The Rookery smelled of boiled cabbage and wet wool. It was a leaning, three-story hazards of rotting wood and patchwork shingles that housed thirty of Ostrum's unwanted children. To Kaela, it was the only castle she had ever known.
She slipped through the back door, the heavy iron of Rust-Eater wrapped in a burlap sack slung over her shoulder. The weight of it was comforting, a secret anchor in a world that often tried to blow her away.
"Kaela! You're back!"
A small blur of motion slammed into her legs. It was Tobs, a six-year-old with missing front teeth and eyes too big for his face.
"Easy, Tobs," Kaela whispered, ruffling his hair while her other hand instinctively guarded the sword. "Did you save me any broth?"
"Matron Hilda is mad," Tobs whispered conspiratorially. "The coal bin is empty again."
Kaela's stomach tightened. No coal meant a cold night, and the younger ones were already coughing. She needed to sell today's salvage fast. But first...
She hurried up the creaking stairs to the small attic space she claimed as her own. It was barely a closet, freezing cold, but it had a window that looked out over the chimneypots of the slums toward the distant, glowing spires of the inner city.
She unwrapped the sword.
In the dim light of her candle, it looked even uglier than it had in the Blackfield. The rust was crusted thick like dried blood, and the edge was so dull she could run her thumb along it without fear.
"You're a mess," she murmured to the blade. "Just like me."
She grabbed a rag and a pot of sand she used for scouring pans. For an hour, she scrubbed. Her arms burned, her knuckles bled, but the rust was stubborn. It wasn't just surface corrosion; it was as if the metal itself had decided to decay out of spite.
Frustrated, Kaela stood up. She gripped the hilt with both hands, mimicking the stance she had seen the City Watch guards use. She envisioned the spiritual energy—Aura—flowing from her core. She squeezed her eyes shut, searching for that spark, that internal heat the stories spoke of.
Come on. Just a flicker.
Nothing. Her "muddy veins" felt like clogged pipes. The sword felt like a dead iron bar. There was no hum. No vibration. Just a girl in a drafty attic holding a piece of junk.
"Stupid," she hissed, tossing the sword onto her straw mattress. "You're a scavenger, Kaela. Not a Knight."
Later that afternoon, the reality of the empty coal bin forced Kaela back out into the streets. She couldn't sell the sword—it felt wrong, like selling a limb—so she headed to the Iron Market to trade the few copper wiring scraps she'd found.
The market was a chaotic sea of mud and noise. Smiths hammered out horseshoes, fishmongers screamed prices, and the air was thick with the smog of industry.
As she haggled with a stingy merchant over the price of copper, a commotion erupted near the tavern across the street.
"Get out, you old leach! And don't come back until you have coin!"
The tavern door swung open, and a body was hurled into the mud. A roar of laughter followed from inside.
Kaela winced. The man face-down in the muck was a familiar sight in the Dregs. They called him Old Hagar. He was a ruin of a man—filthy grey hair, clothes that were more holes than fabric, and a permanent stench of cheap rice wine.
Most people stepped over him. Kaela, sighing at her own soft heart, walked over.
"Up you go, Hagar," she said, grabbing his arm. It was surprisingly heavy, like lifting a sack of wet grain.
The old man groaned, rolling onto his back. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, crusted with sleep and drink. "Is... is the sky spinning, or did I finally die?"
"You were thrown out. Again," Kaela said, hauling him to a sitting position against a crate. "You need to drink water, old man."
Hagar blinked at her, then his gaze drifted down. It locked onto her hip.
Kaela had tied Rust-Eater to her belt with a length of rope, wrapped in cloth. It looked like a long, lumpy club.
Hagar snorted. A wet, rattling sound. "Carrying a fence post, girl?"
"It's a sword," Kaela said defensively, adjusting her tunic to cover it.
"A sword?" Hagar let out a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. "You? With those twig arms? You couldn't cut a cheese wheel with a sharpened axe, let alone a sword."
Kaela's temper flared. "I found it in the Blackfield. It's… special."
"It's dead weight," Hagar slurred. He reached out a trembling hand. "Let me see."
"No."
"Let. Me. See." The command didn't sound like a drunkard's slur anymore. For a split second, the haze in his eyes cleared, replaced by a terrifying sharpness that made the hair on Kaela's arms stand up.
hesitating, she unwrapped the hilt.
Hagar didn't touch it. He just looked at the rusty pommel and the rotted leather grip. He stared at it for a long silence, the noise of the market fading into the background.
"Where did you find this?" he asked quietly.
"Under an archway. Deep in the rubble."
Hagar looked up at her, really looked at her, for the first time. He looked at her muddy boots, her scarred hands, and the defiant set of her jaw.
"Draw it," he said.
"Here? The guards will—"
"Draw it!"
Kaela gritted her teeth. She grabbed the hilt and pulled. The blade slid out, dull and ugly in the afternoon light. A few passersby laughed.
"Look at that! The rat thinks she's a soldier!" someone jeered.
Kaela's face burned. She held the sword out, the tip wavering because of the weight. "Happy?"
Hagar shook his head, looking disgusted. "Terrible. Your feet are too close together. Your grip is choking the hilt. You're trying to muscle the steel."
He reached out, not for the sword, but for her wrist.
His hand was callous and hot. "Stop trying to lift it," he muttered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The sword isn't a rock. It has a grain. A flow."
He tapped the underside of her wrist. " loosen your pinky. Tighten your index. Drop your shoulder."
Kaela frowned but adjusted her grip. "Like th—"
HUM.
The vibration slammed into her arm, stronger than before. It wasn't just a noise in her head this time; the air around the rusted blade seemed to shimmer, distorting the light just an inch from the metal. The weight of the sword suddenly vanished, as if the steel had become hollow.
Kaela gasped. The blade wasn't heavy anymore. It felt… eager.
Hagar pulled his hand away instantly, as if burned. The shimmer vanished. The weight returned, nearly dragging Kaela's arm down.
The old man scrambled back into the mud, reaching for a flask that wasn't there. The sharpness was gone from his eyes, replaced by fear and a desperate need for a drink.
"Put it away," Hagar croaked, looking at the sword with something akin to horror. "Put that cursed thing away."
"What did you do?" Kaela demanded, her heart hammering against her ribs. "How did you make it do that?"
"I didn't do anything!" Hagar yelled, struggling to his feet and swaying. "You stay away from me, girl! And you throw that iron corpse back into the pit you found it in!"
He turned and stumbled away into the crowd, moving faster than a drunk man should be able to.
Kaela stood frozen in the middle of the market, the heavy, rusted sword in her hand. She looked at the blade, then at the retreating back of the old beggar.
He had called it an "iron corpse." But for one second, when he fixed her grip, the corpse had breathed.
She sheathed the sword with a sharp click. She wasn't going to throw it away. And she certainly wasn't going to let the old man get away.
Kaela started to run.