CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The Silent Backer

Meris becoming a Warlock was a double-edged blade. It could mend the district's wounds, lift it from the shadows of decay, but it could also break her, grind her down into a tool if they got their hands on her. I'd made peace with my own role long ago. The Blackthorns saw me as a weapon, a sharp edge to wield, and I accepted it. I trusted their vision, flawed as it might be, to push District 98 toward something better, even if I couldn't see the whole picture yet. My heart core, my strength, my time in the fog, they'd shaped me for that, and I didn't fight it.

But Meris? I couldn't let them do the same to her. She wouldn't hide it, either—I knew her too well. Her family was the warmest I'd ever met, a flicker of light in this grim place. Given the chance to help, she'd already jumped in, healing scrapes and cuts for anyone who crossed her path. It'd only been a short while since her powers woke, but she'd acted so many times already, her hands steady with that quiet kindness. Word would spread soon, rumors of a magical healer, whispers growing louder each day.

I could see it unfolding. People would swarm her, desperate for fixes to every ache and break. Then some noble family would swoop in, claiming her for their own. They'd turn her gift into coin, bleed her dry for profit. I hadn't understood that game before, not fully. Out in the fog, it was kill or be killed—simple, brutal. Inside the wards, though, the rules twisted. It wasn't just strength that ruled here; it was something sharper, more hidden. That realization hit me hard, like a crack splitting through what I'd thought was solid.

Yet, the same actions I'd seen from certain beasts out there weren't so different from what played out here. Maybe the rules weren't twisted after all, maybe it was all part of the same cycle, and I'd been too blind to see it before.

I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. No time to sit on it now. What mattered was keeping Meris free, letting her choose her path, not chaining her to someone else's greed. She needed space to figure out those powers, to grow into them without being crushed. A Warlock in District 98 wasn't just a miracle, it was a spark that could shift everything.

I'd learned from Kara how different it used to be before the fog, when mana was so scarce it barely existed. Back then, Warlocks were forgotten, a whisper from ages past. Beasts slipped in from other worlds, or got summoned, but there was little for magic to cling to. A Warlock might nudge the wind, flick a spark—small tricks, nothing more. Real power meant cores, ripped from those beasts and bargains with entities beyond reach. Even then, they leaned on constructs, things like my artifacts to hold mana, because their bodies couldn't.

I stopped walking for a moment, resting a hand on a chipped wall, letting that sink in. I couldn't picture those other worlds, Araksiun was my whole map, its fog and wards all I'd ever known. But I'd seen the old limits in my head, pieced together from what Kara had said. A Warlock with a stash of cores could still climb higher, learn the will, the intent, harness it into something real. It took years, through practice, patience, and more cores than anyone could hope to gather back then by normal means.

Now, everything had flipped. Mana soaked the world, so thick that the dense layers of mana created a fog that enveloped the world, spilling even into the wards where it should've been weaker. Meris didn't need to chase it—it was everywhere, ready for her to pull. Her path wasn't like those old Warlocks, scraping by on scraps.

She could go further, do more, because the rules had shifted. But that power wasn't free. It came from that entity she'd linked to—its will flowed through her, tied to her own intent. She had to shape it, direct it, know what she was doing. Healing sounded simple, but it wasn't, pushing mana into a body, fixing what's broken, could go wrong fast. One slip, one misjudged move, and she'd hurt someone, stop a heart, tear a vein.

I pictured her trying, hands steady at first, then shaking as a wound wouldn't close right. She'd healed cuts and bruises already, but the district heads wouldn't stop there. They'd hear "Magical Healer" and drag her to the worst—shattered limbs, rotting flesh, people clinging to their last breaths. She'd get the mana, the will, but without control, without understanding, she'd lose them. Blood on her hands, gasps fading out—she'd carry that. Her kindness, that soft light in her, would fray in days. I wouldn't let them do that to her.

I needed a plan. My title gave me weight. My name—Blackthorn—gave me more. I could use both, carve out a space where she could practice safe, away from their claws. She'd heal who she wanted, when she was ready, not get thrown into a meat grinder for someone else's gain. It'd take work, a quiet kind of push, smarter than brute force, the way things worked here.

That night, I left her family's home, stepping into the outskirts near the residential zone. The air was still, heavy with damp. Only a third of the street lamps glowed, their light faint—battery shortages again. Shadows stretched long between them, but my eyes cut through fine. What they missed, my other senses caught: the shuffle of feet, the creak of a window, the faint hum of the ward far off.

My escort trailed behind, less thrilled about the dark. Roran's voice came low, cautious. "You know you're a target, right? Big family, artifacts on you—perfect for thieves."

Kael snorted, a rough laugh breaking the quiet. "You let him walk the fog at night, fighting beasts, but worry about some street rats?"

I grinned, loud enough for them to hear. "That's why I've got such a fine escort." It was a jab, but I meant it, they were good company, even if I felt bad dragging them out here. Babysitting me wasn't their dream job.

Still, I kept my focus ahead, scanning the edges of the zone. Space was tight in District 98, every inch claimed, especially near the residences. A few shops dotted the streets, their signs faded, wares sparse. Nothing caught my eye yet. I needed something empty, overlooked, a spot close to Meris's home, out of the way. Theft was up, even with harsh sentences like turning thieves into chainrunners; food was trickling into the dining halls, but change moved slow. I had to be smart about this.

I walked on, boots scuffing the dirt, until a scent drifted over—herbs, sharp and green. I followed it, squinting through the gloom. Between two sagging buildings sat a narrow gap, barely a shack, cramped and rough. Herbs lined the front, spilling from cracked pots, their smell cutting through the damp. A shithole, sure, but that aroma gave it something. I stopped, staring at it, letting the idea settle.

The little shop still had a faint glow spilling from its cracked windows, a sign it was open despite the late hour. Herbs lined the front in chipped pots, their sharp, green scent cutting through the damp air. The building itself sagged—walls leaning, roof patched with uneven boards, but it stood firm enough. I stepped closer, peering through the gap between the two taller structures it nestled against. My escort trailed me, their boots scuffing the dirt, their presence a quiet weight at my back. I didn't hesitate long, just pushed the door open, a soft creak announcing me.

Inside, the space was tight, barely a room at all. Shelves crowded the walls, stuffed with jars and dried bundles, some spilling over. A counter ran along one side, cluttered with tools and scraps of paper. Behind it, an old man slumped, head down, snoring loud enough to rattle the glass vials nearby. His breath rasped, uneven, filling the stillness.

My escort squeezed in after me—Roran first, then Kael and Mareth, their armor brushing the shelves, their faces tightening as they tried to fit. Roran shot me a look, one eyebrow raised, like he was remembering how we'd barged into Meris's place hours ago. I ignored it, stepping up to the counter.

I tapped it gently, knuckles brushing the worn wood. The old man jolted awake, a line of dried saliva crusting his cheek. "Oh, wo… What?" he mumbled, fumbling for his glasses. He shoved them on, blinking hard, then froze as he took me in, my hooded cloak shadowing my face, the armed trio looming behind. "I'm going," he said, voice thick with sleep, hands patting the counter like he'd lost something.

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"What?" he asked again, squinting at me now, suspicion creeping in. "I paid the protection fee already." His tone was flat, resigned, like he'd said it too many times before.

I tilted my head, caught off guard. "Protection fee?"

He stared harder, eyes narrowing behind smudged lenses. "You didn't come to collect money?" A pause, then his voice sharpened. "So you're here to rob me? I paid the fee!" He leaned forward, gripping the counter's edge.

Mareth stepped up beside me, her voice calm but firm. "Sir, we're city guards, not here to exploit you. Have people been collecting money from you?"

The old man blinked, surprise softening his scowl. "What? City guard?" He leaned back, rubbing his face. "Sorry, don't see you lot out here much." His words carried an edge, almost accusing. "Yeah, I pay the fees, or they smash my shop. Look next door, what they did there."

I'd noticed it coming in, a shop just beside his, its front caved in, windows shattered, left to rot. It looked fresh, the wreckage still sharp-edged, not weathered over. Mareth's jaw tightened, her hand resting on her sword hilt. "Sir, you don't owe anyone but the district fees. That's theft."

His eyes were tired, heavy with years. "Of course it's theft," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "But if I don't pay, they'll wreck this place too. They come when you're not around, which is most of the time."

That landed hard. Mareth flinched, just a little, and Roran gave a slow nod, his face grim. Even Kael shifted, his usual smirk gone. They knew it was true, patrols barely touched the outskirts. Guards were stretched thin, and these streets paid the price.

I let them talk, stepping back to take in the shop. District 98 ran on two currencies, something Elina had drilled into me. Coins—solid, stamped metal from the district's mint—jingled in pockets out here, easy to trade, easy to steal. Then there were credits, a system I still didn't fully grasp. Not magic, she'd insisted, but it felt like it, numbers stored in machines, moved without touching a thing.

Most shops, even tiny ones like this, had credit devices, common boxy relics from old Araksiun tech, humming faintly on counters. You could pay with credits, skip the coins, keep cash from piling up to tempt thieves. Made sense they'd lean on "fees" instead of outright robbery, force him to hand over credits willingly through that machine.

Mareth kept at it, asking about the thugs—faces, times, anything to track them. The old man answered slow, voice rough, like he didn't expect it to change much. I wandered a few steps, eyes drifting over the cramped space. A door caught my attention, half-hidden behind a sagging shelf at the back. "Is there a room there?" I asked, pointing, cutting into their talk.

He turned, frowning at me. "Yeah, boy, that's where I make potions." He perked up a bit, sensing a sale. "Got a fresh stock, interested?"

"No need right now," I said, shaking my head. "But I've got a question. Are you a herb master?"

His chest puffed out, pride breaking through the weariness. "Yes, I am—Herb Master Poltov." He said it loud, like it still meant something.

I smiled, small but real. "Good to know. Do you take apprentices?"

The pride faded fast, his shoulders slumping. "Not right now," he said, quieter. "There's a limit, the district only funds so many herb masters for apprentices. I'm waiting my turn."

"That's great," I said, leaning on the counter. "So you'd be willing to have one?"

Poltov blinked, caught off guard. "Well, sure, but…" He trailed off, then straightened. "Look, I like your enthusiasm, kid, but I can't pay an apprentice. District allowance for apprentices won't come for me for years—by then, you'll be grown."

He thought I meant me. I almost laughed—alchemy tugged at me, sure, magical or not. Mixing herbs, teasing out their secrets, maybe even blending it with mana someday. But not now. I had too much ahead, beasts to hunt, the district to feed. No time to settle here with pots and powders. "Maybe later," I muttered to myself, filing it away.

"No, sir," I said, meeting his eyes. "Not for me. I'm asking for someone else. Would you take an apprentice in your shop?"

His face lit up, a grin cracking through the lines. "Sure would, lad. Could use the help." He waved a hand around—at the cluttered shelves, the sparse stock, the dust piling in corners. Herbs were there, potions too, but not many. The place was falling apart, barely holding on. "But like I said, I can't pay. District won't fund me for a while, few years, at least. Honestly, you'd do better finding a trade that pays now."

His honesty hit me. No dodging, no excuses, just the truth, plain and worn as his shop. I liked that.

I stood there, the herb-scented air settling around me, and let the idea take root. This cramped, crumbling shop could be more than it seemed. "What if," I said, leaning on the counter, "there was a benefactor, someone to cover the costs for an apprentice, maybe even fix this place up?"

Poltov's eyes narrowed, suspicion creasing his weathered face. "First folks come to rob me, now someone's throwing credits my way?" He shook his head, a dry laugh escaping. "Strange day…"

I grinned, the pieces clicking into place. He seemed decent—honest, worn, but solid. The shop sat close to Meris's home, tucked away in the outskirts. That back room—small, quiet, could be her space, a spot to heal without a crowd pressing in. Not many could fit here at once, and it was far enough from the district's heart to buy her time before the nobles sniffed her out.

I had the credits; I could make this work. "All I'd need," I said, keeping my voice steady, "is for you to act like you've got a partner, someone who's fronting the money for renovations and an apprentice, but without mentioning who that partner is. You'd handle the salary and allowance, say it's a paperwork mix-up if anyone asks. Would that suit you?"

He squinted at me, then glanced at my escort—Mareth, Roran, Kael, all standing stiff in the tight space. They shook their heads, signaling it wasn't them. "Sure, kid," he said, slow, "but who'd strike a deal like that?" His gaze lingered, sharpening as a stray beam of light slipped through the window, cutting past Hazeveil's shadows. Recognition flickered. "Wait, you're that kid, aren't you? Omen?"

The cloak couldn't hide me forever, not up close. I nodded, casual. "That's me."

Poltov straightened, still processing, while I picked up his credit machine—a clunky box of old Araksiun tech, its screen glowing faintly. "How does this work, anyway?" I asked, turning it in my hands. "The pay for herb masters salary, allowances, apprentices, what's normal?"

He blinked, then leaned forward, eager to explain. "Right, well… herb masters like me, we make our salary selling potions, herbs, whatever folks buy. Varies month to month, some pull in around 600 credits if business is steady, others less if it's slow. District kicks in an allowance too, to keep us going, usually half that, say 300 credits. So a good month, you're looking at 900 total." He shrugged, gesturing at his sparse shelves. "Not a fortune, but it's something."

"And apprentices?" I pressed, setting the machine down.

"Less," he said. "Half a pro's salary, 300 credits, maybe—plus a smaller allowance, around 150. District sets it, but only when they fund you. I'm years out from that." His voice dipped, resigned.

I nodded, thinking it through. Meris deserved more than scraps, she wasn't some novice fumbling with herbs. Her healing was real, rare, worth more than this district could measure. "Say I cover it," I said. "I'll transfer 40,000 credits, enough for her pay, full renovations, a year or two of breathing room. You take on an apprentice named Meris when she comes by. Pay her like a professional, 600 salary, 300 allowance, the full 900 monthly. Tell her whatever works, say the district sorted it early, paperwork's tangled, anything. Just don't mention me."

Poltov's jaw dropped as I punched the numbers into the machine. The screen blinked, my balance shifting—78,000 credits down to 38,000 with a soft beep. His gasp broke the quiet. "Sir?" He pointed at the device, hands trembling. "You sure? That's… more than I'd need for years."

"Yeah," I said, firm. "She'll show up soon. Accept her, pay her the full amount. She's worth it, trust me. I'll send a guard too, no more 'fees' shaking you down."

He stared, still reeling, then stuck out a hand. "I sure will, partner." We shook, his grip surprisingly strong.

Partner. The word hung there, odd in my ears. I'd tied myself to this place now, hadn't I? Not just helping Meris, but staking a piece of it. I stepped back, letting the shop's dim light settle over me, and realized I could've played it differently. Told him to say the council funded it, kept my name out entirely. Instead, I'd made it a partnership, linked myself to the profits, the risks. Like the families did—moving quiet, pulling strings, shaping things from the shadows.

I'd come to shield Meris from being used, from the way people here twisted others for gain. Yet here I was, doing it too—steering Poltov, hiding my hand. The thought tugged at me, sharp and uneasy. It wasn't brute force, but it fit the cycle somehow. My grasp of it deepened, a quiet shift I couldn't shake, even as it pricked my chest.

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