The rain in the Morrows had rhythm that morning. Not like thunder. Not like grief. Like breath. Soft. Even. Deliberate. The city had calmed since the night Ilias learned to fly. No one outside the Crimson Jacks' circle knew the name Osh'Kora, but everyone could feel it—a shift in the grid, a new energy riding through the power lines like a ghost frequency.
Rumors started the way they always did in the Morrows: from the mouths of people who owed someone money.
"A boy in the ruins near Sector 9."
"He had a staff. It lit up like music."
"They say he walked on air."
By noon, the story had evolved into a dozen different versions—messiah, weapon, curse. But the boy himself was just helping an old woman fix a broken street speaker.
Ilias knelt beside the half-scorched speaker post, coat soaked at the shoulders, white hair plastered to his forehead. The speaker housing was cracked, wires tangled and shorting out in bursts of harsh static. He used the Osh'Kora like a tuning fork, tapping it gently against the metal until the distortion aligned with the staff's resonance. The interference cleared. Music—faint and sweet, the kind that came from old records—trickled back into the air.
A nearby shopkeeper leaned out of his stall and clapped. "Hey! The kid fixed the whole block!" Ilias smiled and waved him off. "Just tuned it. You'll need to replace the battery core in a week." The woman he'd helped—a tailor with rain tattoos running down her arms—pressed a hand to her heart. "You bring sound back to the Morrows, boy. Don't let them steal it again."
"I'm not here for the sound," Ilias said quietly. "Just the balance." But he smiled as she handed him a cup of hot ginger tea anyway.
Kojo's gang lounged by the side of the road, pretending not to be proud. Reverb muttered something into his mic about 'the people's hero of the block,' and Kojo rolled his eyes. "Careful, brother," Kojo said. "You keep fixing things, and soon they'll think you're running for mayor."
"Maybe I'll get free food," Ilias said, sipping the tea. "You know how broke I am?"
"Yeah," Kojo grinned. "But broke men don't get to rewrite the world."
The air shimmered faintly. Distorted. Someone was watching
The man who stepped out of the shimmer was the kind of person you could smell before you saw—not from stench, but from money. Silver suit. Black gloves. A face that had been cut too clean to be real. His voice carried an accent older than the city itself.
"Mr. Ilias, I presume."
Ilias didn't stand. "You presume right."
The man smiled like a blade. "I represent House Verris. My name is Callen. Lady Verris sends her regards—and an invitation."
Kojo muttered something obscene under his breath. Reverb stopped recording. Callen ignored them. He focused on Ilias with the kind of attention predators give prey.
"You've made quite an impression. They say you command resonance itself—that you wield a piece of a lost god."
"I'm not joining any family," Ilias said flatly.
Callen chuckled softly. "Oh, I expected you'd say that. Everyone with a cause does—before they realize what resistance costs." He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin gold card. "The Lady is not offering chains. She's offering protection. Sanctuary. You'll need both soon."
Ilias stood now. The street seemed smaller around them. "Tell your Lady I already have protection."
"From whom?" Callen asked, amused. "The Church? The Silence? The three Houses that see your power as a destabilizing myth? Even your friends will hesitate when fear becomes expensive."
Ilias stepped closer. The Osh'Kora thrummed low—not aggressive, but warning. "I don't bow," Ilias said. "And I don't belong to anyone."
Callen's eyes narrowed—not angered, but intrigued. "Pity. You could've rewritten history the easy way." He turned to leave—And stopped as a shadow dropped from the roof.
Seraph landed lightly beside Ilias, cloak wet, expression ice. "Callen Verris," she said. "Still slithering around with invitations no one asked for."
The envoy smiled. "Ah, Seraphine Kael. I was wondering when the Church's stray sword would show. How's the exile life treating you?"
She stepped between him and Ilias. "Touch him, and I'll show you how fast an exile still cuts."
"Please," Callen said, feigning a laugh. "I'm only delivering words. The Lady wanted to meet the boy before things turn... regrettable."
"What do you mean by regrettable?" Ilias asked.
"Exactly what you think it means," Callen replied. "You've made enemies of powerful people. People who shape stories—and bury them." He slid his glove back on and gave Ilias a small, graceful bow.
"Decline if you wish. Just know that in the Morrows, every refusal is a declaration of war." Then he turned and walked into the mist. The shimmer swallowed him whole.
The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was the sound of gears turning somewhere above their heads. Ilias exhaled. "You know him?"
"Too well," Seraph said, tightening her gloves. "Callen was once a Church spy. Got rich selling his faith to the Families. He's not dangerous because he kills people—he's dangerous because he buys them."
"You think he'll come back?"
"He won't need to," she said. "They'll send others. Verris doesn't take rejection well."
Ilias looked at her, searching her face. "You okay?"
Seraph didn't answer immediately. She stepped into the rain, looking away. "Don't ask me that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not your job to care."
The words hit like stones. Her tone was cold, controlled—but her eyes flickered, just for a second. Enough for Ilias to see the lie.
"Seraph," he said softly. "If this is about last night—"
She turned, sharp. "Don't flatter yourself. You're a mission, not a man."
Kojo winced. Reverb mouthed, damn.
Ilias looked down. The staff at his side thrummed once, like it could sense his disappointment. "Right," he said. "Just a mission."
He walked past her. The air between them trembled—not with anger, but something quieter, heavier.
Seraph's chest tightened, but she didn't move. She couldn't afford to.
Later that afternoon, Seraph found herself standing outside Mira's clinic. She didn't remember deciding to come here. She just... was.
The door was open. Inside, Mira was tending to a patient—a kid with a busted arm, resonance burns running up his shoulder. She worked quietly, efficiently, hands glowing faint green as she knit bone and tissue back together.
When she finished, she looked up and saw Seraph standing in the doorway. "You gonna stand there all day, or you coming in?"
Seraph hesitated. Then stepped inside.
Mira gestured to a chair. "Sit."
"I'm fine."
"Sit anyway."
Seraph sat.
Mira poured two cups of coffee from a battered thermos and handed one over. "You look like hell."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious." Mira leaned against the counter, studying her. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I sleep."
"Lying doesn't count."
Seraph stared into her cup. "Why am I here?"
"Because you need to talk to someone who isn't going to judge you," Mira said simply. "And because I overheard your conversation with Ilias this morning."
Seraph's jaw tightened. "You were listening?"
"The walls are thin. And you weren't exactly quiet." Mira took a sip of coffee. "You told him he's just a mission."
"He is."
"Bullshit."
Seraph looked up sharply.
Mira met her gaze, unflinching. "I've seen the way you look at him. Like you're trying to decide if you're allowed to care. And I've seen the way he looks at you—like you're the only solid thing in a world that keeps trying to kill him."
"I can't—" Seraph stopped. Swallowed. "I can't afford to care. Not like that."
"Why not?"
"Because people I care about die." The words came out harsher than she meant. "My partner. My squad. Everyone I've ever—" She stopped again, breathing hard.
Mira was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: "You think pushing him away will keep him safe?"
"I think getting close to me is a death sentence."
"Maybe," Mira said. "Or maybe you're just scared."
Seraph didn't answer.
Mira set down her cup and crossed her arms. "Look. I don't know you that well. But I know my brothers. And I know Ilias is falling for you whether you like it or not. So you've got two choices: push him away and watch him get hurt anyway, or take the risk and be there when he needs you."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is." Mira smiled faintly. "But here's the thing—I saw Lira kiss him last night. And I don't like her."
Seraph blinked. "What?"
"Something about her feels wrong," Mira said. "I can't explain it. But my gut says she's dangerous. And if you care about Ilias at all, you'll watch her."
Seraph stared at her for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Why are you telling me this?"
Mira shrugged. "Because I'd rather he end up with a stiff, hard-shelled, overthinking woman like you than whatever the hell she is."
Despite everything, Seraph almost smiled. "Thanks. I think."
"You're welcome." Mira refilled her cup. "Now get out of my clinic and go talk to him. Properly this time."
Seraph stood, hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Mira grinned. "Just don't break my brother's heart. Kojo will kill you."
"Noted."
That night, while the gang patched up tech and argued about food, Seraph sat alone by the window of the hideout. Her reflection looked tired—not from battle, but from restraint. She'd seen Ilias fix that street speaker. Seen the joy he brought to people who'd forgotten how to hope. And she'd told him he was just a mission. She hated herself for that.
The window shivered. A faint sound—like a chime on glass—made her turn. Lira stood behind her. That whispered too much. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
"You're losing him," Lira said, circling her like a slow melody. "And you don't even know what side you're on."
Seraph's hand went to her weapon. "You shouldn't be here."
"Oh, but I am. You and I want the same thing, don't we? To protect him?"
"Don't twist that."
Lira smiled. "I don't twist. I tune. And right now, your pitch is sharp—off-key. Tell me, when you saw me kiss him... did it hurt?"
Seraph froze.
Lira leaned close. "Because it should have. Pain is proof that you're still human."
Then she stepped back toward the window, her body flickering with faint resonance light.
"You'll tell yourself you don't love him," Lira whispered. "Until it's too late."
The sound cracked—a note like glass breaking—and she was gone.
Seraph stood in the dark for a long time. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but from something worse. She turned to the night sky and muttered under her breath, "I can't protect him from this."
Downstairs, Ilias sat on the floor, back against the wall, staff resting across his knees. The Osh'Kora's resonance was quieter tonight—almost contemplative. He traced the glowing runes with his thumb, thinking of Kojo's laughter, Seraph's silence, Lira's kiss, and Callen's warning. Everyone wanted something from him.
The Church wanted control. The Families wanted power. The Silence wanted chaos. And somewhere in between—he just wanted peace.
Kojo passed him a drink and sat beside him. "You can't fix everyone," Kojo said. "Sometimes, all you can do is decide who you break for."
Ilias looked at him. "And who did you break for?"
Kojo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Once? The wrong people. Now? Maybe you."
They sat there until dawn, the staff's resonance blending with the city's morning rhythm.
Meanwhile...
In a tall glass tower above Sector 3, Lady Verris listened to Callen's report with one hand stroking a small mechanical bird perched on her desk.
"He refused," Callen said.
"Of course he did," Verris replied. "That's why he'll be useful."
"Shall I proceed?"
"Not yet." She looked out the window, where thunder rolled in the distance. "Let the boy think he's free. Then take from him the one thing freedom can't protect."
The bird on her desk tilted its head and echoed her final word with mechanical precision: "Protect... protect... protect..."
And beneath the tower, in the shadows, the Cult of Silence began to stir.