CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

A Tear Unfrozen

Humanity anoints itself sovereign of reason, draping its history in riddles of honor and concord. We pose as sages—spirits unsullied, minds immaculate—yet under the gilt a feral hunger stalks. Reason is not our governor but our accomplice, sharpening longing into doctrine. Thus we slay not for bread but for convictions, baptizing steel in the blood of those who dream differently. When the ground is quiet again we look away, clutching the tattered banners of our making so the ruin might remain unseen. This is no exalted estate but a cage of our own iron, where we tear at shared flesh and call the wound a cause.

— Vrenna Talis, On the Nature of Man, folio 318, Third Araksiun Edition

Humanity puzzled me, always had. I'd thought its heart lay in the ward-bound, those untouched by the fog's claws, people tied by rules, like the one that said you don't kill your own. Clean, orderly, civilized. But I'd watched those rules bend, twist, snap under the weight of want and belief. Last night drove it home: people killed so easily, their hands steady, their eyes hard.

I'd killed beasts by the dozens, torn through their cores without blinking. But killing my own kind? I'd thought that was beyond me, a line too far, against what made us human. Now I wasn't so sure. The blood on District 98's stones whispered a different truth—one I hadn't wanted to hear. Humanity wasn't the pretty dream I'd built in my head.

I'd asked Elina about it when I checked on them after the chaos. "What's human nature?" I'd said, still rattled. They were safe, but she didn't answer straight. Instead, she handed me an old book, its pages brittle, from a time before the fog, when no wards caged us. On the Nature of Man. I read it through the night, hunched in a corner of the chainrunners headquarters, trying to make sense of it. Elina never taught about ancient wars in class, always dodged it. Now I saw why. Before the fog, our greatest enemy wasn't beasts, it was ourselves.

Wars, the book said. People rallied under banners, killed for ideas, for visions, without ever knowing the faces they cut down. Relentless, mindless slaughter. That's how we'd claimed the world, through blood, not reason. It was in us, carved deep. Last night's madness only sharpened the point. The moment my frost loosened, freeing the crowd from ice, they'd turned on each other again. More died, their wills fading into the long sleep. More ghosts to haunt the edges of my vision when I dared touch the monocle hanging at my neck, wrapped in cloth to keep its power quiet.

Dain had ordered us back here, all chainrunners crammed into the headquarters. The streets weren't safe—not after guards killed one of ours, not after we'd killed two of theirs, not after civilians turned on each other in the panic. We slept on the main floor, sprawled across cold stone or propped against crates. The place wasn't built for this, too small, too tight for so many, but it was better than risking knives in the dark outside. They'd offered me a room, a perk of my title, but I waved it off. Sleep wasn't coming, not with my mind churning.

Morning crept in, gray light filtering through high windows. The chainrunners stirred, one by one, shaking off the night. Blankets rustled, low voices traded grunts and jabs. Someone passed around hard bread; another laughed over a spilled waterskin. It wasn't just a unit anymore, not like the old days when we were a ragged few dozen. We'd grown, an army forged in the fog, bound tighter than blood. I watched them from my corner, Hazeveil draped over my shoulders, hiding the tentacles coiled into my back. My frost pulsed low, a cold ache I kept reined in to avoid icing the floor.

A sharp knock shattered the quiet. The locked door rattled under a heavy fist. "What's the meaning of this?" a voice demanded, crisp and high, dripping with authority.

Gustav, lounging near the door, didn't even look up from sharpening his blade. "It's locked," he drawled, voice rough as gravel, like the answer was obvious.

The knocking grew sharper, insistent. "What do you mean it's locked? This is a public building; it should be open at all times. Open it now."

Gustav snorted, scratching his beard. "No can do, fancy pants. New protocols. For our safety." He grinned, all teeth, the kind of grin that said he'd seen worse than this guy out in the fog.

The voice outside spiked, trembling with rage. "How dare you? Do you know who you're addressing? I'm a council official. Blocking my path is a crime!"

Gustav leaned back, chuckling dark and low. "A crime, huh? What're you gonna do, make me a chainrunner twice?" He waved a hand, dismissive. Laughter rippled through the room, chainrunners elbowing each other, grinning at the jab.

The official wasn't laughing. "You… you didn't just say that," he sputtered, voice climbing. "Listen, you filthy wretch, I'm here with the council's demands. Two guards were killed last night. We demand the two responsible for trial, and Omen, for obstructing justice by freezing those guards."

I stiffened, Hazeveil shifting faintly. Me? It made sense, I supposed I'd iced the crowd, guards included, to stop the killing. But trial? I glanced at Gustav. He caught my eye, held it a second, then turned back to the door. "We don't hand over our own," he bellowed, voice hard now, no trace of humor. "Fuck off."

Shouts erupted outside—angry, scattered, but they faded as the official stormed off, boots clicking on stone. The room settled, but the air felt heavier, like a storm waiting to break.

Gustav kicked the door lightly, checking something. A folded paper lay there, slipped underneath. He snatched it up, squinting, then handed it to Dain, who'd pushed through the crowd. Dain unfolded it, his face tightening as he read aloud, voice clear so every chainrunner could hear:

By Order of the Council of District 98:

In light of recent unrest and to restore order, all sub-artifacts in possession of the chainrunners are to be surrendered immediately to the Council for redistribution. These artifacts shall be allocated solely to those vested with proper authority, as determined by the Council. Compliance is mandatory; failure to comply will be deemed an act against the district's security.

Further, the individuals responsible for the deaths of two guards on the night prior are to be delivered for trial, alongside Omen, Artifact Holder, for obstructing lawful enforcement.

Signed,

Norman Highrow, Fifth Seat of the Council

Dain lowered the paper, his jaw tight. A chainrunner nearby spat on the floor. "What, so my armor, the thing that kept me alive out there goes to some council prick sitting comfy?" His voice shook, angry but low, like he was holding back a shout.

Murmurs spread, sharp and bitter. The sub-artifacts, our blades and armor glowing with faint mana were ours, earned in the fog, not some noble's trinket. But there was more to it, everyone knew what this was: a move to gut us. Strip our gear, hand it to Norman's guards, maybe even the council's allies in the high families. Weaken us, prop them up. It wasn't about justice—it was control.

Word of the letter would spread fast. By midday, half the district's already knew, whispers racing through alleys and taverns. Some would back the council, loyal to them. Others, those who'd eaten our food, who saw hope in our return, would side with us. The split was already there, carved deeper by last night's blood. I could feel it growing, a crack ready to swallow us all.

***

Lirien didn't bother answering the council's demands. Her silence spoke louder than any letter, a defiance that set the tone. The chainrunners followed her lead, their refusal clear as the days dragged on. Balance wasn't coming—not with us, armed with sub-artifacts that outshone the guards' blades, and the Frost Titan looming at our backs. The district felt it, a shift too heavy to ignore.

The guards weren't the enemy, not really. They were pawns, caught in the council's grip, just doing their duty. I thought of Mareth, Kael, Roran, good people, serious about protecting the district, not so different from us. But they served a council we'd to topple, and that line divided us deeper than I'd wanted to admit.

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Protests erupted over the next few days, spilling through the district's narrow streets. Fights broke out, fists at first, then knives, then worse. Chainrunners clashed with guards, civilians caught in the middle, dying for no reason I could name. Blood stained the stones, and I started to see it: the true nature of man and war. It was this, people turning on people, no clear enemy to strike. I had power, more than most, but where do you point a blade when innocents bleed on both sides? The question gnawed at me, heavy and unanswered.

Five days passed before Lirien emerged from her office. She'd let the chaos simmer, like she'd meant for it to grow. When she finally stepped out, she didn't hesitate. She climbed onto a crate in the district's central square, the sound-amplifying tool in hand, her voice carrying far enough to pull people from their homes. I stood at the edge of the gathering crowd, Hazeveil tight around me, hiding the cold mist seeping from my skin. Something in me sank—a realization I didn't want. I knew where my blade should point, and I hated it.

Lirien wasn't one for speeches. Stern, unyielding, she led with actions, not words. But District 97 had changed her, Camilla's influence sinking deep. She'd seen how words could bend a crowd, and now she wielded them like a blade. Her voice came through the tool, softer than I'd ever heard, almost warm—but I caught the edge beneath it, sharp and deliberate.

"My father," she began, pausing as the crowd hushed, "dreamed of what the chainrunners were meant to be." Her words carried a weight I hadn't expected, personal in a way she'd never shown. "He saw us freeing this world from the fog, restoring Araksiun's glory, making it ours again."

I blinked, caught off guard. Lirien, speaking of her father? Of dreams? The crowd leaned in, drawn to this glimpse of her, Blackthorn, the Captain, but human too. It felt real, raw, like she meant it. I'd only seen this kind of pull from Camilla.

"We lost that path," she went on, her voice steady now, rising. "Every death, every artifact swallowed by the fog, chipped away at us. We grew weak, scattered. But in District 97, we fought. We bled. We brought back strength—sub-artifacts, power to face the fog again." She gestured to the chainrunners around her, their armor glinting faintly with mana, a sight that made the crowd murmur, some in awe, some in unease.

"Then what?" she asked, her tone sharpening, cutting through the murmurs. "We return, stronger than ever, and the council demands we give it up. Our blades, our armor, earned in blood, to be handed over. Does that sound right to you?"

The crowd stirred, voices overlapping, grumbles, shouts, a woman near me muttering, "They wouldn't dare." Lirien let it build, her eyes scanning them, waiting.

"It makes sense to them," she said, voice dropping low, almost a growl. "The council likes things as they are. They don't feel your hunger, your cold, your sickness. They don't care if we're free—they'd rather bury us first." She paused, letting that sink in, then raised a fist. "Eight chainrunners died this week. Eight. Killed in markets, in alleys, for daring to walk our own streets."

The crowd roared, anger spilling over. A man shouted, "They can't take what's ours!" Others echoed him, fists raised, faces red. I shifted, uneasy. Eight dead—too many for a force like ours, stronger than the guards, armored in sub-artifacts I'd helped design. The math didn't add up. I'd seen one chainrunner beaten by guards, sure, but dead from it? That armor could shrug off fog beasts' claws, absorb. A guard's fists shouldn't have done it and yet I failed to realize at the time.

A thought clawed at me, one I pushed away but couldn't kill. What if Lirien was behind it? She'd been gone those five days, silent, while bodies piled up. I hadn't touched the monocle, hadn't wanted to hear the dead's whispers. But I knew what they'd say, and it terrified me. She'd caused the breach in District 97, killed to reshape it. Of course she would do it again.

No one else questioned her. The crowd was hers now, fury drowning out doubt. Lirien held up a paper, the council's emergency run requisition to District 96, paired with a stash of batteries I'd thought hidden. She'd stolen them, somehow, and now waved them like a flag. "They want us gone," she said, voice booming. "They want our power, our future, for themselves."

The square erupted. Shouts turned to screams, fury to action. Fights broke out, fists swinging, knives flashing. By dusk, the district split, two factions claiming their halves. Chainrunners and their supporters held the north, council loyalists the south, a jagged line of barricades and blood between them. Buildings burned, smoke curling into the fog. It was war, like the ones in Elina's book—brother against brother, reason an accomplice to our sins.

Later, I pieced it together. Lirien's speech, the one that set the crowd ablaze, wasn't just her words. They'd been etched into the sound tool she'd used, crafted to carry a voice not quite hers, a speech made before we left District 97. The softness I'd heard, the warmth that pulled at hearts; it wasn't Lirien's. It was Camilla's, her passion threaded through, disguised but unmistakable. I'd missed it in the moment, caught up in the crowd's roar, but now it gnawed at me.

***

Three days after the speech, the district's quiet unnerved me. Silence like this, I'd learned in the fog, meant danger. Our side grew stronger daily, civilians joining us, hauling crates, stacking stones to build barricades that snaked through the streets, blocking paths and carving our territory in the north. But by the third day, the trickle of newcomers stopped. The council's loyalists, holed up in fortified buildings to the south, held the high ground, their defenses solid, their numbers bolstered by guards. Our barricades, cobbled together from broken carts, planks, and rubble felt flimsy in comparison, a jagged line cutting District 98 in two.

I stood on this street for a reason. Hours ago, my senses, sharper than any human's, had caught it: whispers, footsteps, the clink of weapons moving slow through the district's alleys. A surprise attack, aimed right here.

Lirien knew it too, her own instincts never missed a threat. She'd ordered Dain to reinforce this spot, piling more chainrunners and civilians behind the barricade, but she hadn't warned them what was coming. That was her way—let the fight come, let it weed out the weak. I couldn't stomach it. These were my brothers, my people. I'd never killed a human, never wanted to, but standing by while they died wasn't an option anymore.

The barricade bristled with tension. Ten chainrunners and eight civilians gripped their weapons. Gustav leaned against a crate, sharpening his knife with a lazy scrape. "Another barricade, huh," he grunted, his voice rough, a morbid smirk tugging his lips like he was joking at death's door again. It cut the air, easing the knot in my chest for a moment.

Gorin, younger, fidgeted beside him, his knuckles white around a spear. "Never thought I'd hold a line against… people," he muttered, eyes darting to the empty street. "You ever killed someone?"

Gustav's smirk faded, a rare crack in his armor. He straightened, staring at the ground. "Not really," he said, quieter than I'd ever heard him. The words hung there, heavy. Even Gustav, who laughed off fog beasts, felt the weight of this.

I felt it too, deeper than I could say. Killing beasts was one thing—claws, cores, no guilt. But humans? Families, hopes, lives? The thought twisted in me, a blade I couldn't pull out. I stood atop a nearby building, Hazeveil cloaking me in shadow, watching the street below. Artemis, perched on a lookout post, scanned the corners with her hawk-sharp eyes. She'd spot them first.

She did. "Prepare yourselves!" she shouted, voice cutting through the dusk. The barricade snapped to attention, weapons raised, breaths held. From a blind corner, one we couldn't see past, a mob surged. Twenty armed men, maybe more, loyalists with crude clubs, knives, a few guard-issued swords. Their faces were set, eyes burning with purpose, families waiting somewhere behind them. Their only crime? Picking the wrong side.

I couldn't wait. My heart pounded, screaming against what I knew I'd do. I leaped from the building, wind tearing at Hazeveil, and landed hard on the street in front of the barricade, knees bending under the impact. The ground cracked faintly beneath me. The mob froze for a split second, staring at the cloaked figure who'd dropped from nowhere.

"It won't be painless," I said, voice steady despite the ache in my chest, "but it'll be quick. This I promise."

They didn't hear the warning. "Kill the traitors!" one screamed, raising a blade, and the mob charged, their shouts echoing off the stones. I let go. The frost inside me, cold and alive slipped free. Mist poured from my skin, thick and pale, curling like the fog itself. It rolled forward, faster than they could run, swallowing the street in seconds. Mana hummed in the air, sharp and biting, as the mist touched them.

They stopped. One by one, mid-stride, mid-shout, they froze. Mouths open, weapons raised, eyes wide with rage or fear, now locked in ice. Statues of flesh and frost, silent, unyielding. The street went still, the only sound my own ragged breathing and the faint creak of ice settling. Behind the barricade, the chainrunners and civilians stared, some gasping, some gripping their weapons tighter. Artemis lowered her bow, her face pale.

It wasn't a fight. They'd never stood a chance, not against me. But to those behind me, they'd been a threat, clubs and blades aimed at their lives. I stepped forward, my boots crunching on frost-dusted stone, toward one of the frozen figures. A man, maybe thirty, his face twisted in a snarl that didn't match the fear in his eyes. I reached out, my fingers brushing his cheek. The ice rippled under my touch, cold seeping into me, familiar and empty. A tear slipped from my eye, warm and unfrozen, defying the frost that claimed all else. With it, my humanity fell to the ground, the last trace of warmth leaving me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I failed you." I'd failed to stop this war, to find another way. "But I accept what needs to be done," I said, louder, hoping the echoe that would form could hear it and maybe even forgive me. The true enemy wasn't these men. It was the one who'd let this happen, who'd shaped this war for her own ends. I'd lied to myself too long, clinging to a shared dream that was never real. Now, I knew where my blade belonged.

I stood amidst the ice forms, their frozen screams glinting in the fading light. Acceptance sank into me, heavy, final, a strange warmth flaring in my chest despite the cold horror of the people I had just killed.

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