The light outside the attic window thinned as another day ran itself out, and no human bothered to look up.
Far above in the sky, fragments of debris drifted in silence, briefly catching the last of the light. Evening patrols were already on the move, the sound of boots against stone carrying through the narrow streets.
The boy watched through the narrow gaps between the rough wooden bars of the attic window.
He sat with his knees drawn in, thin frame folded into the space the attic allowed. Dark hair, grown longer than it should have been, slipped loose from the tie at the back of his head and fell across his black eyes. He didn't brush it away. The shadow suited him.
He rested one hand against the wood, his fingers were long, fitting easily between the bars. The gaps were wide enough to see through. When the floor creaked under his heel, he shifted his weight back and went still.
Outside, the light thinned further.
He listened as the sound reached closer and began counting before the door opened.
One. Two. Three.
Boots reached him through the floorboards, the sound familiar enough that he stopped counting before they reached the door. The latch turned below.
His mother stepped inside without pause, boots off, bag set down. Her shoulders lowered a fraction once the door closed, and she didn't look up.
From the kitchen came the dull sound of vegetables striking iron and boiling water. His father was already there.
The smell followed a moment later. Cooked roots. Bitter. His nose twitched before he realized it had. He didn't like it. They had eaten the same thing two days ago. He remembered because it had burned then, and today it hadn't.
No one called his name yet so he continued observing the street.
Outside, two patrolmen slowed at the corner. The same pair as yesterday, pausing longer this time, ten seconds longer, before moving on again. He watched without shifting. A siren sounded somewhere beyond the Shrouded district and cut off before it finished rising.
The main room shifted as his mother moved into the kitchen.
The iron pan was already warming. His father stood there, shoulders squared toward the stove, dark hair falling into his eyes as he worked.
She lowered her voice.
"Did it happen?"
The words carried easily through the floorboards.
His father didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on the movement in the boiling water.
"No," he said finally. "Not yet."
A pause followed. Longer than necessary.
"He's eleven," his mother said.
"I know." Strain crept into his voice, something tight beneath the calm. "Some cores take longer. You've seen it."
"And some never fill," she replied.
In the attic, he sat still, listening. They whispered as if distance mattered. As if the floorboards had ever stopped sound from reaching him.
"He's special," his father said, his thoughts drifting to the boy's earliest days, things they had never spoken about, moments that had stayed between the couple and no one else.
"Twelve months," his mother said quietly as she began setting out the utensils. "A long pregnancy doesn't make someone special."
"You know I'm not talking about that." His father reached out, his hand closing around her shoulder. They held each other's gaze, something unspoken passing between them.
"High-grade cores take time," He said at last.
"They do," she agreed too quickly, hoping to cling to the words.
Silence settled again, heavier than before.
"I've planned something," his father said. "I'll talk to Garron."
Her eyes narrowed. "But—"
"That's the only way," he cut in, low and firm.
She stared at him for a moment and nodded in understanding.
Above them, that name caused a dull ache to rise behind the boy's eyes but he remained still, listening as he always did.
A moment later, his mother raised her voice just enough.
"Ivor."
He waited a breath longer, then climbed down.
The table was already set. His father divided the food evenly, then hesitated before nudging a little more toward the boy's bowl. His mother passed him a cup of water, her fingers brushing his wrist as she did.
"Eat," she said. "While it's warm."
He nodded and did.
They didn't speak as he ate, but he could feel their attention on him, threaded with worry they didn't name.
His father finished first and leaned back slightly, studying him.
"You don't need to come with me tonight," he said, keeping his voice light. "I'll be late. Thought you could stay in and practice instead."
Ivor paused with the cup near his mouth.
"Just tonight," his father added, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll be back before you know it."
Ivor took a small sip, then nodded without looking up.
His parents exchanged a glance, resolve flashing through their eyes.
His father stood and reached out, resting a hand briefly on the boy's shoulder before pulling on his uniform coat.
"Don't wait up," he said.
The door closed a moment later.
Ivor and his mother kept eating. The room felt quieter without his father moving through it.
Garron.
The name stayed with him.
His mother hadn't said much about certain people, but she didn't have to. Some names came with a look. A pause. A warning that never quite became words.
This was one of them. He knew of the deeds this man was known for.
Ivor lowered his spoon and stared into the bowl. Something tightened behind his eyes, sharp and familiar. A pressure that made his shoulders settle and his breathing slow, the way it did when his attention fixed on something he could not let go of.
He pushed the bowl forward slightly and stood. His chair made a soft sound against the floor.
"Ivor."
He paused with one foot already turned toward the ladder.
His mother looked up from the table. "Going to sleep?"
He waited a breath, then nodded.
"Don't stay up too late," she said.
He didn't respond.
The ladder creaked as he climbed back into the attic. Above, the space closed around him again, all wood and shadow, with only the narrow window facing the street.
Ivor lay down on the thin mattress and stared at the roof.
He tried to slow his breathing.
The pressure behind his eyes tightened instead.
His jaw clenched. He shut his eyes and held his breath.
It didn't ease.
He exhaled, rolled onto his side, and listened to his heartbeat. That did work sometimes.
It didn't help.
He sat up and moved slowly to the corner of the attic and looked up. One board on the roof didn't sit right. He made sure of that. He pressed against it, and it shifted free.
Cold night air spilled in.
There was just enough space for a lean body to slip through. He pulled himself up and onto the roof, keeping low as he moved.
The wooden houses below lay quiet.
As he turned toward the east, toward the direction his father had gone, the pressure eased slightly.