Ash breathed through Embermark.
Not like smoke. Not like dust. It moved.
It slid through alleys like gossip, curled in gutters like regret. It kissed the backs of necks and listened from cracks in stone. The city knew itself—and everything that moved through it.
Hatim ran.
Boots pounded cobbled stone—fast, staccato beats echoing between buildings that leaned close enough to scrape knuckles. His breath caught fire in his throat, each gulp dragging ash deep into his chest. Fine. White-gray. Endless. It clung to his tongue. Whispers curled inside his lungs.
Behind him: curses, loud and slicing through the noise. A merchant's voice, hoarse with outrage.
He didn't stop.
The city twisted around him—streets looping like old thoughts, never straight, never letting go. Hatim veered past a woman balancing trays of syrup-slick pastries. The scent hit his stomach like a punch. He ducked under a swinging butcher's hook, still dripping, nearly colliding with a robed figure cloaked in cloth that shimmered like light on broken water.
Spices stung his throat. Iron. Clove. Jasmine curling into rot.
His ribs burned. His legs ached.
Didn't matter.
He shoved between two buildings, the gap barely wide enough to squeeze through. Light cut out behind him. The alley swallowed him whole. Here, the ash was thicker. Older. Like it remembered the last dozen who'd hidden here.
He pressed to the wall, breath scraping in his lungs, pulse roaring in his ears. Heat rose from the stone beneath, curling through his boots—the veins of Akar humming just below, warm and alive.
A shadow stirred.
"Still running like a streetrat."
Hatim didn't need to look.
Lugal stepped from the gloom, leaning like he'd been waiting there all day, arms folded, foot pressed to stone. His grin carried the echo of a knife's edge.
"Lost him," Lugal said. "Sloppy work. Lucky he was fat."
Hatim exhaled sharp through his nose. "You followed?"
Lugal held up a vial. No longer than a finger. Inside: gold. Not reflected. Not refracted. Alive.
Hatim's body locked tight. His stomach twisted.
"Where'd you get that?"
"Doesn't matter," Lugal said. "Not mine. Yet. It's payment. For whoever finishes the errand."
Hatim stared at the glow. His mouth went dry.
"What kind of errand?"
Lugal's grin thinned.
"For an Ancient."
The city hushed.
Even the ash seemed to pause, suspended mid-breath. Hatim's skin crawled.
Above them: fluttering. A flicker of wings.
Babs. One, then four more. Their wings glowed ember-red, spiraling in slow circles around the vial. Hungry for purity.
Lugal pocketed it. The glow vanished.
"You in?"
Hatim didn't answer right away. Hunger clawed at his belly. But this? This wasn't just risk. This was invitation into a deeper kind of burn.
"That job might cost more than it pays," he muttered.
"So does starving." Lugal tossed him a chunk of stale bread. Hatim caught it, chewed slow. Dry. Bitter. But real.
"You're not ready," Lugal said, half turning. "Didn't think you'd bite. Try Bolun. Near the furnaces. Scrap work. Dirty. But safe."
Hatim said nothing. They parted. No goodbyes. Just ash swirling in their wake.
—
The streets grew narrower.
He walked now—silent—following the rhythm beneath his feet. The heartbeat of Embermark pulsed through rusted grates and broken glass. He passed arches eaten hollow by time, vines of twisted metal hanging like veins. The scent of slag and scorched earth thickened.
Ash floated heavier here. Faces wore it like masks. Eyes watched from beneath layers of soot.
Children raced between vats of molten scrap. Vendors barked prices over boiling slag. Towers of glass and smoke rose in the distance—chimneys bleeding red smoke into an already bruised sky.
He kept his head low.
Then—
"Oi. Whispered Void."
The voice cut clean.
Hatim slowed. Ahead: two shapes. Tiri. And Masad. One smirking, the other a wall of quiet threat. The square stilled, like it too was holding its breath.
Hatim had run the first time. Fought the second. Neither had worked.
Tiri cracked his knuckles. "Still playing pretend?"
Masad's voice rumbled low. "We should toss him. Let Asha sort the truth."
A vendor stopped mid-call. A mother pulled her child behind her skirts. The crowd didn't stare, but they watched. Quietly.
Hatim shifted his weight back.
A mistake.
Pain cracked across his ribs. Another blow slammed between his shoulders. Then a boot. Then ash. Heat surged up through the stone, like the city had been waiting.
Embermark fed on pain.
He curled inward. Wheezing. Eyes shut. The ground felt alive—vibrating in rhythm with his racing heart.
Then—
Stillness.
The crowd paused.
Even the ash.
A hand gripped his arm. Not harsh. Solid. Anchored.
"Enough."
It wasn't shouted. But the word cut clean through the air. Like truth.
Tiri's smirk twitched. Masad stepped back. Something in the air had changed. The veins of Akar beneath the square shimmered faintly, casting pale fire across their skin.
Hatim opened one eye. Blood ran from his lip.
The hand tightened. Not cruel. Just certain.
"We need to go," the voice said.
And Hatim, without thinking, moved.
They vanished into the alleys.
Behind them, Embermark exhaled.
The crowd resumed. Voices returned. The market's pulse quickened again.
But something in the city had shifted.
Something had seen.
And somewhere deep beneath the ash and fire, the memory of that moment etched itself into stone.