Sparks of violence

The Mire was a shit hole, and Kael figured he was the turd sinking at the bottom.

The alley he crouched in stank of piss, rot, and the kind of damp that slithered into your bones and stayed there. A fog coiled low over the muck, thick enough to hide the rats but not the smell of them. He pulled his coat tighter, fingers brushing the cheap iron dagger at his hip. No runes. No warding. Just sharpened steel and bad intentions. Across the street, the Drunken Sow leaned sideways like it was too tired to stand. Its sign—more splinters than wood—swayed in the cold breeze, creaking with every gust.

Kael wasn’t here for the piss-warm ale or the dregs who drank it. He was here for a book.

Mistress Vey had made herself clear—her voice like rust scraping against steel. “Get me The Ledger of Ash, boy. Old Tom’s got it stashed in that pigsty he calls a tavern. Don’t come back without it, or I’ll peel your hide and use it for kindling.”

Vey didn’t bluff.

She knew the value of the book because she’d felt the bite of its magic firsthand. A Sparkweaver had stolen her spark when she was younger—her knack for slipping locks, quick as a whisper, gone in a searing instant. The bastard hadn’t even needed a rune blade. Just pressed the hilt against her skin, branding his ward into her flesh, and that was that. For a few hours, he’d wielded her gift like it was his own, used it to crack a noble’s vault, then cut the mark from her shoulder with a dull knife and left her bleeding in the gutter. A lesson. A warning.

Vey’s she told him the story, her voice hard as old leather. She’d lived with that scar for years, the twisted skin a reminder of what she’d lost—and what she’d kill to take back.

A door banged open, spilling light and laughter into the street. Two drunks stumbled out of the Sow, one already pissing against the wall. Kael shrank lower behind a stack of rotting barrels, breath held.

Old Tom was the mark. Fat. Grizzled. Limped when he walked, some old pit fight leaving him twisted. Word was he’d been a Sparkweaver himself before the guild booted him out. No one whispered why. No one dared. Now he ran the Sow, traded in secrets, and—if Vey was right—hoarded a book with the key to forging a core ward.

That was what Vey really wanted. Not just a stolen spark. She wanted the root of it. The scar on her shoulder, the years of bitterness—that was hunger. And hunger made people reckless.

Kael didn’t have a ward of his own. Without one, he was nothing. No spark to steal. No magic to wield. Just a boy with fast hands and a sharp blade, living in Vey’s shadow. But if The Ledger of Ash held the secret, then maybe… maybe it could be his chance too.

The Sow’s door swung open again, and Old Tom waddled out, burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Two bruisers followed, thick-necked bastards with fists like bricks and eyes too sharp for drunks. Kael’s gut tightened. He’d hoped Tom would be alone, but hope was a luxury the Mire kicked out of you quick.

They took a side street, moving slow. Kael ghosted after them, boots soft in the sludge. The Sow faded behind him, swallowed by the warren of shacks and open gutters. Somewhere, a dog howled.

Tom stopped at a shack, its roof sagging like an old man’s back. He ducked inside. The bruisers stayed put—one lighting a pipe, the other cracking his knuckles like he was getting paid by the pop.

Kael frowned. He needed that book, but picking a fight with two slabs of muscle wasn’t a winning move. Stealth was his only shot. Always had been. He edged closer, slipping between piles of refuse, then—

A crash. A shout.

The shack’s door flew open, and out sprinted a hooded figure, clutching something under their arm. Tom bellowed, red-faced, as the bruisers charged after the thief.

Kael swore under his breath. The Mire never slept, and neither did its scavengers.

The bruisers ran after the hooded figure, leaving the shack unguarded. Kael seized the moment. He crept up, found a broken window, and slipped through. His sleeve snagged on a nail. He bit back a curse, yanked free, and landed soft.

The air inside reeked of mildew and bad ale. A single lantern flickered on the floor, casting jagged shadows. Tom was at the back, pawing through a shelf of old books, muttering curses. And there—cracked leather, pages gray as ash—The Ledger of Ash.

Kael’s pulse quickened.

He stepped closer, careful, breath shallow. His hand hovered over his dagger. No. Too loud. He needed the book, not a corpse.

His eyes flicked to a bottle on the floor, half-full of murky swill. He snatched it up, weighed it in his hand. Then, quick as a blink, he brought it down on Tom’s skull.

Glass shattered. Liquid splashed.

Tom grunted, staggered, then collapsed like a felled ox.

Kael waited. Counted heartbeats. No shouts outside. No boots rushing back.

He grabbed the book and bolted.

He didn’t stop running until he was half a mile away, slumped in a shadowed alley, lungs burning. The book was his. Vey would be pleased—maybe enough to ease off the threats for a day.

But…

He turned the book over in his hands. It was heavy. Old. It smelled like dust and something darker. A knowing.

He cracked it open.

The pages were brittle, the ink faded to a rusty smear. He tilted it toward a sliver of moonlight. “The core ward is no trinket, no forged thing. It is the soul’s echo, a symbol discovered in the deep of you. Blood calls it forth. Pain bares it. Will claims it. Seek what you are, not what you wish to be, and it will rise.”

His breath hitched. No riddles. No guild codes. Just truth.

Further down, sketches. A broken chain labeled Freedom. A crescent cradling a drop—Compassion.

“Draw it in your own blood. Name its root. Hold it through the breaking. The ward is yours when it knows you.”

Kael swallowed.

Vey had spent years trying to steal a ward. But this? This wasn’t something taken. It was something found.

A shape curled at the edges of his mind. A whisper. Something half-formed, waiting.

Boots splashed nearby.

Kael snapped the book shut. Shoved it under his coat.

He had the secret now. He could give the book to Vey… and keep the knowledge for himself.

He reached her den, a stone hovel behind the butcher’s, and slipped inside. Vey sat at her table, sharpening her blade. She didn’t look up.

“Well?”

Kael dropped the book in front of her. “Ledger of Ash. Tom’s down—bruised, not dead.”

She snatched it up, fingers twitching. Opened it. A slow grin crawled across her scarred face.

“This is it,” she whispered. “The root of it. I’ll have my ward yet.”

Kael watched her, hands shoved in his pockets. Silent. Waiting.

She had her book. He had his truth.

And when the time came, he’d carve his own name into the world.

“What’s it say?” Kael asked, keeping his voice flat. He’d read it, felt it, but he wouldn’t tell her that—not yet.

“Weaver shit,” she muttered. “How to dig out your core. Takes blood, guts—more’n you’ve got, boy.” She clutched the book, nails digging into the leather.

Kael watched her, the flicker of the lantern painting shadows across her scarred face. Her hunger for the ward was a living thing, coiling in the air between them. He kept his stance loose, hands shoved into his pockets, though his fingers itched to trace the lines he’d seen in that book. Freedom. Compassion. Symbols that whispered truths he didn’t fully grasp yet. Vey might’ve been half-mad with her craving, but she wasn’t wrong about one thing: finding a core ward sounded like peeling yourself open and hoping something real crawled out.

“Blood and guts, huh?” he said, leaning against the wall, casual as he could fake it. “Sounds like a bad night in the Mire.”

Vey snorted, not looking up from the pages. “Worse. You don’t just bleed for it—you break for it. Guild makes sure it’s hell, so only the ruthless get through.” Her voice dipped, bitter as the damp rot seeping through the stones. “They branded me, took my spark, and I still don’t know what mine is. But this—” She tapped the book hard enough to crack the spine. “This’ll show me.”

Kael nodded, letting her ramble. She didn’t suspect he’d peeked, didn’t know the words were already sinking claws into him. If he could find his own core ward… He could be more than her errand rat. More than the Mire’s bottom feeder. But that meant blood, pain, will. He’d seen enough of the first two in this cesspit; the third, though—that was trickier.

A thud rattled the door. Vey’s head snapped up, blade in hand before Kael could blink. He tensed, sliding his dagger free, its cheap steel cold against his palm. The door banged again, then burst inward, splintering off its hinges. Two figures stumbled in—Pipe-smoker and Knuckles, Tom’s bruisers, reeking of sweat and fury. Pipe-smoker’s face was a mess of blood, one eye swelling shut, while Knuckles gripped his shiv like he meant to gut the room.

“Where’s the book, you little shit?” Pipe-smoker snarled, voice thick with ale and rage. His good eye locked on Kael, then flicked to Vey, who stood clutching the Ledger like it was her firstborn.

“Tom send you?” Vey spat, stepping forward, blade steady. “Tell him he’s too late. It’s mine now.”

Knuckles laughed, a wet, ugly sound. “Tom’s bleedin’ out in his shack, thanks to your rat. We ain’t here for him—we’re here for us.” He jerked his chin at the book. “That’s guild gold, and we’re takin’ it.”

Kael’s stomach dropped. Tom down—maybe dead—and these two weren’t just hired muscle anymore. They’d smelled opportunity in the chaos he’d left behind. He’d knocked Tom out, sure, but not hard enough to kill. Had that hooded thief circled back, or maybe these two saw an opportunity? Didn’t matter now. The bruisers were here, and they weren’t leaving empty-handed.

Vey moved first, lunging at Pipe-smoker with a snarl. Her blade caught his arm, slicing a red line through his sleeve, but he roared and swung his cudgel, clipping her shoulder hard enough to send her staggering. Kael barely had time to curse before Knuckles lunged at him, shiv flashing.

Instinct took over. Kael ducked low, twisting as the blade whistled past his ear. His grip tightened on his dagger—cheap steel, no runes, but sharp enough. He darted forward, driving the point up. Knuckles tried to twist away, but Kael wasn’t playing fair. He slammed his elbow into the man’s gut, forcing him back against the wall. The shiv clattered to the floor.

Pipe-smoker and Vey were still tangled in a brutal dance—her knife slashing, his cudgel swinging. He was bigger, stronger, but she was meaner. She twisted, blade flashing, and suddenly Pipe-smoker was screaming, clutching his gut as blood poured between his fingers. He stumbled, knocking over a stack of crates before crumpling to the ground.

Knuckles saw it too. His resolve faltered.

Kael didn’t give him time to rethink. He stepped in, fast, and buried his dagger in the soft place between ribs. Knuckles jerked, sucked in a wet breath, and sagged. Kael yanked his blade free, breath coming hard. Blood slicked his fingers. His gut twisted, but he swallowed it down. No room for that here.

Vey wiped her blade on Pipe-smoker’s coat, barely sparing the bodies a glance. “Sloppy,” she muttered, flicking through the Ledger like the whole mess hadn’t just happened.

Kael’s jaw clenched. “They weren’t supposed to die.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you cracked Tom’s skull.” She didn’t even look up. “A mess always brings more mess. That’s the Mire.”

Kael sucked in a breath, forcing himself calm. His heart still pounded. The Ledger sat open in her hands, those scrawled wards staring back at him.

She wouldn’t share it. He knew that now. She’d take what she needed, carve the truth out of it, and he’d still be a rat scurrying at her feet. Unless—

His fingers twitched.

She was distracted. Reading.

And Kael had always been good at slipping things away unnoticed.

The thought came sharp and sudden, settling in his gut like a blade slotting home. He’d already seen the words. Knew the truth buried in them. And if she thought she was the only one who could claim a ward, she was dead wrong.

His was already rising.

He exhaled slow, steady. Blood, pain, will.

It was time to take his.