Marta's workshop didn't smell like grease or smoke. It smelled like stagnant water and old copper—the scent of "Static Mana." The walls were lined with lead-glass jars, each containing a tiny, flickering spark of life that the High-City had discarded.
"On the table," Marta commanded, her silver tattoos pulsing with a cold, rhythmic light. "Now."
The father laid the vial on a stone slab etched with circular runes. The golden mist inside was no longer swirling; it was a motionless grain of sand, barely visible against the glass.
"She's... she's not breathing," the father whispered, his voice cracking.
"Souls don't breathe, fool," Marta snapped. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of delicate, needle-thin conductors. "They resonate. And hers is out of tune with the world."
She looked at me, her eyes narrowing behind her brass goggles. "Kaelen, I need a 'Spark.' A pure one. The Rat-Catchers' pulse-bomb fried the local grid. If I don't get a surge of raw energy into this slab in the next sixty seconds, she'll dissipate."
I looked at my left arm. The grey scar of my fractured mana-core was cold, but I could feel the pressure behind it. It was like a dam holding back a flood of broken glass.
"No," Marta said, reading my expression. "You're a 'Burnout.' If you channel through that fracture, it'll rip your arm off. Or worse, it'll taint her essence with your own bitterness."
"I don't have anything else," I said, stepping toward the table.
"The horse," Marta pointed toward the door. "The Vulture-Core. It's got a 'Reserve-Cell' in the base. It's toxic, but it's powerful. Get it."
I didn't wait. I turned and sprinted back into the soot-stained alley. The construct-horse lay there, a heap of dead brass. I dropped to my knees, my fingers clawing at the hot metal of its chest-plate. The brass was searing, blistering my skin, but I didn't feel it.
I ripped the base-plate off. There it was—a small, glowing emerald cylinder, hissing with unstable energy.
Clang.
The sound of a heavy iron boot hitting the cobblestones echoed from the end of the alley.
I looked up. The Rat-Catcher Leader was standing there. His steam-arm was a mangled wreck of twisted pipes, but he held a heavy, two-handed harpoon-gun leveled at my chest. His mask was gone, revealing a face mapped with chemical burns.
"Ten thousand silver," he wheezed, his breath rattling in his lungs. "I don't care about the girl. I don't care about the Spire. I just want my payday, Ferryman."
"She's dying," I said, my hand closing around the emerald cell.
"Everything dies in the Sinks," he spat. "Move away from the horse."
I looked at the lead door of Marta's shop. I could hear the chime—the faint, rhythmic heartbeat of the Soul-Trace—fading into nothingness.
I didn't move away. I stood up, the emerald cell hidden in my palm.
"You want a payday?" I asked, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum.
"Give me the bag," he roared, his finger tightening on the trigger.
I didn't reach for my sword. I reached for the fracture in my own soul. I opened the "valve" just an inch—enough to let my broken magic flow into the emerald cell.
The cell didn't just glow; it shrieked.
I threw it. Not at him, but at the overhead steam-pipe directly above his head.
The cell exploded on impact. The concentrated mana ignited the pressurized steam, creating a localized "Aether-Blast." The alley disappeared in a flash of white-hot vapor and emerald fire.
The Rat-Catcher didn't even have time to scream. The shockwave threw him backward, his heavy armor clattering against the rusted walls as he was swallowed by the fog.
I didn't stay to watch. I dove back inside Marta's shop, slamming the lead door and bolting it.
"Marta! Catch!"
I tossed the smoking, overcharged cell to her. She caught it with a pair of insulated tongs and jammed it into the slot at the base of the stone table.
The runes flared. The entire workshop vibrated with a low, humming frequency that made my teeth ache.
On the slab, the golden mist began to move. It spiraled, expanding until it filled the vial once more, pulsing with a vibrant, healthy gold light. The chime returned—loud, clear, and melodic.
The girl was back.
The father collapsed to his knees, sobbing into his hands. Marta exhaled a long, shaky breath, her tattoos dimming.
"She's stable," Marta whispered. "But the blast... Kaelen, the City Watch will have seen that flare from three districts away. You've just turned this workshop into the brightest target in Oakhaven."
I leaned against the door, my left arm numb and bleeding from the mana-leak. I looked at my reflection in a shard of broken glass on the floor.
I looked like a monster. I looked like a hero. I looked like a man who was finally, truly, awake.
"Let them come," I said, my voice echoing in the small room. "I've still got half a tank of steam and a passenger to deliver."
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