The citadel of Prulla rose against the grey dawn like a promise half-kept.
Sable stood at the base of the hill, Ellaya's hand in his, and stared up at walls three times the height of any structure in the Dredge. Concrete. Reinforced steel. Guard towers at intervals with chem-strips that glowed steady green instead of flickering like dying fireflies.
The clouds were breaking. Slowly. Grudgingly. Through the gaps, weak sunlight touched the upper edges of the walls and made them look almost clean.
Behind them, the Dredge smoldered in its flooded grave.
Ahead, two guards stood at the main gate.
Sable's blue eye cataloged them automatically: *Steel plate armor, visible dents and scratches, postures hunched, eyes half-closed. Combat within the last twelve hours. Exhausted. Cognitively impaired. Reaction time compromised.*
His brown eye just saw two people who wanted to sleep.
Second shifted in his coat pocket. The bird's small body was warm against his chest. Still sleeping. Still *small*. Like the transformation had never happened.
Ellaya squeezed his hand. "Are we going in?"
"Yeah." Sable took a breath. Started walking. "Let me do the talking."
-----
At five meters, one guard's head snapped up. His hand moved toward his weapon—muscle memory overriding exhaustion—then stopped when he registered Sable's raised hand.
"Who are you?" The guard's voice was rough. Underslept. Wary.
Sable smiled. The expression felt wrong on his face—like wearing someone else's skin—but it held.
"Hi. I'm Sable Voss Lucthilde. I'm an escort from the upper Middle City." He gestured toward Ellaya with his free hand. "This is Ellaya. I was accompanying her to the Dredge yesterday. With my three colleagues. But you know…" His voice wavered. Cracked slightly. "The Rain happened."
The guards' expressions shifted. Not sympathy—they'd heard too many stories in the past twelve hours for sympathy—but something adjacent. Recognition. The understanding that survival was just luck in different packaging.
"My mission is to escort this young lady back to her father," Sable continued. His breathing came faster now. Shallow. "But during the evacuation—during the chaos—my entry chip got lost. My ID. Everything. My three colleagues… they didn't make it. It's only by—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. His hand shake visibly. "It's only by luck that we got out at all."
The second guard straightened slightly. His posture softened. "Sir, calm down. Breathe."
Sable nodded. Drew a shaking breath. Another. "I'm sorry. So much happened down there, you wouldn't believe it. I'm just hoping—" He met their eyes. Held the gaze for exactly two seconds before looking down. Submissive. Nonthreatening. "I'm hoping you good sirs would let us in. Make an exception. This young lady needs help. Please."
The two guards looked at each other. Silent communication. Weighing options.
"Unfortunately, sir, we can't—"
"Oh! One more thing." Sable reached for his belt bag. Moved slowly. Telegraphing the action. Pulled out five one-hundred ilard bills. Extended them toward the guards. "Here. Take this. Maybe you divide it between you. You both deserve it after everything you've done—keeping the citadel safe, protecting people. You're the real heroes here."
The smile on his face felt genuine even though nothing behind it was.
"We—is this a bribe?" The first guard's voice rose slightly. "We don't take money from civilians!"
Sable's borrowed Grace activated. The sensation was subtle—like a tuning fork resonating against bone.
**[Truth Evasion: ACTIVE]**
**[Verdict: FALSE]**
A small grin tugged at Sable's mouth before he could stop it.
Sable was genuinely surprised he can still smile like this after all the shit he has been through.
"Oh, come on, sir. It's not a bribe." His voice stayed warm. Friendly. Conspiratorial. "Think of it as a gift. From a citizen you've protected. You deserve it. Please."
The guards hesitated. The first one's hand twitched toward the money. Stopped. Twitched again.
Then both bills disappeared into their pockets.
"Okay, Sable. Enter." The guard's voice was carefully neutral. "Be sure to escort that young lady back to her father. Stay safe."
"Of course. That's my job." Sable's smile widened. "Now treat yourselves to something nice, sirs. You've earned it."
The gate groaned open. Metal scraping metal. The sound echoed through the pre-dawn silence like a judgment being rendered.
Sable gave them a warm nod. A wave.
Ellaya followed close behind, her small hand gripping his tighter.
They stepped through.
Into Prulla.
-----
The citadel was organized in a way the Dredge had never been.
Streets ran perpendicular. Buildings stood at uniform heights—four stories, five at most. Chem-strips hummed overhead in neat rows instead of hanging like improvised Christmas lights. The air still smelled like smoke and ozone from the Rain, but underneath it: bread. Cooking oil. Things that suggested *life* instead of just *survival*.
People moved through the streets despite the early hour. Some were fixing broken windows. Some were searching faces in the crowd, looking for someone who hadn't come home. Some just walked with the blank expression of shock survivors—moving because staying still meant thinking, and thinking meant breaking.
Sable noticed evacuation markers painted on walls. Blue circles with white centers. Directions to sealed rooms. Low-budget defense stations. Nothing compared to Upper City infrastructure—no automated defenses, no Grace-powered barriers—but compared to the Dredge's complete absence of protection, it was a miracle.
Ellaya's pace slowed.
Sable looked down. Her face was pale. Her steps had gone from steady to shuffle.
"Ellaya." He stopped. Knelt. Eye level with her. "Does your legs hurt? Tell me. I can carry you."
"No—" She blinked hard. Trying to focus. "I'm fine. Just sleepy."
"We're close." Sable squeezed her shoulder gently. "If I remember right, behind that blacksmith workshop, my old house is there. You can rest soon."
"You lived here before?"
"Yeah. Four years ago. Back when I was fifteen." His voice stayed flat. Clinical. "Couldn't apply for an ID or entry chip until sixteen. That's the legal age. So when I left at fifteen…" He trailed off. "I ended up in the Dredge."
"Why did you leave?"
Sable stood. Started walking again. "I'll tell you once we've rested. Come on."
-----
The house appeared around the corner like a wound that hadn't healed.
The paint was crumbling. Flaking off in sheets that exposed grey concrete underneath. The small garden his mother had maintained—vegetables in ceramic pots, flowers in the window boxes—was dead. Not dying. *Dead*. Just dry stems and soil that had turned to dust.
The roof sagged. Tiles missing. Water damage visible even from the street.
Ellaya stared up at it. "Is this your house, Sable?"
"Yes."
The word came out smaller than intended.
Nostalgia hit like a fist to the solar plexus. Not the good kind. The kind that reminded you what you'd lost. Every birthday celebrated here. Every dinner at that table visible through the cracked window. Every night his mother had read him medical textbooks because he'd asked and she'd never said no.
All of it happening in a building that was now rotting from the inside out.
Sable reached the door.
Stopped.
His hand hovered over the wood. Couldn't knock. Couldn't call out.
*Is he here?*
*Is he dead?*
*How will he react when he sees me?*
*Will he throw bottles like he used to?*
*Will he blame me for everything—for being a failure, a burden, for existing?*
His heart hammered between his ribs. The ache of standing at the threshold of the place that had broken him worse than anything in the Dredge settled deep in his chest.
He knocked.
Nothing.
Knocked again.
Silence.
Sable exhaled slowly. "Da—" The word stuck in his throat. Died there. He swallowed it. Tried again. "Elvor. It's Sable."
He opened the door.
A faint shriek came from inside. Startled. Confused.
-----
The interior was clean.
That was the first shock. No garbage. No obvious filth. The floors had been swept. The furniture was dusted.
But everything was *old*. The couch fabric was worn through at the arms. The table had water rings from years of glasses set down without coasters. The walls had rectangles of darker paint where pictures used to hang—his mother's landscapes, his school certificates—now removed, leaving only ghosts.
The house of a man who'd stopped caring about maintenance but couldn't quite let go of routine.
Sable moved through the entryway. Ellaya followed silently.
In the living room, a man sat at the table.
His head rested on folded arms. Bottles surrounded him—beer, mostly, cheap brands with labels half-peeled. Empty stim packets lay scattered like shed skin. The kind of drug that made you forget you were supposed to feel things.
Sable stopped three feet away.
His blue eye cataloged automatically: *Male, approximately 43 years old, appears 55. Severe malnourishment—estimated 15 kilograms underweight. Muscle atrophy visible in exposed forearms. Hand tremors consistent with alcohol withdrawal. Bloodshot sclera. Jaundiced skin tone suggesting liver damage. Dental degradation visible even with mouth closed. Prognosis: five years if substance use ceases immediately. Two years if current trajectory continues.*
His brown eye just saw Elvor.
The man who used to carry him on his shoulders. Who taught him to read. Who held him after nightmares and said *it's okay, you're safe, I'm here.*
Nothing of that man remained visible in the husk at the table.
Ellaya looked at the man, then at Sable. Her mouth opened. Closed. She didn't know what to say.
Neither did Sable.
Second shifted in his pocket. A small, questioning chirp.
*Not now. Stay quiet.*
Sable forced his legs to move. One step. Two. Stopped just close enough to be heard without raising his voice.
"Elvor." The name felt like glass in his mouth. "This is Sable. We need a place to stay. You're a registered citizen here. You can get us passes for the evacuation zones. For when the second Rain hits."
The man didn't move at first.
Then his head lifted slowly. Eyes unfocusing. Focusing. Processing.
"Sa—Sable?"
His voice was rough. Unused. The voice of someone who hadn't spoken to another person in days. Weeks.
"Yes. This is Sable." The words came out harder than intended. "I didn't mean to come back. You made it very clear I wasn't welcome here. But I have a girl with me and she needs help. Your help."
Elvor blinked. Rubbed his face with trembling hands. "Oh. Sable." He tried to sit up straighter. Failed. Tried again. "You came back."
Sable's jaw tightened. "I know this is awkward, but we—"
"I'm glad you're here, son."
The word landed like a blade.
Tears started forming in Elvor's bloodshot eyes. His voice cracked on the second syllable. "You finally came back. I waited for you—"
"You *banished* me from this house!" Sable's voice rose. Not shouting yet. But close. "You told me to get lost. To never show my face here again. You—"
"I know. I said that. Out of anger." Elvor's hands shook harder. "Not at you. At myself. I didn't mean any of it. After your mother died, everything just—everything came crashing—"
"Oh, you think *that's* what I need to hear?" Sable took a step forward. His hands clenched into fists. "That you regretted it? That you were *angry*? Do you have any idea what I went through? The days you'd beat me until morning—" He grabbed his hair. *Yanked* it back. Exposed his forehead.
The scar bisected his left eyebrow. White tissue cutting through skin like a permanent accusation.
"The day you gave me THIS!" His voice cracked. "You remember? Or were you too drunk to remember splitting your son's skull open?!"
Ellaya made a small sound behind him. Frightened. Sable didn't turn.
Elvor's eyes fixed on the scar. His face crumpled like wet paper.
"I remember," he whispered.
"Good." Sable's hand dropped. His breathing was ragged. "Because I remember it *every single day*. Every time I look in a mirror. Every time someone asks about it. Every time—"
"What do you want me to say, so—"
"You could have started with *I'm sorry*!" The shout tore out of him. Raw. Bleeding. "You could have said that *first* instead of 'I'm glad you're here' like I came back because I *wanted* to! Like I had a choice!"
Sable's vision was blurring. He blinked hard. Forced it back.
"I am *miserable* because of you! Do you understand that? Every failure, every night I spent in maintenance tunnels, every time I felt like I was worthless—that came from *you*!" His voice was breaking now. Cracking with every word. "All the studying I did felt useless because you made me believe I was a lost cause! That maybe you and Mom would've been better off if you'd never adopted me!"
He was breathing too hard. Hyperventilating. His hands were shaking and he couldn't stop them.
"Well I didn't *ask* you to adopt me!" The words came out strangled. "I didn't ask Mom to kill herself! And I sure as hell didn't ask you to hurt me!"
The room went silent.
Just Sable's ragged breathing. Ellaya's quiet crying. Elvor's hands trembling against the table.
Then—
"I'm sorry."
The words were so quiet Sable almost didn't hear them.
"I'm sorry, Sable."
Elvor's face was wet now. Tears streaming unchecked. His voice kept breaking like something inside him was fracturing.
Sable stared at him. At this broken man. At the ghost of his father.
"Fuck." His own voice came out hollow. "I didn't need it after all."
"When you left—" Elvor's hands covered his face. Muffling his words. "When you left, I thought you'd be gone for an hour. Maybe a day. But you never came back. You actually did what I told you to do."
"Are you even *hearing* yourself?" Sable's voice rose again.
"I know. I know it doesn't make sense. I said those things because—" Elvor looked up. His face was destroyed. "I didn't know what to do anymore. Laila was everything to me. Your mother. She was *everything*. And I couldn't give her children. I'm infertile. Did you know that?"
Sable's breath caught.
"She wanted a family more than anything. Wanted children. And I couldn't give her that." Elvor's voice was hollow. Dead. "So we adopted. We adopted you. Six years old. Barely talking. Flinching every time someone moved too fast."
"Stop—"
"She loved you more than she loved me." The words came faster now. Desperate. "More than anything. The moment she saw you, she loved you. And when she died—" His voice broke completely. "When she died, I couldn't look at you without seeing her. Without remembering what I'd *failed* to give her. What I couldn't be."
Sable's legs felt weak. His chest was too tight.
"But that's not your fault," Elvor continued. "None of it was your fault. It was mine. All mine. And I—" He sobbed. Actually sobbed. "I took it out on you anyway. Because you were there. Because hurting you was easier than facing what I'd become."
"It's too late now, Elvor." Sable's voice came out flat. Empty. "What's done is done. You can't undo the past. You can't undo the pain you gave me."
"I know. I know that. But I waited for you." Elvor's hands reached across the table. Grasping at nothing. "Every day I waited. Asking myself if you'd come back. It was stupid. I told you never to show your face here and then I—" He laughed. The sound was broken. Wrong. "Then I waited anyway. Like you'd forgive me. Like you'd—"
"I don't forgive you."
The words hung in the air.
Final. Absolute.
"I regret everything I did to you," Elvor whispered. "I regret saying those things. I regret hitting you. I regret—"
"I'm sorry, Sable."
Sable looked at the man who used to read him textbooks at night. Who taught him that every life mattered.
"I'm sorry, Sable."
At the man who hit him hard enough to crack bone. Who taught him that love could turn to violence without warning.
"I'm sorry, Sable."
At the man who was supposed to be his father.
"I'm sorry—"
"Stop." Sable's voice came out broken. Raw. "Just stop saying that."
But Elvor kept crying. Kept apologizing to the table, to himself, to ghosts that weren't there.
Sable reached into his belt bag. Pulled out the remaining five hundred ilards. Set them on the table with careful precision.
"This is for shelter," he said. His voice was clinical now. Detached. The medical student analyzing a corpse. "For food. And for getting us passes to the evacuation zones when the second Rain hits. That's the deal. We stay. You help. Then we're gone."
Elvor stared at the money. "You don't have to pay me—"
"Yes. I do." Sable's voice went colder. Flatter. "Because if I don't pay you, then I owe you. And I don't owe you *anything* anymore."
He turned. Found Ellaya's hand. Her small fingers were cold.
"Come on. We're sleeping in my old room."
"Sable—" Elvor tried to stand. His legs buckled. He caught himself against the table. "Son, please—"
"Don't call me that."
The words came out empty. True. Final.
Sable walked away. Through the living room. Down the hallway he'd walked a thousand times as a child.
Left his father crying at the table.
Left the apologies echoing in empty space.
And felt nothing.
-----
His old room was exactly as he'd left it.
The bed was made. The desk was clear. His medical textbooks were still stacked in the corner—the ones he couldn't carry to the Dredge, the ones that had cost his mother two months of saved wages.
The pencil marks were still on the doorframe. Height measurements. Age 6. Age 8. Age 11. Age 14.
They stopped at 15.
Someone had tried to sand them off. Given up halfway through.
The marks remained. Scars on the wood.
Ellaya stood in the doorway. Watching him. Her face was streaked with tears.
"Sable?" Her voice was so small. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." He pulled Second from his pocket. Set the bird on the desk. Second chirped sleepily. Confused. "You should sleep. The bed's clean."
"What about you?"
"I'll sleep on the floor."
"But—"
"Ellaya. Please. Just sleep."
She nodded. Climbed onto the bed. Pulled the thin blanket over herself.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
Sable sat on the floor. Back against the wall. Knees drawn up.
Stared at nothing.
Second hopped down from the desk. Landed on his knee. Tilted his small head. Concerned.
Sable reached out. Touched the bird's head gently.
"I'm fine," he whispered.
Second's black eyes studied him. Unblinking. The bird chirped once. Soft. Disbelieving.
Sable's hand was shaking.
He pressed it against his eye—the brown one, the one that just *saw* instead of analyzed—and felt the first crack appear.
His shoulders started shaking.
His breathing went ragged.
And finally—*finally*—alone in the room where he'd spent his childhood, surrounded by ghosts of who he used to be—
Sable broke.
His other hand clamped over his mouth. Muffling the sound. He couldn't wake Ellaya. Couldn't let her see this.
But his chest was heaving. Silent sobs wracking his frame. Tears streaming between his fingers.
*I'm sorry, Sable.*
The words echoed in his skull. Over and over.
*I'm sorry, Sable.*
And he'd wanted to hear them for four years. Had imagined this moment. The apology. The acknowledgment.
And now that he had it—
It meant *nothing*.
The words couldn't undo the scar. Couldn't undo the nights in maintenance tunnels. Couldn't undo the way Sable flinched when people raised their voices. Couldn't undo the clinical detachment he'd developed to survive. Couldn't undo the 138 times he'd killed three men without regret.
Couldn't bring his mother back.
Couldn't give him back the person he was supposed to become.
"I don't forgive you," Sable whispered into his palm. "I don't. I can't. I—"
His voice broke completely.
Second pressed against his chest. Small. Warm. Alive.
And Sable cried.
Cried for the boy who'd been beaten.
Cried for the mother who'd left him.
Cried for the father who'd broken him and was now broken himself.
Cried for the medical student who'd dropped out.
Cried for Marcus who'd died because Sable chose survival over compassion.
Cried for the 138 versions of himself who'd died in that alley.
Cried for Ellaya who was learning to be just like him.
Cried for Second who was becoming something *wrong*.
Cried for the Knight whose skull he'd beaten to pulp.
Cried for everyone he'd failed to save.
For everyone he'd become.
For the realization that escape was impossible because the Dredge wasn't a place—it was what you became when you decided survival mattered more than everything else.
And he'd made that choice.
Over and over.
For four years.
Outside, the sun rose over Prulla. Light touched the broken roof. The dead garden. The crumbling paint.
Inside, in a room that used to be his, Sable Lucthilde pressed his face against his knees and cried until he couldn't anymore.
Until the tears stopped coming.
He'd needed that. The anger. The grief. The catharsis of finally saying everything he'd held back.
It felt real. It felt honest.
His mother had taught him that. Smile until you take the pills. Pretend until the pretending kills you.
He was just better at it than she'd been.
Better at believing his own act.
Better at performing humanity so convincingly even he forgot it was fake.
He dried his face.
Checked on Ellaya (still sleeping).
And reminded himself he'd done this to survive. To get passes. To protect her.
Not because he'd needed to scream at the man who broke him.
Not because some part of him still wanted Elvor to suffer.
Not because he'd enjoyed making his father cry.
Just strategy.
He made himself believe it.
Second stayed pressed against his chest.
Small.
Warm.
Loyal.
Still there.
Even when everything else was gone.
-----