Chapter 4.3: Fractures and Failures
Kael woke with a searing throb behind his eyes and every muscle protesting. He lay on the cold metal floor of the boiler room, damp seeping through his clothes. Rolling onto his side, he pressed a hand against his ribs—each breath a stab of pain. The cost of forging Oblivion's Tooth was written in every ache. He swallowed a curse and forced himself upright.
A fragment of broken mirror leaned against the wall. Kael stepped over oil-slick puddles and peered into it. A medium-height boy stared back: brown hair matted with grime, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and eyes that were mostly brown but flecked with sickly green. The corruption had spread overnight—dark veins snaked from his shoulder toward his throat, pulsing beneath pale skin. His reflection's jaw was set, lips drawn tight against exhaustion.
He pressed a trembling finger to the largest vein and felt it pulse. The factory's cold light gleamed off the mirror shard. For a moment, he let himself register the truth: forging that blade had nearly killed him.
He turned away and limped to the exit. Each step sent lightning through his side. Outside, the dregs sprawled in chaotic alleys of discarded crates and makeshift stalls. Kael hunched his shoulders against the rancid air and scanned for scraps.
A half-rotted loaf caught his eye in a battered wooden crate. Relief flooded him. He darted forward, plucked it up—and froze. The knife was gone from his belt. Oblivion's Tooth, the jagged shard-forged dagger, lay abandoned in the factory.
"Fuck" he spat, dropping the bread. He swore under his breath, heart thundering. Without that blade, he was defensless, especially in his current condition.
He forced himself to swallow pride and knelt to retrieve the bread. It was dirty, but he tore off a piece and shoved it in his mouth. His ribs flared with every chew, but hunger won over pain. A few precious drops of water from his pouch washed it down.
Two older boys stepped into his circle of dim light. Their jackets were patched and grimy; their eyes hard.
"You picking here?" one demanded.
Kael swallowed. "I—just hungry." His voice cracked.
"No permission," the taller boy said. He shoved Kael in the chest. Kael staggered back onto the crate, bread tumbling free.
"Give it up," the shorter boy snarled, raising a fist.
They beat him swiftly—kicks to his side, a club jab to his shoulder. Kael curled into himself, breath ripping out in painful gasps. His corrupted veins throbbed as fresh bruises bloomed. When they finally walked off, he lay panting in the dirt.
Slowly he rose, every joint aflame. He retrieved the scattered bread, finishing the last stale crumbs. As he ate, he pressed a hand to his chest and felt the faint, steady pulse of the Shard's power still coursing through him. Despite the pain, despite the corruption's spread, he was stronger than any ordinary survivor in these alleys.
That knowledge was both comfort and weight. He wiped the grime from his lips, squared his shoulders, and turned back toward the factory. Each step was agony, but he moved with purpose. The polluted sky darkened as he approached the broken doors. Inside, the shadows welcomed him home.
He reached the boiler room on trembling legs, collapsed against the curved metal wall, and closed his eyes. The world tilted, and the last thing he felt was the steady pulse of corruption—relentless, inescapable—before everything went black.