The Iron Peaks
Pain was the only thing that had a name. It was a living, breathing entity that sat on his chest and clawed at his ribs.
The boy woke up on a pile of dirty furs that smelled of damp animal and old smoke. The air in the hut was thick, tasting of sulfur, rust, and the metallic tang of unwashed bodies. His chest felt like it had been crushed by a falling rock, every breath a shallow, jagged negotiation with agony. His right hand throbbed with a deep, burning memory of heat, the skin shiny and tight with new scar tissue.
He tried to sit up, gasping as the world spun into a gray blur.
"Easy," a rough voice said from the shadows.
The villager who had found him, a man named Tor, was sitting by a small fire fed by dried dung, roasting a rat on a sharpened stick. The firelight cast long, dancing shadows on the rough stone walls.
"You've been out for two days," Tor said, tossing a piece of hard, black bread at the boy. It landed with a thud on the furs. "Eat."
The boy caught the bread instinctively. His hand moved before his eyes had even tracked the object. His reflexes were fast. Too fast for a cripple.
He looked at his hands. They were scarred, calloused, the knuckles rough. Were these the hands of a worker? Or a fighter? They felt like tools he didn't know how to use.
"Who am I?" the boy asked, his voice a rusted croak.
"You're a Stray," Tor said, chewing on the rat, grease running down his chin. "No clan markings. No name. Just a piece of driftwood the river didn't want to swallow. I found you on the rocks."
Tor pointed a greasy finger at the door, where the wind howled like a dying wolf.
"In the Iron Peaks, they don't do charity. They don't do pity. They will through you back into the sea if you can't work."
The Scrapyard
The "work" was hell.
The Bear Claw Clan survived by scavenging the metal bones of the old world from the cliffs—remnants of ancient wars and collapsed mines. It was dangerous, back-breaking labor that killed the weak and hardened the strong.
The boy—now called "Stray"—was given a heavy iron pry bar and sent to the "Pit," a massive, jagged ravine filled with twisted metal girders, rusted tanks, and sharp debris.
He was weak. His ribs screamed every time he swung the bar, a white-hot lance of pain through his side. The air was filled with black dust that coated his lungs.
The other workers, huge men with bear-claw tattoos inked onto their thick necks, laughed at him.
"Look at the little twig," one of them sneered, a man with a nose like a smashed potato. He shoved Stray into the freezing mud. "He's gonna break in half before lunch. Don't waste the water on him."
Stray didn't fight back. He didn't know how. He didn't know why. He just got up, wiped the mud from his face, and went back to work, prying a rusted plate from the earth. He felt... hollow. Like there was a fire inside him that had gone out, leaving only cold ash.
But his body remembered.
It happened when a heavy steel girder slipped from a crane cable three stories above. The cable snapped with a sound like a gunshot. The girder plummeted, spinning, threatening to crush an old woman working next to him.
Stray didn't think. He didn't calculate.
He moved.
He didn't run; he glided. He tackled the woman, rolling her to safety a split second before the steel slammed into the ground where she had been standing. The impact shook the earth, sending up a cloud of iron dust.
He landed in a crouch, perfectly balanced, his breathing steady, his eyes scanning for the next threat.
The workers stared. The laughter died.
"Lucky," one grunted, though he looked uneasy, his eyes darting to Stray's hands.
Stray looked at his own hands again. They were shaking. Not from fear. From adrenaline. From a chemical recognition of danger.
What am I? he thought. Why didn't I freeze?
St. Swithin's Academy
Miles away, in the warm, polished halls of the academy, where the air smelled of floor wax instead of sulfur, Master Sebastian was hunting.
He sat in the faculty lounge, pretending to grade papers, blending into the beige wallpaper. He was watching Sir Nikal, the chemistry teacher, who was nervously stirring his third cup of tea.
"Terrible tragedy," Sebastian said softly, sipping his coffee. "The boy. Killian. To fall into the sea like that..."
Nikal flinched, spilling tea on his saucer. "We don't speak his name. Mr. Cronus forbade it. It's... bad luck."
"Cronus," Sebastian mused, testing the name on his tongue. "He seems very... hands-on. For a benefactor. He runs this school like a barracks."
"He owns us," Nikal whispered, looking around nervously to ensure they were alone. "He owns the land. The buildings. The curriculum. He..."
Nikal leaned in, his voice dropping to a terrified hiss.
"He's building something. In the lower levels. Beneath the foundation. I see the trucks at night. Unmarked. Heavy suspension. Cement. Steel. And... heavy crates. Military crates. Not school supplies."
Sebastian nodded slowly, his eyes sharpening behind his glasses. "Interesting. A fortress needs a dungeon."
Later, Sebastian walked the grounds, his limp pronounced. He saw Emma (Elise) sitting on a bench near the fountain, knitting furiously. The black wool was tight and angry. She gave him a tiny, imperceptible nod. Target acquired.
She tilted her head toward the library entrance.
Sebastian looked. Emily Cronus was walking out.
She looked different than the girl Sebastian had read about in the files. She wasn't just cold; she was hollowed out. She walked like a soldier marching to a funeral, her spine rigid, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. She was beautiful, but it was the beauty of a marble statue—perfect and lifeless.
But then, she stopped.
A first-year student, rushing to class, had dropped her books in a puddle. The girl was crying, trying to salvage her ruined notes.
Emily paused. She looked at the crying girl. For a second, the mask cracked. A flicker of pain, raw and human, crossed her face. A memory of her own helplessness.
She didn't help the girl. She couldn't. That would be weakness. That would be admitting she cared.
But she snapped her fingers at a passing guard. "Help her," Emily ordered, her voice sharp as a whip. "Get her dry notes. And get her a coat. Now."
She walked away without looking back, her heels clicking rhythmically on the stone.
Sebastian watched her.
There is still a heart in there, he thought. Buried deep under the ice and the lies. But it's beating. And if it beats, it can break.
Back in the Iron Peaks, the sun was setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and black. The wind picked up, carrying the bite of frost.
Stray was walking back to Tor's hut, his body aching in a thousand places. He just wanted to sleep.
A man named Grit, was waiting for him near the water trough. He had two friends, large men with missing teeth and heavy fists.
"You made me look bad today, Stray," Grit growled, blocking the path. "Playing hero. Making us look slow."
"I don't want trouble," Stray said. His voice was quiet, weary. "I just want to go home."
"You don't have a home. You are trouble."
Grit swung a heavy, rusted chain he pulled from his belt.
It was a clumsy swing. Telegraphing the blow. To Stray's eyes, it looked like it was moving in slow motion. He could see the arc, the muscle tension, the mistake.
He saw the path of the chain. He saw the opening in Grit's stance. He saw the pressure point on Grit's neck where the blood flowed.
Why do I know this? Why does violence make sense when nothing else does?
The chain came down.
Stray didn't think. He let the "Wolf" take over. The instinct that lived in his marrow woke up.
He stepped inside the swing, moving into the danger. He caught the chain with his left hand—his good hand—wrapping it around his forearm to trap the weapon. He yanked Grit forward, off-balance.
Stray's right hand, the one with the burn scar, shot out. He didn't punch. He used his palm. A sharp, upward strike to the chin, driving the force into the skull.
CRACK.
Grit's head snapped back. His eyes rolled up. He hit the dirt, unconscious before he landed.
The two friends froze. They looked at Grit. They looked at the skinny, broken boy standing over him, breathing hard.
Stray stood there, his breath hitching. He looked at his hand. It was vibrating with energy. It felt... right.
"I..." Stray whispered, staring at them with eyes that suddenly looked very old and very dangerous. "I know how to hurt you."
The two men ran, scrambling over the rocks in their haste to get away from the boy who moved like a ghost.
Tor was watching from the doorway of his hut, leaning against the frame. He spat a small bone onto the frozen ground.
"Well," Tor said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Looks like you can fight."
"Go get some rest." Tor added.