Every sound in the factory felt alive. Kael pressed his ear to a cracked column of concrete and heard the slow drip of condensation—plink… plink…—and somewhere beyond that, the distant groan of a tumbling gear. The rafters sighed overhead, as though the building itself were settling in to eavesdrop on his every move.
He moved on trembling legs, each step stirring motes of dust that danced in pale shafts of morning light. Rats skittered through the shadows, their tiny claws scraping on metal. One paused, red eyes reflecting his hollow stare, before vanishing into a puddle of oily water. Kael shivered. The factory was teaching him its language: every drip, every squeal, every distant clang was a syllable in its vocabulary of dread.
His hand hovered over the vial in his pocket—venom thick and dark as nightmares. He let a single droplet bead at his fingertip, cold and viscous. Just one tiny shape—he told himself—then you can stop for the day.
He raised his hand and willed the liquid to solidify. The drop quivered, the factory's low hum thrumming in his ears. Kael shut his eyes, picturing the blade he'd glimpsed in fevered dreams. But when he opened them, the droplet collapsed into a puff of foul smoke that smelled of burnt sugar and sorrow. He coughed, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. His palms stung where the caustic haze had brushed his skin.
"Pathetic," in his head a serpentine voice hissed—so faint he thought he might be crazy. He frowned, trying to place its echo. The walls felt closer now, the shadows deeper. He pressed his back against a rusted I‑beam and slid down until he was crouched, knees to chest. His breath came in ragged gasps. Why can't I do this?
A flicker at the edge of his vision made him jerk upright. There, etched into peeling paint, he saw pale faces—Shardbearers halfway through transformation, flesh and crystal fused into grotesque sculptures. Their mouths were open in silent screams. Kael's heart slammed. He blinked hard. The faces shimmered, then vanished, leaving only the cracked wall.
He sank his head in his hands. "Get a grip," he muttered. He jabbed a finger at the vaporizing droplet's memory: That was one drop. He'd practiced worse mistakes in the sewers. He wiped sweat from his brow and looked around for a distraction.
His gaze landed on a fallen control panel. Its buttons, long dead, still bore labels: Pressure… Flow… Crush. Kael ran a finger over the word Crush, tasting the irony. He forced himself to his feet, every muscle trembling like a newborn fawn's. He lifted the vial again, heart hammering.
This time, he whispered, "Please," palms slick and desperate.
The drop glowed faintly—but then it flickered out, swallowed by emptiness. Kael roared in frustration, slamming his fist against the metal floor. The echo ricocheted through the empty hall, a mocking applause. Pain bloomed in his knuckles. He sucked in a ragged breath, blinking away tears of anger and fear.
He staggered back, nearly tripping over a coil of cable. His back hit a cold support pillar, and he slid down until he was splayed on the floor, chest heaving. The world tilted and the drip… plink… plink... became a pounding drum inside his skull.
He curled into a tighter ball, mind swimming with half‑formed thoughts:
Am I really this useless?
Jarek's going to find me.
Maybe Mira was right—maybe I should've died.
As his vision blurred, he heard another whisper, gentler this time, like a memory of laughter:
"You can do this, Kael."
His eyes snapped open. The voice of his mother was gone, but the echo of that memory lingered in his bones. That day Kael was learning to walk, he didn't remember much, only the voice of his mother. His childood was a blurry and that was the only memory of it.
He pressed one fist against the pillar, knuckles white, and forced himself upright. Legs wobbled. He steadied, his breath shallow.
No more failure today, he vowed. Tonight, I rest.