Night bled into dawn without the forge ever losing its glow. Master Forge believed sleep was a metal you could temper: heat it, hammer it, quench it, and wake sharper than you went in. I doubted the method, but the results were hard to argue—all through the small hours her hammer rang like a second pulse in my chest while I stitched the Quiet Bandolier.
Leather scraped my palms raw; copper wire left green smears on finger-pads; a drift of night-stone dust tickled every breath, so each exhale sounded a shade quieter than the one before. The Interface hovered over the workbench, dutiful as any factory foreman:
⟢ Blueprint Progress — Quiet Bandolier
Components affixed: leather (100 %), copper channels (100 %), night-stone inlay (75 %)
Flux alignment: 0 · 79 / 1 · 00
Estimated completion time: 03 h 17 m
"More dust," Forge muttered, looming over my shoulder. She tapped a fingertip to the copper filigree spiraling across the chest strap. "Vectors won't flow unless every loop is choked in hush. Think of quiet as acid: you etch the path first so power can only travel where you want."
I sprinkled another pinch; specks of gray winked out like stars entering a moonless sea. Leather darkened, swallowing lamplight. The Interface bar crept forward:
night-stone inlay (86 %)
Close, I thought, massaging an ache between thumb and forefinger. Barely twelve hours ago my hands shook every time I tried to grip a silent nail; now they moved with almost methodical calm. Purpose Anchor seemed to steady more than just my Flux.
Across the room, Tamsin Quill sorted anchors of her own—ledgers and atlas sheets, metro schematics, library sigil keys burnt onto silver paper. She outlined our route to the Paradox Carnival grounds: library sub-basement, disused aqueduct, Echo tunnels, mid-city freight lift. Eight kilometers door to arena, all underground except the last two hundred meters. She wrote shorthand glyphs: gate, echo-mite nest, warded grate, hush break, ladder, and circled the final ascent in red.
Day – 2, 02:14 a.m.
Carnival Countdown: 46:12:37
Time advanced like a pressure gauge.
Forge set down her hammer and wiped sweat from her jaw with the edge of a gauntlet. "Break," she announced. "Eat, stretch, breathe outside smoke." She strode to the loading dock and rolled the shutters high. Cool night air rushed in, folding forge-heat backward like a retreating wave.
I stepped into the alley. The Iron District blinked in sleepless orange, chimneys listing like tired soldiers, tram lines humming distant lullabies. Overhead the sky looked hammered—coal dust smeared across starlight. No wardens in sight; Concord patrols preferred daylight for official sweeps and midnight for shadow work. Between those extremes existed an hour of relative freedom.
Tamsin joined me, coat pockets bulging scroll corners. "Drink this," she said, handing over a stoppered vial the size of my thumb. Liquid inside shimmered pearl gray. "Quiet-stone tonic. Helps your vocal cords recover—silent forging strains them."
The stuff tasted like rain on cold iron. My throat cooled, aches eased. I leaned against the dock rail, half listening to distant machinery, half to the Interface's low murmur.
⟢ Status Check
Null Overtone — Stable
Flux Reservoir — 11 % (after tonic)
Paradox Risk — 12 %
Quiet Smithing — 23 %
Vector-Slide — 9 % mastery
Numbers crawled upward, but they still felt borrowed—nothing I owned outright. "Hey, librarian," I said, voice soft enough to be swallowed by night, "what does a Null-division bout actually look like? Everyone claims rules change every year."
She folded arms, eyes turning thoughtful behind lamplight reflections. "The Carnival treats Null duelists like proof of concept: can paradox coexist with order. Bouts start simple—contestants race to disable each other without lethal force. Interface audits every move. Break your own Riddle, you lose. Break theirs, bigger penalty. Break the arena's boundary laws, you might vanish."
"No killing, but paradox still kills," I muttered. "Helpful."
"The Interface intervenes before real collapse… most times." She sighed, rummaged in pockets, produced a folded sheet of parchment. "Prelim brochure."
Rows of names, some with spectra tags (Pulse 3, Echo 4), others simply marked Anomaly. Mine showed as Cipher — Null Overtone. A second column listed sponsor codes. Beside my name: ?–013. Anonymous indeed.
Tamsin tapped a bracket symbol next to Brack's entry—he'd apparently petitioned into the regular Pulse bracket, not Null. "They scheduled his match midday," she said. "You, early morning. Crowds love dramatic matchups—probably hoping he survives long enough to face you in finals."
"Let's make sure he's too busy suing wardens to show," I said, pushing off the rail.
Back inside, Forge hooked a thumb toward a side corridor lined with steel doors. "Showers. Cold river water only. You'll need nerves primed for tunnel crawl." She passed me a satchel. Inside: two paper-wrapped pellets banded with copper wire. A note read Hush-pulse bomb, single-use. Simple handwriting, but the weight implied trust.
I returned fifteen minutes later fresh-shivered, bandolier gleaming dove-dark across my chest. The Interface fait accompli:
Blueprint — Quiet Bandolier
Completion 100 %
Passive effect: dampens wearer's footfall and heartbeat signatures by 15 %
Active nodes: 6 (nail, spike, disc compatibility)Flux cost: 0 · 5 % per silence pulse
Forge inspected my stitching, tugged each copper loop. "Not apprentice work," she judged. "Better than half the guild's journeymen. Wear it until you outgrow it."
I clipped silent nails into slots, nested the two bombs at back hip, anchored spike sheaths under arms. Felt heavier, but sound of leather moving was near-nonexistent—the bandolier muffled itself.
A double strike on the forge triangle summoned us to the drafting table. Tamsin unfurled fresh maps, overlay transparent glyph vellum; Forge rubbed soot from her hands and stabbed a compass at the designated entry point: Quill & Candle sub-cellar, grid reference Delta 3.
"Echo tunnels breathe three times a night," she explained. "Air pushes up old shafts, pulls down heat vents. Enter at first exhale—02:50. If wardens posted sniffers topside they'll get confused currents." She tapped next icon. "Echo-mite nest; they chew sound—easy distraction target."
I swallowed. "Chew sound?"
"Tiny obsidian lice," Tamsin said. "They crave noise. Toss a stone, they swarm there, clearing path."
Forge handed me a pouch of steel bearings. "One clink, mites feast. Do not spill entire pouch or you'll lure nest behind us."
We rehearsed route once, twice. My memory felt sharpened by Anchor Purpose; each landmark stamped clear in mind. The Interface scrolled a side note:
Route Memorization — 94 %
Field bonus: +3 % initiative in unlit corridors
By 02:40 we stood in Quill & Candle's basement. Shelves stacked with banned tomes towered to ceiling; a single lantern glowed starlight blue. Tamsin unlocked a grated hatch at floor. Air exhaled, damp and cool, tasting faintly of forgotten ink.
"Exhale cycle," she whispered. "Move."
We dropped through. My boots landed on an iron ladder, hush muting clanks. Below, brick corridor curved out of sight. Walls bore sigils so old they'd eroded into mysterious commas.
The Interface dim-lit our path in faint arrows only I could see—mass-less UI overlay.
⟐ Echo Tunnel – Tier 2 Utility
Ambient Resonance: –12 dB
Null leak: 0 · 3 %
Forge led, massive rivet gun across shoulders. I followed, Tamsin last. Footfalls nearly silent thanks to the bandolier. Ten yards in, a memory ghost flickered—pale afterimage of a city crier shouting yesterday's news, looped and bodiless. Echo artifact. It hissed away when Forge's presence displaced its recorded air.
At first junction we paused. Ahead, faint clicking like glass chimes: echo-mites. I pulled a bearing, rolled it across flagstones. The click-clack resonated; black specks poured from fissures, devouring the sound until stone lay mute. The path cleared, mites busy chewing imaginary echoes off wall.
Fifty meters farther, we encountered the aqueduct cross-section. Water only a trickle, but Concord had rigged a sigil grate—runes flared if Null resonance passed. Tamsin produced library-key chalk, scribbled a looping neutralizer; Forge twanged a copper wire along the grate bars. The rune glow dulled. We slipped through.
Interface logged:
Security Bypass – Concord Sigil
Detection chance: 2 %
Steeper descent followed; air chilled. My Null Overtone perked—an undercurrent of hush stronger than above, as if the Deep Null whispered upward through cracks. It resonated with my bones, urging them to loosen. Anchor Name and Purpose steadied me.
Eventually corridor spat us into a vaulted chamber: old tram freight lift. Shaft soared into black. A wrought-iron cage elevator hung by chain cables thick as my arm. Forge whistled low. "Didn't think this relic still stood."
Tamsin checked rusted levers. "Manual crank intact."
I eyed dusty plaque: Max Load 6 tons. Looked plausible eighty years ago. Now? Anyone's guess. But the lift ended a block from Carnival stadium—it was this or risk streets thrumming with dawn patrols.
We boarded. Forge cranked; chains groaned alive. The cage shuddered upward, trailing dust like dandruff of giants. Through lattice floor I watched tunnel fade, mites clicking far below.
Mid-rise, vibrations set my bandolier bells—copper loops—into inaudible resonance. Interface flashed:
Flux Spike Detected – External
Source: above
Spectrum Tag: Pulse 3 (guard)
I signaled with hand-tap on rail; Forge nodded, slowed crank. Light seeped through cracks ahead—the lift shaft opened into maintenance platform where two Concord wardens lounged, white gloves dim in lamplight. One smoked leaf-stick, the other tinkered with handheld sensor.
Forge whispered: "Hold hush." She released the brake just enough for cage to drift, silent as possible. If sensor sniffed Null, we'd be pinned between walls with nowhere to run.
Vector-Slide practice came to mind: I positioned feet backward, invoked Riddle. Lift's tiny jostle turned into glide; cage upshifted a meter without chain rattle. Another slide. Interface ticked Flux cost.
Vector-Slide – 1 % Flux
Five meters, four, three. Wardens still oblivious. But slider action nibbled reservoir; gauge reached 7 %. Anchor Purpose kept pulse steady—solve impossible problems. This qualified.
Two meters. Sensor beeped. Smoking guard flicked ash, frowned at screen.
Forge shot me a look—bomb if needed. I palmed hush-pulse pellet. Thumb grazed copper band, felt contained silence swirl.
Warden turned toward shaft. I pitched the bomb upward into support beams. Silent explosion inverted noise: lamp flames flickered black, sensor squelched to static. Wardens clapped hands to ears though no sound issued. While they staggered, cage crested rim; Tamsin jammed lever full power. We rolled onto platform, lunged through side door into storage hall.
Inside, crates towered. We ducked behind stacks. Wardens' muffled shouts echoed outside, but they hesitated—detectors blind, protocols glitchy. Forge exhaled slow.
Interface:
Hush-Pulse Bomb Used (1/2)
Result: 12 s broad-area silence, electronic stun
Flux reservoir restored by 1 % (bomb siphon)
Tamsin keyed freight-corridor hatch; we emerged into service alley abutting Carnival grounds. Pre-dawn sky glimmered rose behind spires. Vendors set up stalls, unaware of infiltration just below feet.
"We blend," Forge whispered. She produced spare work visas, smudged with grease and stamped with old merchant guild seals. One read Assistant Mechanic. She pinned it on me.
Bandolier beneath coat, nails hidden, one bomb left, spike tucked. I felt less nameless, more purpose-etched.
Interface final check:
⟢ Event HorizonLocation: Paradox Carnival staging yard
Time until Null Prelim: 29:07:52
Prepared gear: Quiet Bandolier (active), Silent Nails × 4, Hush-Pulse Bomb × 1, Silence Disc × 1, Spike × 1
Riddles: Undefined │ Echo-for-Silence │ Advance/Retreat
Bucket (Mass): 0 · 00 Strata (offset by Overtone superposition)
Spout (Flux): 07 %
Lid (Constraint): Multi-layer stable
Paradox Risk: 13 %
Numbers told one story; heartbeat another. But for the first time I felt the two beginning to rhyme.
Forge clasped my shoulder. "Tomorrow night we break in the arena dust. Today, sleep in a borrowed loft. Tamsin arranged cover above a print shop—smells like ink but linen's clean."
She paced ahead. Tamsin lingered, eyes shining with equal parts worry and thrill. "You've come far in forty-eight hours, Cipher," she said. "Remember: Carnival loves spectacle. But paradox's true test is balance. Make sparks only when silence can answer."
"Promise," I said.
We slipped into city waking up, fresh posters fluttering—CARNIVAL PRELIMS – WITNESS THE IMPOSSIBLE—and I thought of empty boxes on Forge's wall chart, of numbers I'd someday fill: Mass above zero, Flux full, Constraint refined. The impossible fraction still unsolved, but tonight I'd moved the decimal, however slightly.
Morning bells rang. Somewhere, Brack nursed bruises in a Concord infirmary, perhaps dreaming of vengeance. Discord brewed across official channels, sponsor ?–013 remained a faceless riddle, and wardens revised security after sensors failed.
But under borrowed coat, leather bandolier breathed hush with every stride, and quiet metal clicked comfort against my ribs. Beneath that, deeper still, Null Overtone whispered of infinite zeroes waiting for the right mind to count them.
And counting, after all, was what a cipher did best.