That's what we do, Kiri. We survive."
Kirato squeezed back, but he didn't meet her eyes. His gaze was fixed on the knife in his other hand, on the way the fading light caught the edge.
He didn't tell her that he had no intention of running. That if the Nuro guild came for Maya, he'd stand between them and her until his body gave out. That survival wasn't the goal anymore—protection was. That he'd rather die protecting someone than live knowing he'd run away.
He didn't tell her because she already knew.
And because if he said it out loud, she'd try to stop him. She'd argue. She'd make logical points about how dying wouldn't help anyone, about how Maya would want him to live, about how throwing his life away wasn't brave, it was stupid.
And she'd be right.
But it wouldn't change anything.
They sat there for a few more minutes, neither one speaking, both knowing this might be the last quiet moment they'd have together. The last time they'd sit like this, hands clasped, breathing the same air. Rose committed it to memory—the warmth of his hand, the sound of his breathing, the way the dying light painted everything in shades of gold and shadow.
Finally, Rose stood. Her hand slipped from his, and the loss of contact felt like a physical wound. "I should check on the others. Make sure everyone's ready."
"Yeah."
She paused at the door, looking back at him. He looked small suddenly, hunched over that useless knife, trying to prepare for a fight he couldn't win. Her chest ached. "Kirato?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't do anything stupid tonight."
He didn't answer. Just kept sharpening the knife. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Rose sighed, then disappeared inside. The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded final. Permanent.
Kirato sat there for another minute, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading into the building. Then he set down the whetstone and stood, tucking the knife into his belt.
Time to go.
Kirato was heading for the door when he nearly collided with Hector in the narrow hallway.
The Commander leaned against the wall, cigar glowing in the dim light like a tiny ember. Watching him with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. Eyes that had seen a thousand young men try to prove themselves. Eyes that knew how most of those stories ended.
"Running away already?" Hector's voice was casual, almost amused. But there was an edge beneath it. A test.
Kirato stopped. His hand was on the door handle, the metal cool under his palm. "What?"
"Saw you saying goodbye to that girl. Rose, right?" Hector took a drag from his cigar. The tip flared bright, illuminating his face in harsh planes of light and shadow. "Had that look. The 'this might be the last time' look. So I'm asking—you running away already?"
Heat flared in Kirato's chest. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "I'm not running anywhere."
"Could've fooled me."
"I'm going on patrol," Kirato snapped. The words came out harsher than he intended, defensive. "Checking the perimeter. Making sure—"
"Making sure you're not here when the fighting starts?" Hector's grin widened, and there was something cruel in it now. Something testing. Pushing. "Smart, honestly. You're what, nineteen? Barely awakened? No shame in getting out while you can. Live to fight another day. All that."
Kirato's hands clenched into fists. His power stirred—that familiar vibration building in his chest, hot and angry and demanding release. The hallway seemed to contract around him, the walls pressing in, the air growing thick. "I'm not running," he said through gritted teeth.
"Then prove it."
The Tremor exploded outward.
The floor shook. The walls rattled. Picture frames hanging in the hallway jumped and tilted. Dust rained down from the ceiling. A shockwave of force rippled through the narrow space, concentrated and vicious, aimed directly at Hector's chest. Kirato poured everything into it—all his anger, all his fear, all his desperate need to prove he wasn't useless.
Hector didn't move.
Didn't even brace himself. Didn't shift his weight or tense his muscles or do anything that would indicate he'd noticed the attack.
The shockwave hit him and stopped. Just stopped. Like it had struck a mountain instead of a man. Like it had hit something so immovably solid that physics itself gave up.
Kirato stared, breathing hard, his power still humming uselessly in his chest. His heart was hammering. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. He'd given that everything he had, and Hector looked like he'd been hit by a light breeze.
Hector took another drag from his cigar, completely unbothered. Smoke curled up toward the ceiling, lazy and casual. "Good. Use that aggression tonight. You'll need it." His expression shifted, the grin fading into something more serious. Something heavy. "I've got a bad feeling about tonight."
Kirato blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. His brain was still trying to process what had just happened, still trying to understand the gap between them. "What? You're a Commander. I thought you could take down entire cities. Hundreds of people with just one hand."
Hector laughed—that deep, booming sound that seemed to shake the walls more than Kirato's Tremor had. "I can do that with one finger, kid."
They stood there for a moment, the laughter fading into silence. The hallway felt smaller now, more oppressive. The shadows in the corners seemed darker.
Then Hector's expression went dark. All the humor drained from his face like water from a broken cup. "Maya will run again after this."
Kirato frowned. "What?"
"Her location's been revealed. Again." Hector's voice was quiet now, stripped of all humor, all bravado. Just tired. So tired. "That's how this works. She hides, they find her, she runs. It's been the same cycle for years." He stared at his cigar like it was the most interesting thing in the world. "I've seen it happen a dozen times. Different cities. Different names. Same ending."
"What do you mean?" Kirato stepped forward, the floor still vibrating slightly from his power. "We'll protect her. At all costs. That's why you're here, right? That's why we're—"
"Who's 'we'?" Hector interrupted. His eyes were sharp now, cutting. "I won't be here for long, kid. I have duties to attend to. A garrison to command. A city to protect. Soldiers who depend on me." He blew out smoke, and it hung between them like a barrier. "You're lucky I'm even here at all."
Kirato's jaw tightened. His hands were shaking—not from fear, but from anger. From frustration. "Then I will. If you won't be here, I will. I'll always be the one to protect this place. To protect them."
Hector studied him for a long moment. Really studied him, like he was trying to see past the anger and bravado to whatever lay beneath. Then he smiled—smaller this time, almost fond. Almost sad. "Maya has a habit of picking up strays, doesn't she?" He laughed, but it was gentler now, touched with something like nostalgia. "Lost kids with nowhere else to go. She takes them in, gives them a home, and then..."
He trailed off. The sentence hung unfinished in the air.
The laugh dropped entirely. His expression went serious again, almost grave. He looked older suddenly, worn down by years of seeing the same patterns repeat.
"If you're really serious about protecting Maya, then become strong." Hector straightened, towering over Kirato. Even without trying, his presence was overwhelming. The difference between a mountain and a hill. "Come under me. Train with my unit. I'll help you become strong enough to actually matter when the next threat comes."
Kirato didn't hesitate. The word came out before he even fully processed the offer. "No."
Hector raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"I don't want to be trash like the military."
For a moment, Hector just stared at him. His expression was completely blank, unreadable. Then he laughed again—loud and genuine, the sound echoing down the hallway. "Trash! GAHAHA! Kid, you've got guts, I'll give you that." He wiped his eyes, actually had tears forming from laughing so hard. "Most people wouldn't say that to a Commander's face."
"I meant what I said." Kirato's voice was flat, unapologetic.
"I know you did." Hector's smile faded, but there was respect in his eyes now. Real respect. "But the offer stands. You don't have to join the military. I'll train you privately. No uniform, no oath, no garrison duties. Just training. Just getting stronger." He took another drag from his cigar. "I've done it before. Trained promising kids outside the official system. Gave them the skills without the baggage."
Kirato met his eyes. "Why?"
"Because I see potential in you. And because..." Hector glanced back toward the common room, where Maya was. His expression softened slightly. "Because Maya cares about you. And I care about Maya. Simple as that." He turned back to Kirato. "She's lost too many people already. I'd like to make sure you're not one of them."
Kirato was quiet for a long moment. The offer was tempting. God, it was tempting. To be strong enough to actually matter. To be able to protect people instead of just watching them suffer. But...
He shook his head. "I don't need your help."
"You sure about that?" Hector gestured at the hallway, at the dust still settling from Kirato's failed attack. "Your Tremor just now? Didn't even make me blink. You think that's going to be enough against trained guild members? Against people with real awakenings?" His voice wasn't mocking now. Just honest. Brutal in its honesty. "You'll die, kid. And dying doesn't help anyone."
"I'll figure it out."
"Stubborn." Hector sighed, but there was respect in his voice. Maybe even admiration. "Fine. But when tonight's over, when you realize how outclassed you are, when you understand that good intentions aren't enough..." He pointed his cigar at Kirato. The glowing tip was like an accusatory finger. "The offer still stands. You know where to find me."
Kirato turned to leave. His hand was back on the door handle, ready to escape this conversation, this reminder of his own inadequacy.
"Kid."
He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
Hector's expression was unreadable. Serious. Maybe even concerned. "Don't die tonight. Maya's lost enough people already."
Kirato didn't respond. Couldn't respond. The words stuck in his throat. He just walked away, pushing through the door into the fog-shrouded street. The cold air hit his face like a slap, clearing his head slightly.
Behind him, Hector stood in the hallway, smoking his cigar, staring at nothing. At the empty space where Kirato had been. At memories of other young men who'd been too stubborn to accept help.
"Stubborn brat," he muttered. But he was smiling. Just a little. "Just like she was."
He took one more drag, then turned back toward the common room. The smile faded. His jaw set.
There was still work to do before the raid.
And that bad feeling in his gut wasn't going away.
Night fell over Thorncoast like a curtain.
Or maybe like a shroud.
Kirato walked the perimeter one last time, checking the usual routes. His boots were quiet on the cobblestones, practiced at moving silently through the city. Rooftops where he could see approaches from all angles. Alleys where someone could hide or ambush. The docks where ships creaked against their moorings, wood groaning against rope, the smell of salt and fish heavy in the air.
Nothing.
No scouts. No signs of the guild. The streets were eerily quiet, emptier than usual. Either Hector's fog was keeping people inside, or word had spread that something was wrong in this district. The smart people had already left. Only the desperate or the stupid remained. Either way, Kirato saw no one.
The fog made everything feel distant, muffled. Sounds came from wrong directions—a door slamming that seemed to echo from three different places at once, footsteps that started on his left and ended on his right. Shadows moved strangely, seeming to shift and writhe in his peripheral vision. It was disorienting even for him, and he knew these streets. Knew every corner, every building, every shortcut.
Good, he thought. If it's this bad for me, it'll be worse for them.
He was passing through the market district—closed now, vendors long gone, their stalls shuttered and locked—when he heard the voice.
"Oi. Kid. Yeah, you. C'mere."
Kirato turned. An old man sat slumped against a wall, nearly invisible in the fog. Just another shape among shapes until he spoke. A bottle clutched in one hand, the glass catching what little light there was. His clothes were filthy—layers of grime and wear that spoke of years on the streets. His hair was matted, greasy. His eyes were unfocused, glazed.
Just another drunk.
But something about him made Kirato pause. Maybe it was the way the man stared at him. Not with the glazed look of someone deep in their cups, but with something sharper. Something that flickered and died, like a candle struggling to stay lit in the wind. Like there was a person in there, buried under the alcohol and madness, trying to surface.
"Wanna hear a story?" The drunk grinned with broken teeth. Several were missing entirely, leaving dark gaps. "Only cost ya one bronze olion."
Kirato hesitated. He didn't have time for this. The raid was coming. He should be getting back. Should be preparing. Should be—
But the man looked half-starved, and the night was cold, and Kirato had always had a soft spot for people who had nothing. People the world had forgotten. People like him, before Maya.
He pulled out a silver olion and tossed it. The coin spun through the air, catching light, and clinked into the man's lap.
The drunk stared at it. His fingers, trembling and filthy, picked it up like it was made of glass. Like it might vanish if he held it wrong. Then he laughed—high and cracked, a sound that didn't quite fit his throat. A sound that made Kirato's skin crawl. "Silver? Big spender, eh? Alright, alright. Lemme tell ya 'bout the Eighth Shadow."
Kirato leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, only half-listening. His eyes kept scanning the street, the rooftops, the dark windows of the closed shops. Anywhere Nuro scouts might be hiding in the fog. Anywhere danger might come from.
"See, everyone knows 'bout the Seven, right?" The drunk's voice took on an odd rhythm—like he was reciting something memorized long ago, words worn smooth by repetition. Like a prayer or a poem repeated so many times it lost meaning. "Seven Absolutes. Seven gods. Watchin' over us, keepin' balance, keepin' order."
"Yeah," Kirato said absently. Everyone knew that. It was taught to children. Basic cosmology. The foundation of the world.
"But there's an eighth." The drunk's grin widened, though his eyes remained distant, unfocused, staring at something Kirato couldn't see. "Always been. The shadow that walks between 'em. The one that don't bow to no gods."
Kirato glanced at him. "That's just a myth." A story. A fairy tale to scare children.
"Is it?" The drunk giggled, a sound that made Kirato's skin crawl. High-pitched. Wrong. Like nails on glass. "They say he takes what he wants. Time. Power. Lives. Nothin's sacred to the Eighth. And when he comes for ya..."
He trailed off, staring into his bottle like it held answers he'd forgotten. Like he was reading prophecy in the dregs.
"When he comes for you, what?" Kirato asked, more to humor the old man than out of real curiosity. Keep him talking. Give him his money's worth for the silver.
The drunk looked up. For just a heartbeat—just a single moment—his eyes cleared. Sharp. Lucid. Terrified. The glaze burned away like morning fog under sun, and Kirato saw someone in there. Someone aware. Someone who knew exactly what he was saying.
"You become part of his shadow, boy." His voice was different now. Quieter. Almost sane. The drunken slur was gone entirely. "Just another piece in his collection. He'll use you up, break you, throw you away. And you won't even remember who you were before." His hand tightened on the bottle until Kirato heard the glass creak. "You'll just be... gone. Empty. A puppet with cut strings. He uses your mind and devours your heart."
Then the clarity vanished like smoke. The drunk laughed again, that high, broken sound, and took another swig from his bottle. His eyes glazed over, the awareness drowning under whatever madness or alcohol had claimed him. "But what's an old fool know, eh? Prob'ly just drunk talk. Prob'ly just..."
He trailed into incoherent muttering, the words dissolving into nonsense. Syllables that didn't connect, sounds that meant nothing.
Kirato frowned, something cold settling in his gut. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The way the man had said that—the way his eyes had cleared for just that moment—
It didn't feel like a story.
It felt like a warning.
It felt like testimony.
He shook it off and glanced up, ready to continue his patrol—
And froze.
A figure stood on the rooftop across the street. Cloaked. Hooded. Perfectly still against the pale moon that barely pierced the fog.
Staring directly at him.
Every instinct in Kirato's body screamed. Not danger, exactly. Something worse. Something wrong. Like standing at the edge of a cliff in the dark, knowing one step forward meant falling into nothing. Like looking into a mirror and seeing something that wasn't quite your reflection staring back. Like touching metal in winter and feeling your skin stick, knowing pulling away would hurt.
The figure didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't shift weight or adjust position. Just existed. A void cut into the world. A hole where something human should have been but wasn't. A negative space. An absence.
The fog swirled around it, but the figure remained perfectly sharp, perfectly clear. Like it was somehow more real than everything around it. Like the world was a painting and someone had torn a hole through the canvas.
Kirato's heart hammered in his chest. His mouth was dry. His hands were trembling.