The sky above Valeforge was a wound. Bruised reds and dirty gold bled across jagged rooftops as chimneys vomited black smoke. The city sprawled like a carcass picked over by crows, its veins clogged with muddy streets and desperate bodies.
Riven Ashor lived among that press of filth and iron. At fifteen, he was already taller than many grown men, broad-shouldered from years hauling crates and rope at the shipyards. His hands were coarse as old rope, palms lined with scars from splinters and fish hooks. Coal-black hair flopped into his storm-grey eyes, cut uneven with a knife in the reflection of dirty glass.
But there was laughter in his life, too. The tiny room he shared with Meya, his seven-year-old sister, always smelled of salt bread and mint leaves she'd sneak from street carts. Her giggles rattled their thin walls brighter than any lantern. Riven would wrestle with her in the evenings, toss her onto his shoulder and parade her through the winding alleys like a little queen, dodging jeers and playful curses from hawkers.
He had dreams, in his small way. To one day buy a better room. Maybe a place near the southern arches where the breeze off the lake didn't stink of tanneries. To see Meya learning letters at the tiny monastery school instead of playing in garbage heaps.
At dawn, he rose with the bells, shoulders stiff from hard sleep. He'd slap at the fleas, whisper a promise to Meya that tonight he'd bring back honey tarts, then tramp down four flights to the quay. The docks were life in Valeforge. Timber ships creaked in their moorings, seagulls shrieked overhead, sailors bellowed as they rolled barrels. Riven thrived in that chaos. The heavy lifting fed his body, and he liked the honest ache in his muscles when he collapsed on his pallet at night.
But that morning, something felt wrong. The shipyard foreman, old Orlan with his half-missing nose, wouldn't meet Riven's eye. Wharf hounds barked at him, then whined and slunk off. Even the gulls seemed to steer clear of the nets he worked.
---
By midday, storm clouds gathered. The scent of rain mingled with brine. Riven stripped off his shirt, sweat steaming from his skin, and laughed with a gang of boys wrestling a massive net from the hold.
That was when they came.
The crowd parted like rotten cloth. A file of guards marched through, iron helms glinting. Their black tabards bore the silver hawk of the High Tribunal. People fell silent. Even the belligerent sailors backed away.
"Riven Ashor!" the captain barked, voice like gravel grinding in a jar.
Riven turned, confused, hauling the heavy net over one shoulder. "Yeah? What's this about?"
The captain didn't bother explaining. He nodded. Two guards lunged, smashing pike shafts into Riven's knees. Pain flared white. The net spilled. Fish flopped in all directions, scales flashing like tiny coins.
"What the hell! I haven't done anything—!"
A mailed fist cracked across his jaw. Darkness wavered. Hands grabbed his arms, twisted them behind his back. Shackles snapped shut, metal cold against sunburned skin.
Through swimming vision, he saw old Orlan turn away. Saw dock boys he'd grown up with staring at the planks. Saw Meya's face in his mind, tiny lips trembling when she waited for him to come home.
"By order of the Tribunal," the captain sneered, spittle catching in his coarse beard, "you stand accused of murder and desecration of a Crown official. You'll answer for it in the Grand Hall."
Murder. Desecration.
The words didn't make sense. Riven had never even seen a Crown official up close. He opened his mouth, but the world tilted again. They dragged him through the mud, his bare feet scraping splinters.
---
Up through Valeforge they hauled him, through narrow streets that twisted like knife wounds. The city changed as they climbed. Crumbling brick gave way to smooth marble, battered shutters replaced by stained glass. Perfumed courtesans peered from balconies, giggling behind jeweled fans. Gold-laced carriages rolled past, wheels splashing filthy water on barefoot beggars.
Riven staggered, each step sending pain through his knees. His mouth tasted of copper and bile. Somewhere below, a dog barked. A bell tolled in the old quarter, mournful as a funeral drum.
Finally they reached the Grand Hall. Black stone loomed above columns carved with snarling beasts. Windows were nothing but slits, meant to keep judgment in and mercy out.
Inside, echoing voices hummed. The chamber smelled of old wax and dried blood. A circle of robed officials lounged on tall chairs, their faces shrouded by cowls. The High Seeker sat among them, gold chains spilling down his chest, eyes glinting beneath his hood.
"Riven Ashor," the Seeker intoned, his voice a hollow chime. "You stand accused of murdering Tribune Helest on the night of the Harvest Feast, and defiling his corpse with symbols of the Old Dark. How plead you?"
"I—I don't even know who that is!" Riven rasped. His throat burned. "Someone's lying. I've never left the shipyards except to—"
"Silence," snapped a cowl. "Evidence places your knife at the scene."
His knife. The one he'd lost two weeks ago unloading cargo in the western docks. He'd cursed and stomped around for an hour trying to find it. Had some cutpurse lifted it, then stuck it into a noble's ribs to frame him?
A chill sank through his gut.
"I'm telling you, it's a mistake. I didn't—"
A gavel struck stone. "Sentence is exile to the Gutter. Immediate."
Riven stared. The world seemed to fade around the edges. He caught a snatch of laughter from the officials. Footsteps dragged him backward.
Not death. Not yet. But the Gutter. Where no one returned.
---
Outside, storm clouds finally broke. Rain poured in cold sheets. The guards didn't pause. They hauled Riven through torch-lit tunnels that smelled of rust and wet mold, down and down, until the world became nothing but dripping black walls. Finally they emerged onto a narrow bridge of cracked stones arching over a pit so wide and deep, it seemed to swallow the earth.
Lanterns ringed the far rim, tiny fireflies marking the edge of Valeforge's power. Below was only darkness.
"Any last words, filth?" one guard snarled.
Riven drew a ragged breath. Meya's face swam behind his eyelids — her gap-toothed grin, her sleepy head on his shoulder after stories of sky beasts and hidden treasure.
"Take care of my sister," he croaked. But he knew they wouldn't.
The captain shoved him.
Wind screamed past. Cold punched the breath from his lungs. The lanterns spun into tiny halos. Riven fell, arms flailing, the world a blur of rain and stone.
Somewhere above, he thought he heard a prisoner's crazed voice echo down the shaft:
> "DON'T WAKE WHAT'S BURIED—"
Then the black swallowed him whole.
---
He crashed through wet branches. Rocks tore at his sides. Finally he slammed into muddy ground that gave way beneath him. He lay there, gasping, the world spinning.
Above, the bridge was a ghostly silhouette lost in storm. No ropes. No ladders. No hope.
Riven pushed to his knees, rain streaming down his face. His hands clenched into fists.
The Gutter stank of rot and ancient, sour breath. Shapes moved beyond the trees. Pale eyes blinked. Wet chittering filled the air.
And far off, deeper than reason, something huge shifted. As if the earth itself had taken a slow breath.