Morning in Ironridge arrived without warmth.
Grey light slid between stone buildings, touching iron rails and worn flags without softening them. The fortress woke the way it always did—measured, alert, unforgiving. Bells rang once, low and distant, not to announce a new day but to remind everyone that the old one had never really ended.
Reeve stepped outside, pulling his jacket tighter. The air bit at his skin. He could already feel yesterday's training in his muscles—tight, sore, uncooperative.
Lunareth waited near the stairs, fastening her gloves.
"You look alive," she said.
"Debatable," Reeve muttered.
She turned, eyes scanning him once, efficiently. "Good enough. Move."
They walked through the narrow streets toward the training yard. Blacksmiths were already at work. Sparks burst like brief stars, then vanished. Vendors opened stalls with quiet urgency.
Reeve noticed how people avoided eye contact.
Not fear—habit.
Ahead, voices rose.
Harsh. Sharp. Unpleasant.
Lunareth slowed.
Two Ironridge guards stood near a supply cart. Their armor was marked with the fortress insignia, but the way they leaned—casual, loose—set Reeve's teeth on edge.
A merchant stood between them, clutching a small pouch.
"That's not what we agreed," the merchant said, voice tight. "I already paid the toll."
One guard snorted. "Toll went up."
"For what reason?"
The second guard stepped forward, looming. "For breathing Ironridge air."
The merchant hesitated. His eyes flicked around. No one intervened. No one ever did.
Reeve felt something twist in his chest.
"This place is supposed to protect people," he murmured.
Lunareth didn't look at him. "It protects itself."
The guard grabbed the pouch from the merchant's hand and shook it, coins clinking. "Light. You think we're fools?"
"I—I have children—"
The first guard shoved him backward. The merchant stumbled, barely keeping his footing.
Reeve stopped walking.
"Lunareth."
She sighed quietly. "Keep moving."
He didn't.
The guards noticed them then. Their eyes slid over Lunareth, measuring, then landed on Reeve.
"Well," one said. "Another outsider."
Reeve met his gaze. His face was calm—too calm. The same expression he wore in college when people underestimated him.
"Is this part of Ironridge law?" he asked.
The guard laughed. "Law is what keeps the walls standing."
"And shaking down merchants helps?"
The guard stepped closer. "Careful, boy."
Lunareth's hand rested on her weapon. Not threatening. Just present.
"Let him go," she said flatly.
The guards hesitated. They recognized danger when it looked back at them.
"…Fine," one muttered, tossing the pouch at the merchant. "Get lost."
The merchant didn't wait.
As the guards walked away, one glanced back at Reeve, eyes narrowed. "Outsiders who talk don't last long here."
Reeve watched them go.
"…You could've stopped that earlier," he said.
"Yes," Lunareth replied. "And then Ironridge would remember my face."
He frowned. "So we just let it happen?"
She turned to him fully now. "You want to survive this world, Reeve? Learn something."
"What?"
"Power doesn't announce itself by being right."
Silence settled between them.
Then she added quietly, "But you noticed. That matters."
They continued toward the training yard.
Training was worse than yesterday.
Lunareth pushed him harder, faster. His movements lagged. His breathing came shallow.
"Again," she said.
He swung. Missed. Stumbled.
Again.
Again.
His vision blurred at the edges.
"Stop," she said suddenly.
He froze.
She stepped closer, studying him—not his stance, not his grip, but his eyes.
"You feel wrong," she said.
"…Thanks."
"No," she corrected. "Physically wrong."
Reeve swallowed. "Since I woke up here… sometimes my body feels heavier. Other times lighter. Like it can't decide what it is."
Lunareth's expression tightened—just a fraction.
"Sit."
He did.
She crouched in front of him, fingers hovering near his wrist, then stopping. She didn't touch him.
"Tell me exactly what you feel."
He closed his eyes. "Like something inside me is… hungry."
That made her still.
"Hunger for what?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Strength. Silence. Control."
Her gaze sharpened.
"That kind of hunger," she said slowly, "doesn't come from training."
Reeve laughed weakly. "Figures."
She stood. "We're stopping early."
"What? Why?"
"Because pushing you right now might break something," she replied. "And not in a way you recover from."
He watched her walk away, unease settling deep.
That night, Ironridge felt closer.
Not physically—mentally.
Reeve lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the fortress seeped in: boots, metal, distant shouts. He replayed the morning again and again—the guards, the merchant, Lunareth's restraint.
Power doesn't announce itself by being right.
His chest tightened.
At some point, he sat up.
His heartbeat felt… off. Slower. Deeper.
He pressed a hand to his sternum.
"Hey," he whispered to the empty room. "If you're there… stop messing with me."
Silence.
Then—
A sensation.
Not a voice. Not yet.
Just a presence.
Observing.
Reeve's breath caught.
Somewhere in Ironridge, unseen eyes turned toward the room.
Not the guards.
Not the fortress.
Something older.
Something interested.
And inside Reeve, the hunger stirred—once—then went still, as if amused.