The moment the eastern sky turned from ash-gray to saffron, Silverleaf Letterpress woke like an orchestra tuning up. Below our attic loft, rows of platen presses clapped, metal type hissed, and rollers thumped ink across plates in a rhythm that vibrated every floorboard. The stovetop kettle added a thin whistle to the symphony; coal inside the little iron belly glowed the color of pomegranate seeds. Even the cat contributed—pad pad pad on the window ledge, then a single chirrup when a rooftop pigeon dared come close.
I padded to the casement. Outside, the alley glittered with last night's rain—puddles turning sunrise into broken gold pieces. Curls of steam rose from gutter grates, carrying sulphur and bakery sugar in equal measure. A butter cart rolled past, iron-rim wheels splashing through shallow floods. The smell—warm dough, yeast, browned butter—clung to the alley bricks like a promise.
The Interface appeared in the corner of my sight, letters tinted gentle mauve, as if it recognized morning calm:
⟢ Spectral Authority — Cipher
Flux Reservoir: 08 %
Paradox Risk: 14 %
Carnival Countdown: 14 hours 57 minutes
Silent Gear Check: Spike ✓ Nails × 3 ✓ Bandolier ✓
Recommended Task: pre-combat meal & route review
A second pane slid up—Master Forge's worklist. Overnight she'd etched it herself, so the text looked jagged and bold:
FORGE MARCHING ORDERS
Eat something with color in it; broth does not count.
Replace hush disc (one new in satchel).
Sand Vector boots.
Walk the noise out of your bones—rooftop stroll to arena.
Win fight.
Collect dinner money.– AF
She'd left the note weighted by a wedge of loaf that still steamed where she'd sliced it. Roast-beet red streaked across inner crumb, turning the bread magenta. I bit into it—earthy, sweet, and hot enough to sting the roof of my mouth. Butter pooled in corners; rosemary crunched. It felt heroic.
Forge herself was downstairs arguing with the printing-press owner about broadsheet fonts for tomorrow's headlines—something about wanting "QUIET FORGE" printed in caps with extra flourish. Tamsin stood by the front counter, cloak wet at the hem, negotiating courier pigeons for library dispatch. The print-shop smelled of hot metal slug, chalk dust, linseed oil, and a throat-tickle of ozone from the electrostatic charge the presses used to pull sheets straight.
I joined them, rucksack slung. Forge hitched eyebrows—checking I'd eaten. I flashed the mauve half of beet bread. She grunted approval.
"Route's open," Tamsin said. She unfurled a fresh street map right on the ink-stained counter glass. Her fingertip traced three blocks east through vendor lanes, a diagonal cut along the old aqueduct walkway, then rooftop gamut to the Carnival's north service gate. "Wardens doubled the river quarter after last night's flare diversion. Good news: south and east are relaxed."
Forge passed me a new hush disc—a coin of midnight metal duller than last one. "Slot left shoulder," she said. "Flux cost unchanged."
I pressed it into the bandolier's shallow dome; copper wires nested it with a soft plink. The Interface blipped:
Silent Gear Updated — Disc: Ready
We thanked the printer and stepped into the open.
Journey through the waking city
The Iron District at daybreak reminds me of a giant foundry lung: it inhales cold river air, holds it against a furnace chest, then exhales steam and industry heat in gusts down every alley. Metal shutters rattled open one after another—ka-chunk, ka-chunk—until the street played a percussion line. A lamplighter on stilts doused the last of last night's gas jets, his oil robe flapping around stilts spindly as stilts used by puppeteers.
Forge set brisk pace. Her boots splashed through puddles, leaving ripples that flickered copper. Shop signs swung overhead: swordsmith icons crossed above a whetstone, a baker's pretzel dripping enamel sugar, a tiny apothecary mortar bright as mint. Smells changed every ten steps—coal smoke, lavender soap from a washerwoman's bucket, brine from a man pushing a crate of eels.
Children chalked hop-square games on dry flagstone patches. Their singsong counted positions Null-One-Two-Three, Echo-Four-Stop, a playground tribute to Spectra levels. They skipped our way, giggled at Forge's hammer handle jutting from canvas wrap, shrieked when the gray cat—having trailed us covertly—popped from behind a barrel, tail bristling.
Before the old aqueduct walkway we paused by a public fountain. Limestone spouts spat thin arcs over a basin rust-lined from iron in the water. Forge scooped handfuls, rubbed face, then poured a cup for the cat (who accepted like royalty). I refilled canteen—water tasted mineral-heavy, cool enough to tighten teeth.
Tamsin scanned surrounding roofs; her compass needle quivered but held steady. "No Echo probes," she said. Her breath piped white each time she spoke—the fountain square sat in morning shade cast by tall mill warehouses.
We climbed an iron service ladder up the aqueduct's flank. Rungs were slick, each pocked by decades, but hush grease Forge used on her gloves transferred well to palm seams and boots. Up top, the walkway ran arrow-straight toward the city's central ridge. Below, freight trams rumbled on stone arches, brass whistles puffing. Sunrise bounced off their roof vents, sending flashes that stung eyes.
From here we could see the Carnival perimeter wall. The masonry looked bone-pale in growing light. Flags rippled crisp—twelve banners again, but now long streamers—Dickory blue for Vector, ember orange for Pulse, white swirl on black for Null (some wag had drawn a cartoon question mark in charcoal below the official design).
Hawkers lined the avenue outside the main gates already, hanging gingham banners from wagons: HONEYED RICE CAKES, STAR-FIRE CARAMELED NUTS, CHARM BOBBLEHEADS OF LAST YEAR'S CHAMPIONS — KNOCK 'EM SILENT. A small herd of mechanical goats bleated by, tin hides studded with confections; kids chased them, poking at sugar horns.
Forge led us off the walkway down another narrow ladder hidden behind a water sluice. Warm mist hissed up from below, carrying green copper smell from algae lining the chute. Wet stone underfoot felt slippery; we moved sideways, backs to wall, until we reached a marble drainage pipe large enough to crawl.
"This pops behind the north vendor row," Tamsin said. She handed out burlap smocks. "Throw these on for half a block, look like dishhands."
We shuffled through pipe—trickle of lukewarm water around boots, echo dripping like a lazy metronome. The Interface fed environmental metrics:
Ambient Echo Level: −9 dB
Null Leak: 0.1 % — negligible
Risk of Detection: low
Emerging, we found ourselves amid crates stacked with straw and jars of cinnamon plums. The vendor row bustled. Mid-morning sun cast squared shadows under awnings; wood barrels glowed amber; burlap smocks fooled casual glances.
Forge murmured, "Remember—once we pass the service arch, watchers scan entrants. Best not carry cat." She eyed the gray passenger perched on my ruck strap.
Tamsin snapped fingers twice; the cat jumped lightly to her arms. She tucked it in a wheat sack with surprising dignity. "Library assistant," she told it. "Catalog mice."
We turned corner into the north service arch: two thick stone pylons framed a gate of black-iron bars etched with Null glyphs. Sign declared "Participants, Staff, & Stock — Present Tokens Upon Entry."
A clerk wearing brass visor and navy coat approached, ledger ready. His breath smelled of stale peppermint. "Which crew?"
Forge slapped a copper medallion on the ledger. It bore crossed hammers—guild pass every blacksmith earned after third masterwork. "Contract smith, bringing tools for Null prelim platform." She jerked thumb at me. "Apprentice competitor."
The clerk's visor flashed once, scanning runes. Then: "Paperwork accepted." He dropped two tin disks in my palm: one painted silver with gothic C-null-013 (competitor badge), the other dull lead inscribed BACK-OF-HOUSE PASS (forge tech). "Arena concourse left, fighter staging right. Weigh-in by ninth bell."
Tamsin slid a silver loud across the ledger. "Familiar tag for the cat," she said. The clerk stamped the coin, looped a tiny rune collar over the wheat sack, and waved the bundle through.
We stepped through wrought gate. In that first instant inside the wall, the world sounded different—muffled by high stone, amplified by expectation. The concourse floor was compacted sand laced with sawdust; every step made a shuff like opening a letter. Rising terraces of marble benches curved away, still mostly empty, but ushers in gold waistcoats dusted seats with peacock-feather whisks. Flags above snapped in a north wind that smelled of ocean twenty miles away.
Master Forge peeled off toward an iron-roofed shed labeled "Heat Treat & Repair." Sparks already shot from windows; she barked orders at a journeyman inside about charcoal grade and tongs. Tamsin squeezed my arm. "I'll claim seats near pillar seven—Null sink directly below. Glance up between rounds; you'll see my red scarf." She tugged hood, vanished in vendor flux.
That left me in the fighters' queue.
The staging tunnel
It felt like standing inside a bell the size of a cathedral. Stone arch overhead curved high, lanterns dangling on rope lines twenty meters above. The air here tasted of iron filings, cold dust, and fragrant tiger balm from nervous fighters rubbing joints. Every footfall echoed twice—in real sound, and in the Interface's whisper feed:
Reverberation Delay: 0.73 s
Human Voices ≈ 37
Detected Spectral Signatures: Pulse ≤ 4, Echo ≤ 3, Null ≤ 1
The queue shuttled forward. I passed a medical tent where two healers—white coats, pulse stethoscopes glowing—spoke soothing nonsense to a lumbering Vector brute who'd sliced his shin climbing railings outside. I passed a booth where scribes inked names to betting boards: chalk dust hung thick, numbers 2 : 1, 5 : 1, 50 : 1 scrawled. Next to Cipher someone had written 12 : 1 odds—dead center. Brack's name, in the Pulse bracket, sat at 4 : 1, but a red line crossed him out (still under Concord hold).
The weigh-in station stood beneath an ancient granite lintel. A copper scale big enough for a horse braced on four fat springs. Two marble-eyed officials in starchy tunics beckoned me. One held a rune stylus that scanned for concealed Spectral artifacts.
"Badge?"I clipped silver token to the front of my bandolier. The official pressed a knuckle to his temple: the Interface for staff looked like contact lenses, I guessed. He read my feed, nodded. "Null Overtone flagged. Declare Riddles aloud for record."
I inhaled the dusty cold. "Primary Riddle: Undefined. Secondary: Echo-for-Silence. Tertiary: Advance-Only-When-Retreating."
The stylus glowed pale sage. "Constraints accepted—Paradox baseline within tolerance," he said flatly. The other official motioned me onto the scale.
Copper floor cool on boots. Weights thunk. The dial clicked past 60 kilos, wavered at 61. "Spectral mass reading: zero--infinite superposition," the official recited, eyes glazing like he'd read that once in textbooks but never aloud. "Flux reservoir currently eight percent. Logged." He stamped a parchment wristband around my arm: a stencil of concentric circles—Null emblem.
I stepped off. Down the tunnel, double doors carved from petrified oak lifted on chain pulleys. Bright daylight poured in, along with roar—crowd arriving, early seats filling. Smell of roasted nuts and sweet malt beer drifted, mixing with dust.
A marshal in olive overcoat and pollard oak cane greeted me. "Prelim bout five," she said. "Opposite corner: competitor Holm Shader." She squinted at clipboard. "Tag says Echo 3 / Vector 1. Riddle: 'I exist in mirrors only.' Unique." She glanced up. "Can you handle illusions?"
"I handle holes," I answered, voice steadier than pulse.
The marshal pointed cane down hall. "Armory cart at red line if you need practice dummies." She lowered voice. "The crowd loves a visible story. Make 'em understand your silences, yes?"
I nodded, throat dry.
Arena reveal
First sight of the pit stunned breath away. The stadium's oval bowl sloped downward like a miner's pan. Spectator stands tiered from sand level up four terraces. The noise wasn't deafening yet—only a sea murmur of early bettors, balloon vendors, brass bands tuning in distant corners. Still, air felt pressurized, thick enough to float straw from the sandy pit floor.
That floor was different from training view: graded layers—top crust of dry tan dust, under-layer darker, mixed with ground pumice for spark suppress. Sixteen Null sinks poked their vent heads flush to surface, each a black basalt circle the size of frying pan. Between them, eight Pulse reflectors—mirrored discs slanted toward midline. Four Echo dampers—small vent chimneys—sat along arena walls, sucking stray resonance like organ pipes.
Sun had climbed a handspan above western stands; its light cast long grills of shadow under row seating. From my gate I smelled straw, sawdust, humid horse droppings from parade earlier, and citrus resin where some worker tried to deodorize.
Ushers marched me to a waiting booth—a half-circle alcove barred only by velvet rope. Across the pit, another gate mirrored mine; inside shadowy figure adjusted gauntlets. That must be Holm Shader.
A bell jingled thrice—thin crystal note amplified by Echo conduits. Spectators responded with stomps that vibrated the dust like tiny landslides. Sunlight flashed on hundreds of brass tokens held up for bets.
Marshal's voice boomed via arena speaking horn: "Citizens of Iron! Ring three begins with Null Prelim bout…" She rattled sponsor codes. "Competitor C-null-013, known as Cipher, versus C-null-009, Holm Shader—Echo Mirror Adept."
Crowd muttered; some tried to chant but couldn't pronounce my alias, others booed prep emptily.
Rope lifted. I stepped onto sand. Each grain felt coarse, warm. Boots sank a centimeter, giving just enough yield to test Vector Slide.
Opposite gate opened. Holm Shader strode out—a woman maybe thirty, all angles and silver thread woven through hair. She wore mirror plates on forearms and chest, backed by woven black cloth. The Interface tagged her stats:
Holm Shader
Echo 3 Vector 1
Riddle (Primary): "Exists only in mirrors"
Mass: 0.34 Strata
Flux: 12 %
She saluted with two fingers to temple. I returned a short nod.
Marshal voice: "Riddle affirmation?"We declared again. The speak-horn repeated in slow monotone, for watchers taking odds: "Undefined / Echo-for-Silence / Advance-Retreat" versus "Mirrors-Only."
"Begin on horn."
Silence trembled. Spectators leaned.
THOOO-OMP. A deep brass note rolled from giant stadium horn.
The bout
Holm Shader vanished.
Not blink-and-gone—more smear, like wet paint brushed sideways. Mirror plates flashed; her outline split into five reflected shards, each slice repositioned at slight angle. They stepped outward, leaving behind image trails. I smelled ozone; heard faint chord—like tuning forks of thick iron wobbling.
Interface:
Echo Clone Technique — 5 duplicates
Real body flux ping inside mirror envelope uncertain
I set weight backward—Riddle fired; Vector-Slide rocketed me forward five paces toward Null sink #4. Dust puffed. Crowd gasped at sudden blur.
Shards turned heads. Three advanced. Their feet didn't disturb sand; reflection illusions rarely did. I flicked a silent nail just ahead of them—impact spraying hush like dousing a lantern. Two illusions froze, color draining to grayscale—exposed as non-entities. Good.
But from side, a shard lunged real—sand kicked. I pivoted retreat again; slide whisked me in arc. She swiped wrist mirror, slicing air; noise rang like glass harp.
Spike out. I stabbed downward through her passing shadow, hoping real foot would meet silent iron. Nothing. Illusion again.
Echo laughter shimmered overhead. I looked up—true Shader suspended thirty feet high, standing in vertical plane like she'd stepped into invisible wall. Air shimmered: a disc-shaped mirror no one else could see. That was her Riddle—she existed only where reflection surfaces allowed.
She raised palm; mirror bent sunlight into single beam. White hot streak scythed down. Vector Slide lacked vertical; I dove, rolled. Sand hissed where beam struck, burning trench two fingers deep.
Crowd roared.
I needed a reflection surface of my own to pin her. Pulse reflectors angled across ground—too far. But Null sinks! Black basalt discs offered dull reflection, slight but enough.
I sprinted, retreat-riddle boosting. Dust trailed. One illusion tried tripping; I leapt.
Reached sink #5. Its surface curved slightly like pan of oil. I knelt, spike poised.
Above, Shader re-angled mirror disk, prepping wider beam. Light danced, reflecting again between air surfaces she conjured—Ricochet path.
I plunged spike point into edge of Null sink, simultaneously slapped hush disc center. Silent ripple radiated.
Null sink gulped hush, its vent gurgling. Reflection quality warped—mirror darkened. Shader's image flickered unstable; real feet lost anchor; she fell.
She tucked, rolled mid-air, used Vector 1 to push sideways toward safer mirror path—but hush zone disrupted vector channels; her push stuttered. She landed awkward, knee hitting sand.
I closed. The crowd noise battered eardrums—chants isolating into "Ci-pher! Ci-pher!" mixed with "Mirror! Mirror!" Bookmakers scrambling.
Shader sprang, mirror gauntlet raised. Echo clone burst from arm—a faster duplicate. It slashed. I retreat-slide aside—Vector path curved, letting me circle behind.
Spike butt to back of her gauntlet; hush injection disabled reflective surface—mirror cracked, shards falling like silver snow.
She hissed, pivoted elbow into my ribs. Air whooshed; but bandolier padding soaked hit. I coughed, twisted off line.
Sand flew; reflectors hummed; Null sink cooled.
Interface scrolled:
Flux 4 % → 6 % (exertion)
Opponent Flux 12 % → 7 %
Shader backed toward central pylon. Her echo illusions now only two. She whispered—sound carried via reflection to my ear: "Undefined is theft. Null will eat you."
I responded, voice quiet but firm. "Null is just counting from the other direction." I threw second nail low; it skidded, lodged near her heel. Hush drained echo illusions—they popped like soap.
Shader drove forward, knee high, forearm arc. I backward-slide past her hip, then forward spin (still fulfilling 'retreat' because feet orientation). Sand blurred; my boot heel clipped her ankle. She stumbled. I swept leg, knocked her flat. Spike tip on throat, hush field vibrating.
Marshal horn sounded short note—END TOUCH.
Crowd erupted. Some booed illusions lost; most whistled delight. Stands rattled like drumskin under hail of applause and jeers.
Shader breathed hard, stared at sky. Rain clouds parted; blue patch glimmered.
Marshal's cane tapped. "Yield?" she asked Shader.
Holm closed eyes, whispered, "Mirror breaks." She patted sand. I stepped back, offered hand. She took it, rose, bowed to Marshal.
Interface:
Bout Winner — Cipher
Reward Logged: Provisional Citizen ID granted (pending final round); Mass Voucher +1.0 Strata (claim post-matches)
Breath left my chest in gust. Muscles trembled—adrenaline bleeding.
Marshal raised my wristband to crowd. "First Null preliminary to Cipher, the Quiet Forge's apprentice!" A freshet of cheers washed across stands; kids waved pretzel sticks.
As we walked off, Shader leaned nearer. "Undefined road is lonely. Keep anchors." She tapped her own cracked gauntlet, then pressed shard into my hand—mirror sliver rimmed in dull steel. "For luck, paradox boy."
Back-stage corridor smelled of sweat, pine tar used on grip poles, and fried dough drifting through bamboo screens. Fighters waiting for Pulse bracket parted, nodding politely. One big Vector brute slapped my shoulder—friendly. I passed bookie chalkboard: odds beside my name now 4 : 1.
Forge met me at tunnel mouth, grinning fire-bright. "Bucket deeper yet," she said, brandishing Mass voucher chit.
Tamsin's red scarf waved from stands; the gray cat perched on railing, tail thrumming.
The Interface dimmed, but left a final pane:
Carnival Countdown: 10 hours 03 minutes
Next Null Bout: semi-final vs C-null-002 (Brack's replacement pending)
Flux regen recommended: 60 min rest, high-mineral drink, visualization of Vector resets.
I exhaled, sand still clinging to knees, eyes stinging from reflected beam glare. All around, the environment buzzed—vendors shouting, sawdust swirling under shoes, hubs of copper wheelbarrows squealing, brass snare in distant band, faint smell of oranges squeezed over shaved ice. Even dust motes near shaded overhang looked purposeful, glimmering before drifting out into sunbeams.
Alive. All of it alive—arena stones warm from noon sun, Null sink vents pulsing slow sighs; stands groaning like a docked ship; sky trading clouds for gulls. I pocketed mirror shard. It caught sun once, flashed jagged rainbow, then slept.
"Come," Forge said, handing me a tin of beet-ginger tonic. "World will still be loud when you wake; best prepare new hush to answer it."
I sipped. Iron taste, but sweet, burning afterglow. The path back toward the repair shed felt short, footprints echoing lightly on sand-grit stone. My reflection flickered in a stray mirror of vendor stall—I almost didn't recognize the steady eyes looking back, bandolier straps forming quiet X over chest.
One step at a time, we moved deeper into the belly of the Carnival—through corridors smelling of chalk rosin, past stone arches older than iron rails outside. Somewhere ahead, a bigger arena door waited, and maybe Brack behind it, fists pulsing. But right now the world's colors felt bright, focused, and the city—crowd, sand, cedar smoke from roasted nuts—was as detailed and solid as any ledger line the Interface could draw.
Anchor Name. Anchor Purpose. Three Riddles humming like well-tuned strings. Between them, a silence wide enough to build a future in.
And the future, today, tasted like dust, beet sugar, and the electric promise of a second bell yet to ring.