The Veil was dying.
It had been thin for days, humming with a low, sickly drone that seeped into the bones of the Echo Slums. The air tasted of rust and old grief, and the sky, what little of it could be seen through the choking haze, was cracked like broken glass. Jagged lines of black lightning split the heavens, and from them poured not rain, but a thick, greasy mist that clung to skin and stone alike. Where it touched, metal rusted in seconds, stone cracked and crumbled, and people screamed as their shadows peeled away and turned on them.
A Sink was forming.
In the heart of the slums, where the old temple of the Forgotten Choir had long ago collapsed into a pile of broken stone and rusted iron, a small figure moved through the ruins. She was thin, wrapped in a tattered coat too big for her, with dark hair plastered to her face by the rain. Her name was Elias, and she was not supposed to be here.
She was supposed to be in the clinic, sorting herbs, not crawling through rubble while the world cracked open above her.
But the clinic had been swallowed an hour ago.
Now she moved like a ghost, stepping over bodies, avoiding the patches of mist that writhed like living things. Her bag was heavy with stolen elixirs, bandages, and a few precious vials of Concordance-grade painkillers. She wasn't a fighter. She wasn't even a real healer. She was just a girl who had learned how to stitch wounds and stop bleeding because, in the slums, if you didn't, people died.
And Elias hated watching people die.
She paused at the edge of a collapsed building, where the ground had split open into a jagged fissure. The mist was thicker here, and the air tasted like copper and rot. From the fissure came a low, wet sound — not a scream, not a groan, but something in between, like a dying animal trying to breathe through broken ribs.
Elias hesitated.
Every instinct told her to run. This was a Sink's heart. Whatever was down there was already half‑dead, and the Veil would finish it soon. There was nothing she could do.
But then she heard it again.
A child's voice, raw and broken, whispering the same word over and over.
"Sister… sister… sister…"
Elias closed her eyes.
Then she climbed down.
***
The rubble was sharp, cutting through her gloves and coat. The deeper she went, the thicker the mist became, until it clung to her skin like oil. The air was hot, then cold, then hot again, and her vision blurred at the edges. She knew the signs — this close to a forming Sink, the Veil was warping reality. Time would stretch, space would twist, and if she stayed too long, she might never find her way back.
But the voice didn't stop.
She found him buried under a collapsed wall, half‑crushed, half‑burned, his clothes torn and soaked in blood and something darker. He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, but his eyes were old — hollow, empty, like he had already seen everything the world had to offer and decided it wasn't worth living for.
His sister lay a few feet away, her body twisted, her face frozen in a scream. The Veil‑mist had already taken her shadow, and it was now a black, shifting thing that curled around her corpse like a lover.
The boy didn't look at his sister. He looked at Elias.
"Sister," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You came back."
Elias knelt beside him, her hands already moving. She checked his pulse — weak, thready. His ribs were broken, one puncturing a lung. His left arm was crushed, and his right hand was clenched into a fist so tight the nails had drawn blood.
"You're not my sister," Elias said softly, pulling out a vial of painkiller. "But I'm here. Hold still."
The boy didn't react. He just stared at her, his eyes unblinking, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face.
Elias injected the painkiller, then began cutting away his clothes. The wound on his chest was bad — deep, jagged, already infected. She cleaned it as best she could, poured antiseptic, and stitched it with steady hands. All the while, the boy didn't flinch. He didn't cry. He just watched her, silent, like he was waiting for her to betray him.
When she finished, she gave him water from her canteen.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice flat.
"Because you're hurt," Elias said.
"That's not an answer."
She looked at him. "It's the only one I have."
The boy studied her for a long time. Then, very quietly, he said, "I ate her."
Elias froze.
"I ate her echo‑shard," he said, still staring at her. "It was the only way to wake up. To survive. I ate my sister."
Elias didn't move. She didn't flinch. She just looked at him, then at the dead girl, then back at him.
And then, very slowly, she reached out and brushed the hair from his face.
"You're still alive," she said. "That's what matters now."
The boy didn't cry. He didn't smile. He just closed his eyes and whispered, "Rest. I'll be here."
And Elias, knowing she should run, knowing this child was already something broken and dangerous, stayed.
Because in that moment, she saw not a monster.
She saw a boy in the rubble.
And she couldn't walk away.
***
The Sink grew.
The fissure widened, swallowing more of the ruins, more of the dead. The mist thickened, and the air itself began to twist — sounds stretched, footsteps echoed from impossible directions, and for a moment, Elias saw two versions of herself: one climbing out, one still kneeling beside the boy.
She blinked, and the second version was gone.
The boy's breathing was shallow, but steady. Elias wrapped his chest in fresh bandages, then checked his crushed arm. It was beyond saving; the bone was shattered, the flesh necrotic. She would have to amputate if he lived long enough.
"Do you have a name?" she asked.
He opened his eyes. "Kael."
"Kael," she repeated. "I'm Elias."
He didn't respond. He just watched her, his gaze sharp, calculating, like he was already planning how to use her.
Elias didn't care. She had seen that look before — in the eyes of starving children, of dying men, of people who had learned that kindness was just another weapon. She had seen it, and she had still chosen to help them.
She would choose to help him too.
"Kael," she said, "I'm going to try to get you out of here. But you have to stay quiet. If the Veil‑mist takes you, I won't be able to save you."
Kael didn't answer. He just closed his eyes again.
Elias began to move rubble, clearing a path toward the surface. Every few seconds, she glanced back at him, making sure he was still breathing. The mist swirled around him, but it didn't touch him — not yet. It was as if something in him repelled it, like a tiny, broken Veil of his own.
She didn't understand it. She didn't need to.
She just needed to get him out.
***
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time meant nothing in the Sink.
Elias finally cleared a narrow tunnel to the surface. She dragged Kael through it, his body light and broken, and laid him in the open, where the rain could wash some of the mist from his skin.
The slums around them were ruins. Buildings had collapsed, streets had split open, and the few survivors were already fleeing toward the outer districts, where the Veil was still thick enough to hold. The air was thick with the smell of burning and decay, and the sky still crackled with black lightning.
Elias knelt beside Kael again, checking his pulse. It was weaker now. Infection was spreading. If she didn't get him to a real healer, he would die before dawn.
But there were no real healers left in the slums.
She looked down at him. His face was pale, his lips cracked, but his right hand was still clenched into a fist. Slowly, carefully, she pried it open.
In his palm was a small, jagged shard of black crystal — an echo‑shard, pulsing with a faint, sickly light. It was warm to the touch, and when Elias held it, she felt a wave of nausea, a flash of images: a girl screaming, a wall collapsing, a child's hand reaching into a corpse.
She dropped it.
Kael's eyes snapped open.
"Don't touch it," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Elias looked at him. "It's killing you."
"It's keeping me alive," he said. "Without it, I'm nothing."
She didn't argue. She just picked up the shard again, wrapped it in cloth, and put it in her bag.
Then she lifted Kael onto her back and began to walk.
***
She didn't know where she was going.
The outer districts were too far, and the Veil‑mist was spreading. The only place left was the old slum library, a half‑collapsed cellar beneath a ruined temple where Old Man Renn kept his books and scrolls. It wasn't safe, but it was shelter.
When she reached it, Renn was already there, sitting in the dark, reading by candlelight. He looked up as she entered, his blind eye milky, his good eye sharp.
"Elias," he said. "You're alive."
"For now," she said, laying Kael on a pile of old blankets. "He's dying. I need your help."
Renn didn't move. "Who is he?"
"A boy. His name is Kael. His sister's dead. He ate her echo‑shard to survive."
Renn was silent for a long time. Then he said, "I've seen that look before. In the eyes of the first Fracturists. That boy… he's not just broken. He's a fracture."
Elias looked at Kael. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his face twisted in pain, but his expression was calm, almost peaceful.
"He's just a child," she said.
Renn shook his head. "No. He's something else. And if you keep him, Elias… he'll destroy you."
Elias didn't answer. She just took out her tools and began to work.
Because in that moment, she didn't care about warnings, about fate, about the future.
She only cared about the boy in the rubble.
And she would not let him die.