The lightning streaked toward Elias like a crack in the air itself.
He didn't move.
But someone else did.
A wall of dirt surged up from the ground between him and the bolt—soft, dark, freshly torn from the edge of the road. The lightning struck it hard, hissing through the loose grains before dispersing harmlessly into the earth.
Harlan's hand was still raised, palm open, eyes already scanning past the impact.
"Could've pulled stone," he muttered. "But it would've grounded through the wall... straight into the smithy."
He didn't wait for permission or orders. He just stepped forward.
The ground around his boots shifted—not violently, not fast.
Just with purpose.
The ground didn't rumble.
It shifted—with intention. As if answering a call it had been waiting for.
Harlan didn't raise his voice. Didn't flare his stance. He simply reached forward and commanded.
A narrow ridge of earth surged beneath the nearest attacker—an air manipulator mid-stride—throwing her balance off just as she prepared another strike. Before she could recover, the stone beneath her feet split, rose, and caught her square in the ribs. She hit the ground and didn't move again.
The second one tried to respond—earthborn, judging by the armor of compacted gravel crawling up her arms—but Harlan moved faster. A thin wall snapped up from the path and slammed into her chest, lifting her off her feet and sending her skidding into the carriage wheel with a heavy crack of bone against iron.
He didn't even break stride.
From his place near the checkpoint, Elias watched—not in awe, but in a kind of quiet dissonance. The way Harlan moved didn't match the violence he commanded. It was clean. Measured. The way a craftsman might close a latch, or seal a seam. No wasted motion. No warning.
And then Elias saw it.
A flicker of movement—inside the carriage.
A third bandit, crouched low in the shadows, hand drawn back and glowing.
Fire.
"Harlan!" Elias shouted, already stepping forward.
Harlan turned—not fast, but precisely.
The bandit unleashed the bolt.
And Harlan reached for the river.
Stone—not dirt—rose like a breaking wave, thick and wet from the waterline. The firebolt struck it square on, exploding into steam and sparks without touching him.
The carriage door slammed shut—but not from the fire manipulator.
From behind it, boots hit the dirt running.
The lightning user.
She darted across the riverbank, fast and low, cutting between the stunned guards while their focus was still on the wreckage.
One of them—a younger woman near the front—reacted just in time. She whipped a sharp stream of water from the river's edge, aiming for the runner's throat.
It missed by inches—close enough to snap the fugitive's hood back as she pivoted around the blast.
Bright blonde hair spilled into the open air.
And on her forehead, just above the browline, burned a distinct black symbol: three crescent arcs joined in a triple curve, like a moon caught mid-collapse.
And then she was gone—into the alleyways, swallowed by the city.
And then she was gone—into the alleyways, swallowed by the city.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then three guards broke off from the checkpoint and took off running—not after her, but away from the riverbank, heading deeper into the city.
Elias watched them go, frowning. "They're not chasing her?"
"No," Rauel said, tone flat. "They're going to notify the city lord."
"That fast?"
"They saw the brand," Kaelen added quietly. "They have to report it."
Elias looked at her. "Brand?"
She hesitated. "You didn't see it?"
He shook his head.
Rauel's voice was low, steady. "Three crescents, linked in a curve. The Mark of the Falselight."
Kaelen glanced toward the road where the girl had vanished. "It means she's a noble—was a noble. Cast out. Lightning-born."
Elias didn't answer. He didn't know what to say. He just knew that no one had tried to stop her.
Boots crunched behind them.
Harlan approached from the river's edge, wiping dust from his hands, a dull scuff on his sleeve where the stone shield had caught the firebolt. His eyes swept the three of them—measuring, not uncertain.
"She's gone," he said. "And that's where you'll leave it."
Kaelen blinked. "But—"
"Don't." His voice wasn't sharp, but it cut all the same. "You don't chase nobles. Especially not alone."
Rauel folded his arms. "Even fallen ones?"
"Especially fallen ones." Harlan's gaze lingered on Elias. "You think that bolt was fast? That was restraint."
Elias said nothing.
Harlan continued, "The moment you confront a noble—cast out or not—you're in a world where power talks, and commoners die quietly."
Kaelen shifted her weight, uneasy.
"I've got business with the one who didn't run," Harlan added, nodding toward the fire manipulator still bound near the checkpoint. "Doubt he'll hold out long. Looks like a hired hand. Didn't sign up to die."
He turned to go, then hesitated.
"If she wanted to kill someone back there, she would have."
Another pause.
"Be smart. Let the city deal with her."
Then he left.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
The wind had picked up again, brushing through the trees by the riverbank like nothing had happened.
Kaelen exhaled slowly. "So… that's what city trouble looks like."
Rauel rubbed the back of his neck. "That was the polite version."
He looked between them—Elias still quiet, Kaelen watching him with that subtle, steady concern she hadn't yet learned to hide.
"Well," Rauel said, clapping his hands once. "Now that we've had our morning lightning bolt, how about something a little less lethal?"
Elias raised an eyebrow.
"I know a place," Rauel added. "Small shop, old guy runs it. Sells control trinkets and basic channelers for people who'd rather not set themselves on fire learning how to fight."
Kaelen tilted her head. "You mean training?"
"I mean survival," Rauel said. "But yeah. Close enough."
He started up the slope without waiting for agreement.
Elias hesitated, then followed.
He didn't say it aloud, but the words sat in his chest, heavy and obvious.
If that bolt had landed, there'd be nothing left to train.
The further they moved from the river, the louder the city became.
Not in shouts or crashes—but in the hum of life.
Vendors called from narrow carts with chipped paint and patched canopies. Steam curled from alleyway grates where breakfast fires hadn't fully died down. Cloth hung low across walkways, catching the breeze with every turn of a passing body.
They passed two women sweeping steps, one holding a basket of dried herbs, the other mid-conversation: "—and I told her, no way that kind of flare happens without training. East gate's been quiet for years."
Kaelen tilted her head. "East gate again."
"Word spreads fast," Rauel muttered. "Even faster when people don't know what they saw."
A kid bolted past with a pail, nearly clipping Elias's side. Behind him, two men debated whether the late wind meant a dry growing season or another outbreak in the lower farms.
Elias kept to the edge of the road, letting the current of bodies pass him by. This world didn't slow. It didn't check to see if you were keeping up. It just moved—layered and loud and indifferent.
And no one here had any idea how close lightning had come to finding its mark.
"Right up here," Rauel said, gesturing toward a wide, low-roofed shop set behind a thin line of stacked crates. The sign above the door was carved into worn cedar:
Thread & Channel.
"Don't ask him for anything flashy," Rauel said. "Old Vaskor deals in control, not drama."
Elias slowed as they reached the door.
"Wait," he said, glancing between them. "I don't have any money."
Kaelen blinked. "Right. And we never grabbed the supplies from the gate."
Rauel rubbed his temple with two fingers. "Yeah, not exactly prime time to walk up and claim our stuff. Guards were a little busy not dying."
"But we can still get it?" Elias asked.
"Eventually," Rauel said. "Assuming no one gets clever and files it as 'lost property.' Might have to do a little arguing, maybe toss a name or two."
He looked at Elias, then grinned. "Don't worry. I've got enough charm to cover a few minor debts. This one's on me—unless you start asking for the premium stuff. Then we're opening a tab."
Kaelen smiled faintly. "You mean you remember tabs?"
"Only when I'm sober," Rauel said, pushing the door open with a creak. "Which, lucky for you, is a temporary condition."
The bell overhead gave a dull clink as it swung inward.
The shop smelled like worn leather and iron polish—nothing sharp, just the kind of scent that settled into old wood and older habits.
Shelves lined the walls in cluttered but deliberate rows, filled with everything from fine-threaded tunics to bracer sets, polished pendants, thick belts with inlaid channels, and slim rods built for flow alignment. Hooks dangled with rings and etched bangles. Racks leaned with half-mantles and padded coats stitched in gridlines.
And then there were the toys.
At first glance, they looked like simple playthings: a carved ball with holes through the center, a squat wooden dragon with a flint-streaked tongue, a doll with singed cloth limbs but no real damage.
Elias tilted his head slightly. The ball, he realized, had ridges to trap airflow. The doll's fabric had clearly been burned—on purpose.
"You're lookin' at the kid section," a voice called from behind the counter. "Used right, those save your furniture and your eyebrows."
The man behind the counter stood barely taller than the display case in front of him. Heavyset, with a long nose and a full beard, streaked gray in a way that suggested stress before age.
"Name's Vaskor," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the shelves. "If it moves, I've tried to stop it. If it sparks, I've tried to channel it. If it breaks, don't blame me unless I told you it wouldn't."
He looked them over—not rudely, just like someone sizing a shirt from twenty paces.
"You're new," he added, narrowing his gaze at Elias. "And untrained. Good thing you've got friends."
He didn't ask questions. He just stepped out from behind the counter and waved toward the middle row of the shop.
"Well, go on. Look around. Just don't touch the silver inlay sets unless you've got coin or a very good story."