The alley behind the print-shop smelled of wet clay tiles, cooling coal smoke, and yesterday's spilled ink that had soaked into the cobbles like purple bruises. A lamplighter on the corner snuffed the last of the night flames, leaving soft gray dawn to push its way between narrow brick walls. Pigeons flapped down from the eaves, scolding one another over crumbs nobody had dropped yet. Far away, somewhere toward the river docks, a steam whistle let out a single note—high, uncertain, as if it were clearing its throat for the day ahead.
I stood close to Master Forge and Tamsin Quill while they examined the side door. Splinters stuck out where old screws rusted through, but the wood still held firm. Above the lintel a crooked brass plaque read "Silverleaf Letterpress — Fine Notices & Broadside Art" in flaking black paint. The shop's wide front windows faced the main street; inside, lanterns glowed already, silhouettes moving among rows of standing type and stacks of fresh broadsheets. Upstairs, behind lace curtains grown brown with age, was the rented loft where we were supposed to sleep.
There was a warmth breathing from those upper windows—the sort of warmth that spoke of boiled tea, blanket-thick air, and maybe a cat curled on the sill. A warmth that felt like a word no one had added to my personal dictionary yet.
Forge knocked twice, slow. The side door rattled, opened by a round-shouldered man with inky palms. His smile put creases all the way to his temples. "Early birds," he said quietly. "Come in before someone notices the ironmonger loitering on my step."
We followed him through a corridor that was much too narrow for Forge's hammer-broad shoulders. Paper dust coated every tongue-and-groove board; I sneezed three times before reaching the staircase. The stairwell curved in a tight box of timber, steps creaking a secret conversation under our weight. I counted thirty-two treads to the second floor. My ears marked each pop of the wood, the squeal of nails, the steady hush of the bandolier across my chest.
At the top a square landing opened into an attic room just tall enough for a tall person to stand beneath the middle beam. The roof pitched steeply, and rain had left dark veins where it leaked near the chimney. But a thick rag rug—mismatched reds and greens—covered most of the floor, and a little stove burned coal the size of plums, giving off a coppery glow. A single casement window looked over the alley. On its ledge, a gray cat dozed on a heap of proofs, its fur ruffling whenever the stove iron ticked.
Tamsin thanked the printer, exchanged a folded paper token—library credit, I guessed—and shut the door behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the room drew a soft quiet round itself, as if relieved.
Forge stretched until joints cracked like gunshot wood. "Six hours' rest," she said. "Then we eat, we scout the arena from the rooftops, and we finish your Vector drills on the upper deck of the viaduct."
Exhaustion hit me a half-step later—heavy, sticky, more syrup than weight. I dropped onto the rag rug, startled by how my knees shook. The cat opened one irritated eye, judged me harmless, and went back to sleep. I unbuckled the bandolier, placed it gently on a folded cloak, and rolled my shoulders. Leather made the faintest sigh, almost grateful.
The Interface, ever polite, materialized a small slate-gray card in the corner of my sight:
⟢ Status — Cipher
Flux : 06 % Paradox Risk : 13 %
Fatigue Index : High
Recommended Action : Sleep cycle (≥ 4 h)
I lay back, head on bundled coat. The ceiling beams ran away to either side like giant, patient ribs. Coal hissed and popped. Somewhere below, printing presses clacked, lead letters kissing paper in a slow waltz—each kiss cushioned by the thick wood floor until it reached the attic as a lullaby thud.
I slept inside that rhythm.
When I woke, sunlight painted a perfect gold square across the rug and right over the cat, who had migrated into that warm shape and stretched to fill it. My mouth tasted of coal dust and chicory. Below, presses still sang, but faster now, setting the tempo for all mid-morning conversations outside.
Forge sat at the stove, sharpening a narrow file. Sparks hopped when steel met stone. Tamsin knelt by the low table sorting maps. The smell of onions frying in lard seeped up the stairs, making my stomach argue with itself.
Forge tossed me a tin mug. "Onion tea and broth," she said. "Heals bruises, kills tunnel mold."
The brew scalded my tongue, but sweet spices floated in—maybe clove, maybe peppercorn. Heat slid through my chest, untying muscles. I felt my pulse slow from hammering to a clean, steady knock.
The Interface approved with a tiny ping:
Fatigue Index : Moderate
Flux regeneration +2 %
"Window," Forge said.
I opened the casement. The alley had stretched wider with daylight: walls revealed ivy threads clawing toward roof slates, and sunlight struck a dozen broken glass tiles that glittered like blue confetti. Steam rose from a laundry vent two floors down and curled around a wrought-iron staircase that served three old flats. A vendor's bell tinkled from the main street—someone hawking chestnuts—and I caught roasted sugar drifting in.
People passed: a courier boy on a gear-driven bike, a pair of seamstresses arm-locked, a potbellied hen loose from a coop, clucking at every carriage wheel. The city felt alive in every gap, in every scrape of wheel iron and ripple of laundry above the lane. And through it all, the steady, sure clang of distant foundries beat slow seconds into the air.
I pulled that living map into memory—every smell, every shift of light—like feeding fuel to my Anchor Purpose: Solve impossible problems so nobody stays powerless. Hard to feel powerless with a world so awake around me.
Forge clapped once. "Up." She handed me a leather notebook and a stub of silver chalk. "Time to draw the arena before we walk it. If you can put it on paper, you can put it in your head; if it's in your head, the Interface can't surprise you with hidden ledges."
I sat cross-legged, brushed chalk across page. Tamsin narrated: length of the dueling pit, width of spectator berms, height of barrier pylons. Forge corrected angles, traced exits. We argued over staircases, settled on five. The Interface provided subtle guidance, text popping whenever measurement drifted too far.
When the map finally felt right, I shut the book. The cat had moved to my knee and purred a judgy rumble, as if claiming intellectual rights.
Afternoon called from the window—sun now a pale coin above the steam stacks. Forge lifted a floorboard, produced a crate of tools: coil of black silk rope, throwing goggles with side-shields, a brass compass whose needle spun toward sources of silent resonance. She parceled items:
Tamsin got the compass.
I wore the goggles—lenses tinted to dim sudden flares.
Forge slung the rope.
We left the attic, tiptoed through the print-shop, nodded thanks to the inky proprietor, and slipped into the street. City traffic brushed by like schooling fish—shoemakers, dock clerks, a cluster of academy students in gray tunics. Nobody paid us mind; Forge's hammer was wrapped in canvas, my bandolier hidden beneath a courier jacket Tamsin found.
We threaded alleys, turned corners. The air changed scents block by block: hot sugar past a pastry cart; tar where roofers pitched kettles; sharp vinegar at a pickling shed. Even sound shifted—cobblestones clacked boots, then softened into gravel where new sewer lines had sunk the roadway. I kept breathing it in, memorizing textures.
Ahead the rooftops stepped upward, flattening into a long viaduct that once fed steam barges. Its arches loomed like the skeleton of a parade beast, each rib holding back the sky. Forge led us up an iron service stair whose rungs flexed under her weight. Halfway up, she sprayed hush from a night-stone vial across the metal; squeaks died instantly.
On top the wind met us, flapping coat hems. From here we saw the whole Carnival complex—a walled oval of pale stone ringed by vendor pavilions painted carnival red and gold. Flags fluttered: twelve banners, one per Spectrum, snapping crisp in a breeze that smelled of trampled hay and oil. Inside the oval, tiers of seats climbed in tidy rows, empty now except for cleaning crews sweeping straw.
But the pit floor drew my eye. It looked calm from above, just packed earth. Yet faint heat shimmers rose—defensive wards warming the ground ahead of tomorrow's matches. Tall pylons dotted the edge, wired together by thin aether cables. A supply lift clanked at one corner, unloading crates labeled "Null Safeguards — Fragile".
My skin prickled; Null Overtone recognized distant cousins in those pylons—little pockets of absence tethered by chain.
The Interface whispered:
Carnival Arena — Ward Scan
Null Sinks : 16 active
Pulse Reflectors : 8
Echo Dampers : 4
Preliminary difficulty : Moderate
I relayed the numbers aloud. Forge crouched, studied layout through a spyglass. "Null sinks there, there, and in pillars four and seven. Means the floor can drink bursts for a second but spits them if overloaded."
"Like filling a bucket too fast," I said.
"Exactly. Use your quiet nails to plug a sink if it starts shoving hush back."
Tamsin sketched adjustments on the arena map. Below, a street performer ambled by playing penny flute; the notes drifted up thin, sweet, tossed back warmer by rising air. Children chased them, squealing.
We moved to the viaduct's center—open steel grating above a seven-meter drop. Forge drew chalk rings at quarter-length intervals. "Vector drills," she said. "Learn distance under fear."
She took stance. I mirrored. Wind tugged but smelled of bakery far below. She lunged; I retreated, Riddle caught, Vector-slide boosted me two paces extra. Steel grated under boots; gust yanked hair into my eyes. I flicked a silent nail; Forge swatted it aside with two-finger catch, grin wide. We danced again. The city blurred beyond rails—smokestacks, clock tower, doves swirling above a flour mill. Each step, each slide stamped environment deeper into mind.
After five rounds my thighs burned, lungs tasted blood, but balance steadied. The Interface praised:
Vector-Slide mastery 14 %
Flux efficiency +0 · 3 %
Forge patted my shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth. "You can dodge. Tomorrow you also need to strike."
She produced the last hush-pulse bomb. "Arm it."
I pulled copper pin, twisted band. A soft hum gathered. Forge set a tin paint bucket on the grating five paces away. "Target," she said. "Underhand—gentle arcs hide better than hero tosses."
I lobbed the bomb. It landed, rolled beside bucket. Silence swallowed wind for half a breath, then rushed outward. The bucket crushed inward with a metallic gasp, tin folding like wet paper.
Forge nodded. "Good radius. Remember, hush bombs erase cheap tricks but draw eyes. Use once."
The sky bruised purple. Gaslights flickered on below. We descended into street glow, boots clicking soft. Crowds thickened—vendors hawked braised eel on skewers, gamblers shouted odds on tomorrow's bouts, banners snapped. A boy sold Carnival masks shaped like question marks. I bought one for a copper loud—thin papier-mâché, painted dark silver—and slipped it under coat.
Back at the print-shop, the cat greeted us at doorway, tail quivering. Ink fumes mingled with fried onion and old book glue. The printer handed Forge a sealed envelope—Concord seal, red wax. She slit it with thumb.
Inside: a receipt. The bounty for Brack's capture: two hundred louds, payable to Aderyn Forge. A note:
"Further questioning required. Gladiator claims involvement of unidentified Null entity. Report any knowledge to wardens at once."
Forge snorted, tossed it in stove. Purple wax sizzled.
I watched flame curl paper edges. "They pay, but still hunt us."
"Concord likes both ends of the deal," Tamsin said, unpacking fresh bread. "Useful to them if you join their registries, useful if you vanish and become cautionary tale."
I sat by window, mask in hand. Sky rolled clouds lit orange from city fires. Pigeons tucked heads under wings. Somewhere bells tolled eighth hour. Tomorrow the pit would roar crowds instead of birds.
The Interface opened without command, font larger, as though it wanted my full attention:
⟢ Carnival Countdown23 : 56 : 38
Health : GoodFlux Reservoir : 07 %Silent Gear : ReadyRiddle Sync : Stable
Suggestion : Mental rehearsal and rest.
I closed the window, letting the night hush settle. Forge unwrapped strips of linen, started oiling them with something dark that smelled like cedar and ash—wrappings for my forearms, extra grip for vector slides. She wrapped slowly, almost ceremonial, each turn snug but not tight. Tamsin hummed an off-key melody about a sailor who outwitted the moon, tapping rhythm on a wooden ink-tray.
I memorized every shadow in that small attic: the coal stove's glow painting Forge's cheekbone gold; the drip of candle wax down the bottle neck; the cat's whiskers twitching to the tune. Even the dusty rafters seemed to lean closer, listening.
Because tomorrow the arena would attempt to reduce these details to background noise, to make me forget environment and focus only on survival. But environment was my ally—living, breathing, offering endless small zeros to step through.
I turned mask over, traced its question-mark curve. A cipher asking itself a question.
The rag-rug should have been enough to drag me straight into dreams, but sleep kept hovering just out of reach—like a moth circling lamplight—so I lay there memorising the room one more time: crooked beams, ginger-coal glow inside the stove, the gray cat purring on Forge's anvil-sized boots.
Wind changed.
Only a draft, a whisper beneath the slates—yet Null Overtone tasted it and bristled. A soundless ripple ran through the attic; the cat's head snapped up, ears flattening.
The Interface bled a single red thread of text across my vision:
⟢ Alert Spectral Probe Active – 42 m south-south-eastFrequency : Echo-Tier 2 ▸ Likely Target : "Unregistered Null Signatures"
I was halfway to my feet before the letters faded. Forge noticed first; she'd been oiling rivet-gun coils, but her shoulders stiffened the instant my heartbeat jumped.
"Wake?" she whispered.
"Probe," I mouthed. "Echo grade. Close."
Tamsin was already at the little window, sliding the warped frame higher. Night air spilled in—rain-speckled, carrying a harsh mint smell that always followed Concord patrol wands.
Below, at the far end of the alley, three white-glove wardens advanced in single file. Lanterns lanterns guttered behind rain hoods, yet their approach felt sharper than plain lamplight. Between them loped something hunched and canine, forged from brass bones and dream-glass sinew: an Echo Hound. Its head turned like a phonograph horn, sampling sound, swallowing it, then barking it back as sonar pings only the Interface could truly hear.
Tag Echo Hound • Sensitivity ± 2 dB • Rung : Echo 4
Forge's eyes met mine over the stove fire: Decision?I tightened my Quiet Bandolier. Run was my first thought; hide the second. But if the Hound sniffed Null it would mark this loft, mark the printer, mark Tamsin's safe-house web. Every refuge after this would thin.
"Lure it off the grid," I breathed. "Rooftops."
Forge handed me my silent spike, one hush-pulse bomb—the last—and four nails already loaded into arm-sheaths. "Tamsin and I misdirect," she said. "You lead it to the air-duct spine, break it there."
Rain rattled roof slates. The cat darted under the stove. I tugged goggles down, pulled the gray courier jacket tight, and tested the nearest ceiling gap. Null Overtone found a flaw in the plank two finger-widths wide—a silent invitation. I eased up and slid through.
Rooftops in the rain
Water slicked the slates; each tile felt like walking on polite ice. The city looked different from here—closer to the sky, farther from rules. Steam plumes waltzed between chimneys, streetlamps blurred halos through wet autumn air.
The viaduct we'd trained upon loomed three blocks east, its skeleton arches glowing furnace orange beneath coal-dusted clouds. Between me and that spine stretched a tumble of printing-house roofs, clothes-lines, and stair turrets.
Below, lantern light fanned up the alley as wardens entered. I counted: two men, one woman, brass cloaks soaked dark. The Echo Hound froze, horn-skull swivelling toward the roofline—toward me, though I'd been silent.
It felt Null, not heard it.
I stepped back, letting Overtone seep into the rain between slates. My boots left no splash, yet the Hound barked a burst of echo; soundwaves rolled like invisible ripples striking my chest. The Interface stuttered static.
"Null signature confirmed!" one warden barked. White gloves flared runes; the Echo Hound bounded up a drainpipe as if gravity were a rumour.
Move.
Vector-Slide woke under my third Riddle—advance only when I retreat. I planted weight backward, let the Riddle shove me forward three metres across the pitched roof. Slate edges passed underfoot—a metallic hiss as nails scraped.
Rain increased from drizzle to curtain, smearing the city into oil-paint streaks. The Hound crested the ridge three houses back. Through goggles its sigils glowed aquamarine, each pawprint stamping a quicksilver pulse into tile.
I leapt a one-metre alley gap—water roared in gutters below. Landing jarred knees, but bandolier muffled the slap to a damp thud.
Behind me the Hound didn't leap; it split. Body fractured into seven overlapping after-images, each offset a split-second in time. They overlaid one another until the moment they touched roof-edge; then the front echo-form leapt while the others rewound. It landed yards closer than physics allowed.
Interface : Echo-Stutter Technique — Range compression 45 %
No outrunning that.
Two houses ahead a clothes-line sagged under water-heavy sheets. Beyond it, a chimney vented steam from a dye-shop dryer, sending up a thick white plume. I pointed and tagged markers in my mind:
waypoint A : clothes-line
waypoint B : steam vent
waypoint C : viaduct girder
The plan formed between heartbeats. I drew a silent nail, flicked it backward. It didn't need to hit; it just needed to sing. The nail whirred through rain, a needle of nothing slicing the chorus of droplets. The Hound's horn-head swerved, chasing that vacuum like a dog to a whistle. Echo-stutter pulled its body sideways mid-stride; claws gouged slate, sparks lighting a silhouette.
My slide carried me beneath the clothes-line. Sodden lavender-scented sheets slapped my shoulders, leaving cool perfume ghosts in their wake. I pulled the line's pulley hard; the sheets swung broadside, flapping into a pale sail.
The Hound burst through them. Wet fabric wrapped horn, smothering sonar. It shook once; threads shredded under spectral vibration. But it bought two seconds.
I reached the steam chimney. White cloud rolled like riverfog, thick, roiling. I popped the silence disc from the bandolier, wedged it into the vent lip. The disc's hush field blossomed—dampening roar, compressing steam into denser billows that pooled across the roof like milk.
Then I crouched and waited.
Rain pattered softly on steam blanket. My breaths sounded distant. The Hound's claws clicked nearer: one echo, two, three. Through goggles I saw its form blur, sonar trapped in the hush, ricocheting back into its own sensors. It hesitated—horn pivoting in confused spirals.
I tested wind. Just enough. I took the hush-pulse bomb, kissed its copper ring like a superstitious sailor, and rolled it gentle under the steam. Copper winked once before the casing imploded inward—pulse inverted, sucking the sonic cloud into a single point.
Silence hit like a fist. Steam collapsed to dew; rain seemed to pause. The Echo Hound's plating caved as atmospheric pressure dipped and rebounded. Its horn emitter shattered—a tinkly wind-chime explosion drowned by the bomb's perfect hush.
The bomb's radius ended; sound returned in a rush: cracking brass, hiss of ruptured resonance cores. The Hound staggered, internal echoes glitching. I seized my moment, drew the silent spike, sprinted. Each Vector-Slide backwards propelled me forward faster—one, two, three slides.
I jabbed the spike into the seam where thorax met hind-leg actuator. Quiet metal drank feedback loops. The Hound convulsed, then sagged, runes guttering out like embers drowned in puddles.
Interface confirmed:
Target : Echo Hound — Systems Overload
Status : Disabled (Permanent)
Below, the wardens shouted. Lanternlight leapt, smeared by rain. One fired a flare rune skyward—gold sparks fizzing against cloud-bottoms. Reinforcements would answer.
I tapped the disc free from chimney; hush collapsed, letting steam roar again—instant smoke-screen. Then I dashed for the viaduct spine. Boots splashed through fresh puddles; thunder rolled lazily, approving the drama.
Chimney tops blurred by. Smell of hot dye faded into mineral slate, then into the cold iron tang of the viaduct.
Forge stood on the nearest girder, rope coil ready. Tamsin beside her waved satchel like a flag. I vaulted the final gap, rolled onto steel decking.
Wardens reached adjacent roof too late. Forge unclipped a flare—Vector-fletched rocket we'd prepared for emergencies—and fired it away toward the river. A golden comet arced, hissing, drawing watchmen eyes from alleys to docks.
Rain washed rooftops clean behind us. Echo Hound debris sparked blue, then died, just one more piece of nocturnal scrap.
Forge clapped my back so hard my spine popped. "Better scrap than apprentice," she said, grin sharp.
Tamsin's compass needle spun lazily, settling due south—back toward the loft safe-house. "We can circle streets," she said. "Wardens will comb the river quarter."
Heartbeat slowed. The Interface slid reassuring lines across vision:
Flux Reservoir : 05 %
Paradox Risk : 15 %
Hush Gear : Spike (re-usable), Nails × 3, Disc 0/1, Bomb 0/1
My shoulders drooped; mix of victory and exhaustion tasted like iron filings soaked in rainwater. But the city felt alive—more alive now that I'd seen it from ridge, from slate, from inside boiling steam and hush.
Forge hefted her coil. "Back through gutter run. Sleep we promised is sleep we'll take—after we patch that roof hole so the next probe finds naught but mice."
We took a maintenance ladder, boots ringing hollow inside viaduct leg, descending into meat-packing alleys where rainwater sluiced pink from butchers' drains. Smells of blood and vinegar fought bakery sweetness drifting downwind. Rivulets pattered off awning tins like a thousand tiny metronomes—each one a zero the Overtone recognised, each one counted and released.
Back at the printing loft the cat greeted me with a scandalised yowl, offended at the wet. I stripped jacket, hung bandolier, toweled hair, then finally burrowed beneath blanket. The stove whispered coal secrets; Forge hammered tin sheet over our rooftop exit; Tamsin wrote fast in her journal, documenting swarm patterns of Echo Mites for library archives.
Sleep landed hard—and this time it stayed.
Sleep came easier this time. I dreamt of counting rooftops as they inhaled and exhaled, of silent nails turning raindrops into clear bells, of Brack shouting somewhere far away where sound couldn't reach me. I woke once in dark to shovel more coal; the cat wove between ankles, lighthouse eyes lighting path.
Morning would bring crowds, record-keepers, Interface judges. But the city would still smell of sugar at the pastry cart, and pigeons would still fight over crumbs. I found comfort there.
I curled under blanket, whispering Anchor Name, Anchor Purpose, Riddles in order like beads on string. The Interface dimmed, satisfied. The stove ticked. Rain started, gentle, drumming a code I promised myself to solve—tomorrow, after one more sunset, after one impossible problem at a time.