They didn't linger after that.
Coats were fastened, last words were swallowed, and the front door of the Home closed behind them with a soft click that seemed too quiet for what it meant to Lucian.
The walk to the tram stop was short enough that Blackwood saw no need to fill it with conversation. Lucian was grateful. The streets of the poor district passed them by in a blur of narrow alleys, old buildings and laundry lines stirring in the wind, all of it as familiar to him as the creak of the orphanage floorboards.
At the corner, the elevated line came into view—sleek metal rails suspended above the street, humming faintly. They didn't have to wait long before a tram slid into the station with a low, magnetic whine, doors hissing open to spill out a handful of tired workers and students in worn coats.
They boarded with everyone else, swept along by the swarm of bodies. Lucian found a spot by the window; Blackwood took the seat opposite. A chime sounded, the doors closed, and the tram lurched smoothly back into motion.
The orphanage began to fall away behind them—first the familiar street, then the block, then the whole district shrinking into a patchwork of roofs and colour as the tram picked up speed.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Lucian leaned his head lightly against the cold glass, watching the buildings and roads slide past below. Down there were the streets he could name without thinking, the shortcuts he'd taken on errands, the markets he'd roamed with Grace for bargains. His eyelids felt heavy again. The knot of his tie sat against his throat, a small, comforting weight.
Sleep.
He pushed the thought away.
Not yet.
He let his gaze drift with the view as the tram moved closer to the city's centre; buildings growing newer and cleaner. Somewhere ahead, just a few more stops away, was the police station, and the moment he would finally have to close his eyes.
Just like his gaze, Lucian's thoughts similarly drifted. They drifted to his most recent discovery, just a few weeks before his infection with the Spell. He'd gone to find the Director on a Wednesday evening, ready to give his usual report on the children: how they were doing in their studies, whether they were keeping up with chores, and any incidents worth mentioning. He had knocked, then stepped inside to find the office empty. That wasn't unusual; the Director certainly wasn't getting any younger, and his trips to the restroom had become more frequent every year.
Deciding to wait, Lucian had settled into the Director's chair, something he liked to do when the old man wasn't around. It was a good armchair, after all. As he sat, his eyes fell on the open ledgers spread across the desk.
A few glances were enough.
The numbers made the orphanage's financial situation glaringly clear.
He'd frozen there for at least a minute, staring, shock turning his stomach cold. Then the familiar creak of footsteps in the hallway snapped him out of it. Lucian had hurriedly put everything back exactly as he'd found it and slipped out to wait in the corridor instead.
The old man had his pride, after all. He wouldn't take kindly to Lucian snooping through his accounts.
In the days that followed, what he had seen refused to leave Lucian alone.
He'd always known the Home wasn't rich. They lived in the poor district of the NQSC, not quite the outskirts, but it wasn't somewhere you would choose to settle, either. Shoes and clothes were mended more than bought, and the Director's lectures about "austerity building character" grew less believable every year. But seeing it written down, neat columns, red ink, overdue notices? That was different.
It wasn't just that they were poor.
The orphanage was at risk. All the children were at risk.
He could almost hear some faceless clerk talking about "consolidating institutions" and "reallocating wards," as if the children were cards to be dealt around.
At first, his response had been simple. Looking back, it was almost cute in its naivety.
He picked up odd jobs. Early mornings at the market, hauling crates until his shoulders ached. Sweeping the back rooms of shops that didn't care as long as it was cheap. Running errands across the district for anyone who would pay a few extra coins. All while hiding it from the Director.
Every bit he didn't absolutely have to spend went into a small tin box beneath his bed.
It was nothing, really. Pathetic, compared to the numbers he had seen. But he kept at it anyway, because doing something, no matter how small, felt better than doing nothing except waiting and watching.
Then he'd been infected by the Spell.
What he'd first dismissed as mere exhaustion quickly became something heavier, clinging even after rest, turning his limbs sluggish and his thoughts foggy. When he started noticing the blackish veins creeping under his skin, it was confirmed with a trip to the doctor, and his efforts felt worthless.
A tin box of coins against the literal Nightmare Spell.
That was when the Director had sat him down.
Blackwood hadn't shouted. He hadn't lectured. He'd just looked at him with a gaze that felt sterner than the officers in the city he had once seen by chance.
"Now, you make sure you listen to me, Lucian, and listen well. You will only do the bare minimum required to survive," he had said, each word sharp. "You will not act with your usual recklessness. Your only task is to live, Lucian. Do we understand each other?"
"The Spell will always leave a way out," he'd added, quieter. "There is no impossible nightmare. You are to find the easiest solution and take it. Nothing more."
At the time, he had just nodded obediently.
What else was he supposed to do? Argue with the man who'd kept him fed and housed for sixteen years? Tell him that surviving wasn't the only thing on his mind.
Guilt pricked at him even now, on the tram, as the city slid past below. Because he was lying.
He still intended to survive. He wasn't suicidal or anything.
But he had no intention of stopping at the bare minimum. The situation had made that impossible.
If he came out of the Nightmare with some weak, awkward aspect, nothing would change. The debts would keep piling up. The letters would keep coming. The Home would still be in the same danger.
He needed more.
A real ability. A strong one.
Combat-related, preferably. Because, from what he had heard, they were often quicker to show results than more abstract abilities.
Something that could kill Nightmare Creatures, clear zones, guard shipments - things that actually paid enough to matter. Not just to save the orphanage, maybe even an average aspect could manage that. It was because of a more troubling realisation he'd come to.
What was stopping the other kids from becoming infected?
Bram and some of the other older kids were just a year or two younger than him.
What if it was them?
What if, in a few years, it were little Mina?
The idea left a sour taste in his mouth. He pressed his forehead harder against the glass.
If he failed, the Home wouldn't just lose him.
It would lose whatever slim chance he may have given them. And the next infected child, because there would always be another, would walk into the Spell with even less protection.
Somewhere, excitement flickered under his fear, unwanted but impossible to ignore.
Because if he succeeded. If he woke up with a combative aspect with a rank that actually meant something. He could make a real difference; he could improve the lives of all the children who waited for him back at the Home.
That hope sat next to the guilt and the fear in his chest, all three competing for space as the tram hummed along its rail.
Lucian's fingers tightened around the knot of Blackwood's tie.
He'd promised to be careful.
He intended to come back.
But when the Spell finally dragged him under, he wouldn't be looking for the safest, easiest way out - he couldn't.
He'd be looking for the most dangerous path he could survive.
And he guessed he would just have to live long enough to apologise to the Director later.