CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Chasing the Unseen Storm

From atop the Obelisk, District 98 stretched out below, its silhouette swallowed by the night's dark. The structure towered over every building, its peak almost piercing the fog like a blade, and standing there, I felt both powerful and small.

My crimson beast senses sharpened the world—mice skittering through alleys, distant shouts from the outskirts, the faint hum of dying lamps. Yet the vastness of it all mocked me. One person, even with frost in my veins and shadows at my call, couldn't watch everything. Hazeveil clung to me, its evolved power weaving darkness tighter, bending even the faint streetlight that flickered below.

The fog above blocked all but a sliver of starlight, and the district's center was dim, batteries too precious to waste on lamps at most streets. The outskirts were black, silent, as if the city held its breath. The quiet was comforting, a rare reprieve, but it didn't ease the weight in my chest. "How am I supposed to keep an eye on all this?" I muttered, my voice barely a whisper, meant for no one.

[Kara]

[List of Possible Targets Compiled. Displaying Now.]

Her voice sparked in my mind, sharp and clinical, pulling up a mental list drawn from my memories—names, faces, moments I'd half-forgotten, like the butler's lessons droning on about district politics. I scanned it, my jaw tightening. Too long. Dozens of names, connections, and potential threats filled Kara's list, from council members and guards to merchants. Lirien had an army ready to kill or die for her vision. I had Kara, my frost, and a cloak that made me a ghost. It wasn't enough.

The monocle hung heavy around my neck, its cord brushing my shirt, kept just above my shirt to silence its whispers. I lifted it, staring into its glinting lens, my reflection warped and pale. Meris's face flashed in my mind—her green eyes, her warmth, like the fog's strange heat when I'd first stumbled into it, fleeing winter's bite years ago.

For her, for this district, I'd pay any price. My fingers hesitated, then pressed the monocle to my chest, beneath my shirt, its cold metal kissing my skin. "My sanity for you," I said, voice flat but steady, "it's a small cost."

The dead answered. Whispers flooded my ears, soft at first, then jagged, a chorus of echoes and ghosts. Not as loud as District 97's cacophony, but ever-present, like the fog itself. Echoes chanted fragments, screams of the recently dead, footsteps of the lost, echoes replaying final moments with no thought.

Ghosts were different, their voices sharper, carrying will. "The one who walks in between," they hissed, a mocking chant that followed me across districts. I pushed their taunts aside, focusing on the echoes, their mindless loops pointing to hidden crimes, murders scrubbed clean and secrets the living thought buried.

They were everywhere, the dead. Always listening, always watching, their presence a shadow beside every step the living took. A servant's plea echoed from an alley, cut short by a blade. A guard's curse replayed near the market, his blood long washed away. The ghosts lingered closer, their words clearer, guiding me to places the echoes couldn't reach.

One person stood out: Simon Rovind, Lessa's father, head of commerce. I knew Lessa from Elina's advanced class, quiet and short, nothing like the man the ghosts despised. "The one who profits from despair," a ghost snarled, its voice dripping venom as I moved, Hazeveil cloaking me in shadow. I slipped through the streets, silent, unseen, toward Simon's mansion, a sprawling estate that mocked the district's scarcity.

Inside, the air was thick with wine and sweat. Simon lounged in a dimly lit chamber, sprawled across a bed with women half his age, their laughter forced, their eyes dull. "More wine!" he bellowed, his voice booming, sluggish body barely covered by a silk sheet. His bulk rippled as he moved, fat in a way that still baffled me. I'd thought him something akin to a Droud at first, hoarding fat to burn for sudden power. But this was no act to lure prey.

Hazeveil's shadows wrapped me tighter, evolved with my crimson beast form, rendering me invisible even in the room's center with the light so weak. A servant hurried past, brushing my cloak, oblivious. Simon laughed, loud and crude, tossing a goblet that clattered to the floor. This was the district's wealthiest man, its supposed pillar? I'd imagined council members as stern, noble, keeping the district alive. Not this—a leech, fattening himself while others starved.

The ghosts guided me deeper, their whispers urgent. In a locked storeroom, I found it: a stash of charged batteries, crates of them, far beyond the district's records. Cultivated fields needed light to grow, light the fog blocked and these batteries could supply. But Simon hoarded them, letting crops wither, heaters fail, winter's cold choke the land.

***

Dawn broke over District 98, and the district hummed with life, like it'd been starving for air and finally breathed. Ration halls bustled, lines of people stretching through the morning chill, their boots crunching frost as they waited their turn. I perched on a rooftop, Hazeveil's shadows curling around me, dimming my outline against the gray sky. The crowd's voices rose, a mix of relief and something sharper, like a blade half-drawn.

My Obelisk stunt hadn't done enough. The door stayed iced over, a mana-thick block no one could budge and no blood had spilled. Not yet. But the people were restless, their faces lit with a strange joy, like they'd seen ghosts walk free. "My son's alive," an old man choked out, hugging a ration bag, his voice cracking. "Thought I'd buried him in the fog." A woman nearby nodded, tears streaking her dirt-smudged face, her whisper fierce: "They came back for us."

But the streets simmered with tension, guards and chainrunners circling each other like beasts. Before, chainrunners slunk through the district's heart, hiding their armor, branded by their crimes. Now they walked bold, sub-artifacts glinting as runic boots tapped stone and shields rested across backs.

At the market, a guard leaned on his spear, his eyes slits as a chainrunner passed, her armor scratched but proud. "Strutting like they run this place," he spat, low, to his partner, who grunted, "Let 'em try." The chainrunner's head turned, her smirk sharp, and she kept walking, her step deliberate. My pulse quickened. This wasn't just pride—it was a spark, waiting for tinder.

Something was brewing, some move I couldn't pin down. The monocle hung against my shirt, its hum faint, a reminder of the dead's whispers. I needed to know more, to stay ahead of whatever the council or Lirien had planned.

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By afternoon, I slipped into the chainrunner headquarters, Hazeveil softening my steps. The meeting hall was a storm of voices, thick with sweat and anger. Gustav stood by the door, his arms crossed, his growl cutting through. "Half our sub-artifacts? You kiddin' me? What's next, hand over our damn pants?" His face was red, his scowl deep as Dain held up a parchment, his voice tight, listing the council's demands: surrender the Frost Titan's control, give up half the sub-artifacts—armor, shields, half of everything we'd hauled from District 97.

Artemis, one of the new chainrunners that came from District 97, her braid loose from pacing, jabbed a finger at the air. "What about the Law of the Finders? Can they do this here?"

Voices exploded, overlapping, raw. "They got no right!" a young chainrunner shouted, his fist thumping his chest. "Let 'em try taking my shield," another snarled, her voice shaking. Dain raised a hand, but no one listened. Then Lirien stood, her hand slicing the air, and the room went still, like fog settling. "The Law of the Finders holds," she said, her words slow, sharp as frost. "No district's ever dared this. It's a challenge, nothing less." Her eyes burned, daring anyone to speak, then she turned, her cloak snapping as she left.

Dain cleared his throat, his face pale. "There's more," he said, quieter. "Council leaders ordered emergency runs to District 96 for battery trade and to 100 for materials. Battery shortage, they say." His voice wavered, and the room ignited again. "Fog runs now? We just got back!" another spat, her hands trembling.

I stayed in the shadows, my chest tight. Lirien's abrupt exit felt wrong. A ghost's whisper echoed in my mind: "She welcomes the fire." Was she happy? The council's demands were a trap, pushing chainrunners into the fog or stripping their strength, but Lirien thrived on chaos.

The news was already leaking, spreading like sparks. Outside, a baker waved his hands, shouting to a crowd, "They're stealing our chainrunners!" A woman clutched her child, her voice shrill: "They brought us food, and this is how they're repaid?" The people's anger was fierce.

The Obelisk door still held, its ice unbroken. Lirien knew, I was sure someone had already notified her. I had to move faster, untangle this before it tore the district apart.

***

Every council family I'd shadowed, Rovind, Highrow, and the rest, only soured my view. They weren't puppets, strung along by some hidden hand. They were greedy, clawing at power, hating the chainrunners' rise because it slipped through their fingers. Simon's battery hoard and Norman's glares showed they weren't protecting the district; they were protecting themselves.

The people didn't see it, not fully, but their anger was growing, their voices sharp in the ration lines, their loyalty tilting to us.

As dusk settled, I drifted toward the residential quarter, my steps silent under Hazeveil. Poltov's Herbs and Healing glowed softly ahead, its new sign crisp against the weathered storefront. I'd found the shop before the District 97 run, a whim that felt right; Poltov seemed honest, his trade small enough to keep Meris's Life Magic quiet, away from noble eyes.

I'd paid for repairs, left credits for an apprentice, meaning her, but never got to tell her. No time before we left. I learned later, from a ghost's stray whisper, that Mareth, tailing me as "escort" that day, had tipped Tarin off. He'd made it happen, setting Meris up while I was gone.

She stepped out now, locking the door, her shoulders slumped, eyes heavy from a day's work. Her cloak caught the fading light, and even exhausted, she moved with a spark, like the district's darkness couldn't dim her.

This wasn't a safe street—lamps here wouldn't light once night fell, batteries too scarce now. Poltov was smart, letting her go early. I nodded to myself, satisfied, and slipped closer, Hazeveil's shadows bending the dark around me. Stealth was less skill now, more will—where light was thin, I was a ghost.

Meris paused, her head tilting, brow creasing as she glanced back. Her mana sense was sharpening, catching the ripple of my presence. I let Hazeveil's shadows slip, stepping into view. "Getting good with mana," I said, my voice flat but warm as I could manage.

She jumped, a gasp bursting out, her hand flying to her chest. "Omen! Gods, don't sneak up like that!" Her voice was bright, half-scolding, half-laughing, her green eyes wide with mock outrage. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, y'know!"

"Sorry," I said, a small smile tugging my lips. "Just checking on you. How's the old man?" I meant Poltov, genuinely curious, though my tone stayed stiff.

Meris grinned, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Oh, Poltov? He's… well, don't tell him I called him old, okay?" She giggled, then launched in, words tumbling fast. "He's fine, but he gets all lost in his herb jars sometimes, muttering like they're gonna talk back. And the haggling! You shoulda seen him yesterday, arguing over a sprig of feverwort like it was gold. Went on forever!" Her hands waved, painting the scene, and for a moment, the weight of the district with its council, guards, and bloodshed melted away. Her voice, her light, made my problems feel small, like frost thawing under sun.

I chuckled, softer than I meant. "Sounds like you're keeping him in line." Then, curious, I added, "Tarin set this up, right? After I left?"

Her eyes lit up, nodding. "Yeah! Mareth told him you'd been poking around Poltov's, dropping credits like some secret benefactor." She poked my arm, ignoring the cold of my skin. "Why didn't you tell me, huh? I coulda been ready!" Her tone was playful, but gratitude flickered in her gaze, warming me more than I deserved.

"Didn't have time," I said, mechanical but honest. "Glad it worked out."

We walked, her steps bouncing, mine steady. I hesitated, then asked, "So… magic. What's it like for you?" I wanted her view, someone who saw mana differently.

Her face brightened, like I'd handed her a spark. "It's amazing, Omen! I can heal broken bones now—takes an hour, maybe two, and I'm wiped after one or two a day, but seeing people walk again? It's everything." She hugged herself, beaming. "Poltov's always haggling, so I don't get much practice, but I'm getting better. You should see it!"

I nodded, her joy infectious, but it stirred something heavy. "And you?" she asked, turning, her eyes curious, sharp. "Your magic, what does it do? Don't think I missed you popping out of nowhere. Can you teleport or what?" She poked my cheek, grinning, unbothered by the chill.

"You ask too many questions," I said, dodging, my voice stiff but teasing. Her laugh rang out, and I sighed. "It's… hard to explain." I had Life Magic, like her, but mine was buried, woven into my beastly core, keeping me alive. I'd used it on her once, on the Life Tree, but frost? Frost was for killing. "I don't do much," I said, quieter, my eyes dropping.

"Oh, come on, don't give me that!" Meris huffed, hands on hips. "I heard you raised a huge ice wall to save people, and that giant ice thing, some kinda golem, right? That's huge!" Her voice was fierce, proud, like she saw something in me I couldn't.

I froze, her words cutting deep. The wall and the Titan had protected people, sure, but only so I could kill without looking back. Every beast I'd slain, every spear of frost, was blood, even if it saved lives. "It's not like yours," I said, my voice low, almost a whisper.

Her smile softened, her hand brushing my arm, warm against my cold. "Omen, you're out there fighting so people like me can stay safe. Your magic's saved so many. Don't you dare think it's not amazing." Her eyes held mine, steady.

For a moment, I believed her, my chest lighter. But then it hit—faint, sharp, unmistakable. The smell of blood, carried on the evening air. My heart slammed, senses flaring, frost prickling my skin. The monocle hummed against my chest, and the ghosts spoke, their whispers sharp, overlapping, like blades scraping stone.

Their voices coiled in my mind, cryptic, urgent, stirring a certainty I couldn't name. Something had started, and though I didn't know what, the air grew heavy, thick with coming chaos.

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