Eight years had corroded the memory, sanding down the raw edge of fear, but Ren still felt the phantom burn on his palms. It was winter, bitter even for the Ironbound Dominion, and he’d been ten cycles old, huddled in a derelict boiler-stack he’d claimed. Frostbite had gnawed at his fingers. He’d needed heat, a desperate, childish wish for warmth, and then the air shimmered. A blast of raw, uncontrolled energy had erupted from his outstretched hands, a furious bloom of heat that warped the scavenged metal around him. It wasn't a gentle flicker, but a violent surge, a miniature furnace roaring to life, then just as suddenly dying, leaving behind a lingering scent of ozone and fear. His guardian, Old Elara, had found him hours later, curled in the stack, trembling. She hadn't marveled. Her eyes, usually sharp and knowing, had been wide with a desolation Ren had never seen. She pulled him close, her voice a raspy whisper against his hair. “Ren, listen. This… this *spark* inside you. You must never, ever let it show. Not to anyone. Do you promise me?” He had nodded, too scared to do anything else. The power hadn't felt fascinating or fun. It felt like a ticking bomb. Later, by the flickering light of a stolen oil lamp, Elara spoke of the world beyond their Derelict Wards, the grand, terrible city above them. “Up there,” she’d coughed, her hand gesturing vaguely upwards, “are the Guild Lords. The Technocrats. They rule the Dominion, built it on the ashes of what came before. They say the Arcane destroyed the Old World, shattered it. They fear anything that isn’t their cogs, their steam, their steel.” She described the Guild Lords as direct descendants of those who harnessed the greatest machines, wielding unimaginable power through technology. But there were others, she warned, those born with a whisper of the old ways, a latent connection to the Arcane Weave. They were called Scions, and they were hunted, or worse, pressed into service as living conduits for the Technocrats' experiments. “Your father… he had a flicker of it, a quiet hum in his blood. Like you,” Elara said, her gaze fixed on the dancing lamp flame. “They’ll take you. They’ll grind you down to a fine dust. Or they’ll strip you of your mind and make you a fuel cell for their furnaces.” She pulled his hands into hers, calloused fingers tracing the lines on his palms. “They’re like engine masters. They need pistons, gears. Scions? We’re the raw ore. They’ll mine you until there’s nothing left.” Her face, etched with lines of worry, carried a despair that chilled Ren more than the winter air outside. “Ren, don’t you want to scavenge with Elara for a long, long time?” “Aye.” His throat felt tight. “Then you must hide that spark. Bury it deep. Or bad men, Technocrats, they’ll come. And you’ll never see me again.” “Okay, I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!” Eight years later, the promise still weighed on him. Elara had succumbed to the grey sickness not long after, leaving Ren alone, a ghost in the rust-choked alleys. He kept the spark buried, surviving as a cinder-scavenger, his instincts honed, his movements as silent as falling ash. --- “Rust-jackals.” Ren slammed the bent metal door of his crawlspace shut, the sound echoing hollowly. Before the perpetual twilight of the Dominion had truly brightened, a gang of scavengers from the Upper Derelicts had tried to corner him. Old Man Krill, a rival boss, had gone missing in a boiler-burst two cycles ago. The signs of a slag-crawler attack were clear—scorched metal, acidic residue—but they’d insisted Ren had somehow lured Krill to his death, claiming he'd wanted the old man's meager cache. He’d dealt with them swiftly, using a length of reclaimed piping and the practiced precision of someone who couldn't afford a fair fight. No sparks, just brutal, efficient movement. They'd retreated, spitting threats. They'd likely try to shortchange him on the next scrap haul, or tamper with his rations. It was an old dance, one Ren performed with weary expertise. Lost in thought, a sudden, sharp rap echoed against the thin metal of his door. Not the rhythmic thud of a pipe, but a distinct, human knock. Twice. Loud. Ren let out a slow breath. He still tasted the iron of exertion, the adrenaline fading to a dull thrum. He gripped the piping again, moving to the door. “Who the hell’s rattling my cage now? You looking for a permanent slumber?” he growled, pulling the door open a crack. His voice was a low rumble, rough from disuse. The scav-gangs often had short memories. But the figure standing outside wasn’t one of them. A man, perhaps in his late forties, stood framed against the gloom. His long coat, though dust-stained and worn, seemed strangely clean, tailored even, for this part of the Wards. His eyes were a startling, clear grey, and he offered a small, awkward smile. “Ah… my apologies, young one. I’m Kaelen, traveling through. I was hoping to impose for a moment, but it seems I’ve chosen a… tense interval.” A traveler. In the Derelict Wards? No one ‘traveled’ here unless they were lost, desperate, or hunting. For a moment, Ren's mind stalled. He hadn't seen a true stranger in years, not one who wasn’t trying to rob or kill him. He stepped aside, a barely perceptible gesture, the salvaged pipe held loosely at his side. “No, no. Come in. Just… some unpleasant company earlier.” His voice, usually guarded, held an uncharacteristic note of invitation. The rules Elara had taught him about hospitality, dusty as they were, resurfaced. When was the last time he’d offered more than a snarl to a newcomer? It must have been before he realized that most people, even the other scavengers, were just different shades of predatory. “If you’ll excuse me, then,” Kaelen murmured, his gaze sweeping the cramped crawlspace with a subtle, non-judgmental curiosity. Ren knew, logically, he should have slammed the door shut, driven the man off. But his isolation was a constant ache. And besides, if this 'Kaelen' proved to be trouble, Ren trusted his own sharpened edges to handle it. “Eaten yet?” Ren asked, dropping the pipe and moving towards his meager supplies. “Not yet.” “Me neither. Join me.” Ren motioned Kaelen to a salvaged crate that served as a table. He laid out a few tins of reclaimed gruel, hard synth-bread, and a small pouch of spiced soot-jerky—rare finds. Elara’s rules dictated utmost hospitality, even if his provisions were sparse. Guests treated well were less likely to cause harm. “It’s not much. Just what I scraped together.” “This is a feast, young man. Thank you.” Kaelen’s words weren't empty. He ate with genuine hunger, but also with a quiet dignity Ren rarely witnessed in the Wards. He didn’t chew with his mouth open, turned his head slightly when drinking from the tin cup. Small gestures, but profound in this environment. Kaelen caught Ren observing him. After a sip of the warm, thin gruel, he offered a kind remark. “You seem to know proper table manners. Your family taught you well.” “My guardian did,” Ren replied, the words a familiar weight on his tongue. He didn’t mention his parents, figures too distant to recall. Kaelen paused, sensing the omission. “And… is your guardian still nearby? This place… it suggests a singular occupancy.” He must have noticed the single, makeshift cot. Ren nodded, his voice level. “She passed from the grey sickness a few cycles ago.” Kaelen’s clear eyes flickered with a brief sorrow. He bowed his head, then made a peculiar gesture with one hand, palm raised, fingers splayed—a symbol Ren had never seen. “My condolences. To have raised such a capable young man, she must surely dwell with the ancestors.” “I hope so.” Back then, the thought of Elara had been enough to turn his stomach, to make him keen-edged with grief. Now, he could speak of it, a quiet sadness. Had he grown into an adult, or had the relentless grind of the Dominion simply dulled the ache? Ren, feeling a familiar gloom descend, forced a change of subject. “Sir, what brings a man like you to the Derelict Wards? Most don’t come unless they’re running or hunting.” “I passed through a higher district, heard talk of a… particular nuisance. A slag-crawler, larger than usual, in this vicinity. Caused some damage to a generator array. They were looking for someone to deal with it. I volunteered. I’m quite proficient in… pest control.” “Alone?” Ren’s gaze swept over Kaelen. He seemed sturdy, but not a brute. A man of refined bearing, not a brawler. To face a slag-crawler—a mutated creature of molten metal and acid—alone, without obvious heavy gear? It bordered on madness. Kaelen offered another awkward smile. “I’m a Vigilant. I served House Aethelred for sixty cycles. Most ‘nuisances’ are well within my capabilities.” At the word ‘Vigilant,’ Ren’s muscles tensed, his hands tightening instinctively. Elara’s warnings echoed. Another term for a Scion, a Wielder? A handler for the Guilds? But Kaelen’s gaze held no malice, only a quiet resolve. Ren’s stiffened frame slowly relaxed. “Something the matter?” Kaelen asked. “Just… never met a Vigilant before. You said sixty cycles… but you don’t look a day over fifty.” “Wielders of the Arcane tend to age more slowly, live longer than ordinary folk. I’m seventy-five cycles this year. For a Vigilant, I’m rather… average. But I’ve heard powerful Guild Lords, those who tap deeper into the Weave, can easily live for two or three centuries.” Ren stared. Seventy-five cycles. This was monumental information. He observed the man, a creature of his own kind, yet so different. Outwardly, Kaelen could pass for any other man who had seen some hard living. He had a sturdy build, a healthy complexion, but no glowing eyes, no visible brands of arcane power. No visible brands. This was the key. It meant Ren could stand in the churning heart of the Lower Industrial, or even risk the trade districts above, and as long as he kept his spark buried, he would not be visibly marked. He wouldn’t be a glowing target. It was as if a corroded, heavy chain, long binding his chest, had suddenly snapped, leaving him breathless. “To be a Wielder… that’s incredible.” “Incredible? No, not at all. I find folk like you far more incredible. To survive in these Wards, where mutated beasts lurk, without any Arcane gifts? I couldn’t imagine it.” Kaelen misunderstood. The slag-crawler was the first creature of its kind to threaten these Wards in Ren’s memory. If such dangers were common, even Elara, fierce as she was, couldn’t have raised him here. His guardian, without a single spark of the Arcane, shielding him from the hungry city, she was the truly incredible one. “Now that I think of it, I haven’t introduced myself properly. I’m Kaelen. Kaelen of House Aethelred—or rather, I suppose, Kaelen the Drifter. And you are?” “Ren. Just Ren. The Cinder-Scavenger.” “A fitting name, for this place.” “You mentioned serving a Guild House. Does that mean you no longer do?” “I officially ended my vassal contract a month ago. The House offered to keep me on, even in retirement, but… I wanted to spend my later years exploring. After all, I’ve been tied to a single House since I was hired at the age of fifteen.”

A Spark, Unseen