The echoes of children playing still lingered in the slum air, like ghosts too stubborn to leave. Elias trembled behind me, his ribs jutting from his frame like broken bones from a forgotten shrine.
A rough voice cracked through the silence.
"Who the hell are you?"
I turned. The question came from a woman at the head of a group—shorter than me, yet towering in presence. Her storm-grey eyes narrowed, rimmed faintly red, as if sleep and sorrow had become permanent. Jagged black hair, streaked with ash and silver, was hacked short like it had been cut with a dull knife. Burn scars wound around her bronze-toned arms, tangled with faded scripture tattoos. Her leather armor was rusted, patched with canvas, and held together more by habit than stitching.
Around her stood five others—six enforcers total. A tall man with a bandage soaked red at the temple. Another dragging a length of chain like it was part of him. The rest were thinner, shadows in torn gear, their eyes twitching with that look of too many nights without food or sleep.
Her eyes were sharp but not cruel. Not until now.
Everything around us slowed. Work stopped. Doors shut. Faces disappeared behind splintered wood. A few lingered just long enough to catch a glimpse of her.
Her name was karasa but I didn't know that yet.
"You don't belong here," she said, stepping forward. "You're not of Slamanta. Not of this filth, this hunger. You glow... even now."
I stayed quiet. My glow had dimmed, true—after I poured Essentia into Elias. But there was still something in me, a faint warmth clinging to my skin like candlelight fighting the dark. Subtle. But not invisible.
She had noticed.
"We've got business with that boy," she said, her voice sharpening. "None with you. Leave."
Elias looked like he wanted to curl into himself, vanish entirely. His arms hugged his body so tight, I thought he might shatter.
Still, I didn't move. I didn't speak.
But I felt something in the air shift—like mist thickening, like the weight of breath before a storm.
A twitchy enforcer—bald, scar down his jaw, spear splintered at the base—lunged forward.
"Are you deaf?!"
Before he could take a step, Karasa raised her hand. He froze. Everyone did.
And in that stillness, I felt something. From her.
A flash of sadness. Small. Hidden deep beneath her anger, but it was there—flickering like a dying ember.
I didn't mean to do what came next.
It wasn't magic. Not exactly.
I mirrored her. Took that sorrow into myself—not out of pity, not out of intent. Just... instinct. My aura shifted, not lashing out but folding inward. I reflected her own feeling back at her.
Her stance wavered. Her mask cracked for a moment.
"You—" she breathed. "What… did you do?"
I didn't answer.
She blinked and turned away as if to hide the break.
"The brat's been missing his quotas," she muttered. "Two weeks now. Ever since his brother got taken, he stopped working. And people are noticing. If we let one kid go soft, the whole line collapses. We're not saints."
Elias's eyes welled up. The moment her gaze left him—
He ran.
Silent. Swift. Like a shadow cutting loose from its master.
He didn't look back. Not until the alley swallowed him whole. Then, from the dark, he paused. One small hand rose to his chest. An invisible gesture. A wordless thank you.
Thank you.
He mouthed it—not like a child, but like someone who had suffered too much, too young.
I said nothing. Just watched him go.
Karasa sighed. "Because of you, he ran. He'll be punished... later." Her voice wavered again. "But... you've broken nothing. No blood tonight. I'll be watching you, Glowface."
She began to walk away. The others followed.
Then she paused.
"You're not from here," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "But you still... might matter."
A beat of silence. A half-smile tugged at her mouth, as if she didn't know why she said it.
"Walk with us. You'll see what this city does to people who matter."
---
We moved through Slamanta's bones.
The slums twisted like a dying serpent—alleys coiling into trash heaps, bonemarkets, and shrines made of crumbling idols. Children with sunburnt scalps stared from shattered windows. Every breath tasted of ash and old prayer.
No one spoke much. Gravel crunched underfoot. A few curses. The slow wheeze of incense from the burning barrels and makeshift shrines.
And then—
We arrived.
Slamanta Ashram.
It loomed like a cruel joke.
The slums bled rust. But this place gleamed. Pearl-white walls shimmered even under the sick moon. Stone pillars shaped like clasped hands rose like silent judges. Golden scripture ran across the archway—half-erased, unreadable, but proud.
Inside, a hum.
Not music. Not joy.
A machine-like chant—endless, hollow. A ritual sung more from habit than hope.
I looked at the people near the gates.
No awe on their faces.
Just weariness. Devotion worn thin. Lips moving from memory, not belief.
And I felt it.
The Essentia here was wrong. Not dead but bent. Guided. Like a river forced through pipes, strangled into obedience.
Above the central dome, a mural stared down at us: A God with four heads
Karasa muttered as we passed beneath it. "Ashram feeds the soul. Or burns it."
She didn't say which.
I didn't ask.
I stood in silence, letting the breath of this place twisted and devout press against me.
And I made a quiet vow to myself.
I would learn why this temple sang with sorrow.
And what it had to do with a child who ran from mercy.