The rain in Oakhaven didn't just fall; it punished. It clung to the skin like a debt that could never be repaid, smelling of wet wool, chimney soot, and the briny rot of the Lower Docks.
Elian sat tucked into the lee of a stack of rotting fish crates, his knees pulled tight against his chest. His stomach was no longer just hungry; it had become a hollow pit of fire, a silent scream that echoed with every shallow breath.
It had been three days since he had closed the door on his father's curses. Three days since he had traded a roof for the open sky, only to find the sky was made of lead and cold water.
"You look like you're waiting for the cobbles to open up and swallow you, kid.
Word of advice? They won't. They're just as stubborn and cold as the men who laid them."
Elian didn't look up. He knew the voice. It belonged to Jax, a boy perhaps three years older, wearing a coat made of more patches and grease than original fabric.
Jax was the leader of the 'Dock Rats'—a dozen children who lived like ghosts in the hollowed-out belly of an abandoned warehouse.
Jax sat down on a damp crate across from Elian, casually tossing a small, shriveled apple between his hands. The rhythmic thwack of the fruit hitting his palm was the only sound against the steady drum of the rain. He didn't offer the apple, Not yet.
"I've seen you around the Weaver's District," Jax said, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone who spent his nights dodging the city watch. "They called you the 'Little Saint.'
Said you could take a man's broken bones and make 'em whole just by holding his hand. So why are you out here shivering in the mud with the rest of us 'sinners'?"
Elian pulled his knees closer, his voice a raspy whisper that barely carried in the wind. "The Saint died. His father sold him for silver, and the Silver Inquisition burned his church to make a point. There's nothing left of that house but ash. There's nothing left but the boy."
Jax stopped tossing the apple. He leaned in, his sharp eyes searching Elian's sunken, shadowed face. "The boy looks hungry and in Oakhaven, hunger is the only thing that's honest. You want to eat? Or you want to keep waiting for the 'Light' to come save you? Because I've been out here a long time, Elian, and the Light never ventures south of the Merchant's Bridge."
"I'm done with the Light," Elian said, finally looking up. For a flickering second, his eyes flashed a dull, sickly violet—a spark of the Siphon reacting to his inner turmoil.
Jax grinned, though the expression lacked any real warmth.
"Good. Because the Light doesn't reach the Docks. Out here, we have the Grey. And in the Grey, we look out for our own. Come on. Stand up. Let's see if that 'gift' of yours is good for anything other than charity."
The Lesson of the Siphon
They moved through the city like shadows, weaving through alleys where the mud was ankle-deep until the cobblestones began to even out. They were approaching the 'Gilded Mile,' the heart of the trade district where the merchant lords stumbled out of taverns with purses heavy enough to feed a Dock Rat for a lifetime.
"Look at that one," Jax whispered, pulling Elian behind a stone pillar. He pointed to a man in a deep velvet doublet, swaying on his feet as he exited a high-end alehouse.
"Master Torvin. He owns three of the largest textile mills in the city. He's currently drunk on wine that costs more than your life. Usually, we'd have to trip him, risk a beating from his guards, and hope he drops a few coins. But you… you can do it quiet, right?"
"I've never... I've only ever taken pain to help people," Elian murmured, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "To use it like this... it feels wrong."
Jax grabbed Elian's shoulder, his grip firm and grounding.
"Listen to me, Elian. Really listen. That man? He's the reason your mother has the Grey Lung; his mills don't use filters because they cost too much. He's the reason my sister died of a simple fever because we couldn't afford a 'Saint's' price or a doctor's visit. You aren't hurting him. You're just… redistributing the burden. You take his balance, his awareness. Just for a second we take the gold and everyone goes home.
It's a transaction, nothing more."
Elian looked at the merchant. He thought of his mother's rattling, wet cough. He thought of his father's heavy, greedy hand.
"What do I do?"
"Just touch his shadow if you have to, or a stray thread of his coat. Just a spark, Elian. Don't take his life. Just take his 'steadiness.' Give him the vertigo of a man falling off a cliff."
The First Theft
Elian stepped out into the rain, feeling like a ghost wandering amongst the living. As the merchant fumbled with a heavy brass key, Elian brushed past him, his fingers grazing the man's fine silk sleeve for a fraction of a second.
Siphon.
Elian didn't reach for a fever or a broken bone. He reached for the man's sense of "Up." Suddenly, a sickening rush of nausea climbed up Elian's own throat.
The world spun violently, and for a heartbeat, Elian felt as if the entire street had tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. He nearly fell himself, the stolen vertigo threatening to overwhelm him.
The merchant groaned, his knees buckling. He hit the cobblestones with a dull, heavy thud, his eyes rolling back as he grasped at the air, trying to find a floor that no longer felt flat.
Jax moved like a blur. In three seconds, the merchant's heavy leather purse was gone, disappeared into the folds of Jax's patched coat.
Minutes later, back in the safety of a dark alley, Jax handed Elian half of the shriveled apple. "You did it. Look at you. You're shaking, but you're alive. And you're about to be fed."
Elian leaned against the cold brick wall, clutching the fruit with trembling hands.
"It felt... different, Jax. When I helped people, the pain felt like it belonged to me. Like I was meant to hold it. This time... it felt like I was stealing a piece of his very soul."
Jax took a bite of his own fruit, leaning back against the wall with a sigh.
"That's because you were. Welcome to the real world, Elian. It's not a beautiful tapestry where everyone is woven together for a purpose. It's just a pile of loose threads. If you want a long one for yourself, you have to pull it from someone else's coat. That's the only way the math works."
"Does it ever get easier?" Elian asked, staring at his hands. "The feeling of... taking?"
Jax looked at the boy, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow of genuine regret crossed his hardened face. He reached out and ruffled Elian's damp hair.
"No," Jax said quietly. "But the hunger gets colder. And in Oakhaven, that's as close to a miracle as you're ever going to get. Don't let it get to your head, Saint. Tomorrow, we go for the Silver District. You think you can handle taking a guard's strength?"
Elian looked at the half-eaten apple, then back at the dark, rainy street. The boy who walked out of the Weaver's District was gone. The "Saint" was truly dead.
"I can handle it," Elian said, his voice becoming a little flatter, a little more like the stone he sat on. "As long as I never have to feel that man's hunger again."
The rain began to turn from a drizzle into a torrential downpour, the kind that drowned out even the screams of the gulls. Elian finished his half of the apple, the sweetness of the fruit leaving a bitter aftertaste of guilt in his throat.
The Shadow in the Grey
"We should move,"
Jax said, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. He stood up, scanning the mouth of the alley. "The Merchant's guards are stupid, but the City Watch is bored. Bored men are dangerous."
Elian stood, but as he did, his legs buckled. The vertigo he had siphoned from the merchant hadn't fully dissipated—it was rattling around inside him, looking for an exit.
"Jax... my hand. It's not stopping."
The violet glow wasn't just a spark anymore. It was a slow, rhythmic pulse, like a second heartbeat beneath his skin.
Jax grabbed Elian's wrist, but he recoiled instantly. "Gods, kid! You're ice cold. What did you do?"
"I don't know," Elian gasped, clutching his arm. "I took his balance... but I feel like I took something else. Something heavy."
The Uninvited Guest
Before Jax could respond, the far end of the alley erupted in white light. It wasn't the warm glow of a lantern; it was the harsh, artificial brilliance of Aether-glass.
A silhouette stood framed in the light. He wasn't a guard. He wore a long, silver-trimmed duster and a wide-brimmed hat that shielded his face from the rain. On his chest sat a familiar, terrifying sigil: a sun being pierced by a needle.
The Silver Inquisition.
"The merchant reported a very specific sensation,
" the man said, his voice smooth and cold, like a blade being drawn over silk. "A sudden loss of self. A void where his senses should be. There's only one thing in this district that can leave a man feeling like a hollow shell."
Jax reached for the rusted shiv at his belt, but Elian caught his arm. "No," Elian whispered. "They aren't here for the gold, Jax. They're here for the Saint."
The Boiling Point
The Inquisitor stepped forward, the water sizzling as it hit his heated Aether-cloak.
"Elian Thorne. You were supposed to die in the fire at the Weaver's District. It seems you've been busy playing in the mud."
"He's just a kid," Jax spat, stepping in front of Elian. "He doesn't know what you're talking about."
The Inquisitor didn't even look at Jax. He merely flicked his wrist, and a wave of pure force sent Jax flying backward into a pile of crates. Jax hit the wood with a sickening thud and didn't move.
"Jax!" Elian screamed. He ran to his friend, but the Inquisitor was faster. A gloved hand gripped Elian's throat, lifting him off the ground.
"You are a deviation, Elian. A leak in the world's vessel," the Inquisitor hissed. "But the High Father thinks a Siphon who can take without touching skin is too valuable to simply execute. You're coming with me to the Citadel."
Elian's vision began to fade. The violet pulse in his hand grew frantic. He looked at Jax's limp body, then at the man who had burned his home. For the first time, Elian didn't feel the need to heal. He didn't feel the weight of the debt.
He felt a black, bottomless hunger.
"I'm not going back to a cage," Elian choked out.
His fingers found the Inquisitor's bare wrist. He didn't just pull the man's balance. He reached deeper. He reached for the very heat in the man's blood, the very breath in his lungs.
The Inquisitor's eyes widened. For a split second, the hunter became the prey. A scream started in the man's throat, but it died as his lungs collapsed inward.
The alley went silent. The Aether-glass light flickered and died, plunging them back into the dark. Elian dropped to the mud, gasping, as the Inquisitor collapsed like a suit of empty armor beside him.
Elian looked at his hands. They weren't just glowing anymore. They were stained with a dark, swirling energy that refused to fade.
"Jax?" Elian called out, his voice trembling.
Jax groaned, stirring in the wreckage of the crates. He looked at the dead Inquisitor, then back at Elian with an expression that wasn't just fear—it was horror.
"Elian..." Jax whispered, backing away. "What did you just do?"
Elian didn't answer. He couldn't. He realized that in his desperation to survive, he hadn't just used the Siphon. He had tasted something he was never supposed to touch.
He had siphoned a soul.
The silence that followed the Inquisitor's collapse was heavier than the rain. It was a vacuum, a hollow space where the sound of the world seemed to have been swallowed along with the man's life.
Elian knelt in the mud, his chest heaving. His skin was no longer cold; it was burning. The "soul" he had siphoned wasn't a liquid or a gas—it felt like jagged lightning trapped behind his ribs, an oily, frantic energy that made his vision pulse in time with a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"Elian?" Jax's voice was a brittle thread.
Elian turned. His eyes hadn't returned to their normal brown. They were rimmed with a terrifying, luminescent violet that seemed to bleed into the whites.
Jax was backed against the wall, his hands raised as if to ward off a ghost. "His face... look at his face, kid."
Elian looked down. The Inquisitor didn't look like a man who had simply stopped breathing. He looked like an old piece of fruit left in the sun for a month. His skin was translucent and grey, pulled tight over bone. The light of the Aether-glass hadn't just gone out; it felt as though the very color had been drained from his clothes.
"I didn't mean to," Elian whispered, but the words felt hollow. Even as he said them, a part of him—the part that had been starving for three days—felt satisfied. The fire in his stomach was gone, replaced by a cold, predatory fullness.
The Breaking of the Pack
Jax stepped forward, his boots squelching in the muck, but he stopped a good five feet away. "We have to go. Now. If they find an Inquisitor like this... they won't just burn the district. They'll salt the earth."
"I can't move, Jax," Elian gasped, clutching his stomach. "It's too much. I can feel him. I can feel his... his memories. He had a daughter. He liked the smell of cinnamon. It's all... it's all rattling around in my head."
Jax's face hardened. The pity that had been there for the "Little Saint" was being rapidly replaced by the survival instinct of a Dock Rat.
"Listen to me," Jax said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent command. "That man isn't a person anymore. He's a corpse, and you're the one who killed him. You wanted to know if it gets easier to take? You just took the biggest thing there is. You took a life. You can't stay with the Rats, Elian."
Elian looked up, his violet eyes wide with betrayal. "You're casting me out? After what you said about the Grey? About looking out for our own?"
Jax flinched, but he didn't back down. "Looking out for our own means making sure the other twelve kids in that warehouse don't get executed because I brought a soul-eater home! Look at your hands, Elian! You're still glowing!"
Elian looked down. The dark energy was swirling around his fingertips like ink in water.
"I did it for you!" Elian shouted, the sound echoing off the narrow alley walls. "He was going to kill you, Jax! He called me a 'leak in the world.' I saved us!"
"And I'm grateful!" Jax yelled back, tears finally mixing with the rain on his cheeks. "I'm grateful, and I'm terrified! I told you to be the knife, kid. But a knife doesn't enjoy the blood. When you touched him... you didn't look like you were defending yourself. You looked like you were feeding."
The Parting of Ways
The sound of whistles began to shrill in the distance—the City Watch, alerted by the dying scream of the Aether-glass.
Jax reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy purse of gold they had stolen from the merchant. He tossed it into the mud at Elian's feet.
"Take it," Jax said, his voice trembling. "Take it and get out of Oakhaven. Go to the Black Isles, or the mountains. Anywhere the Inquisition can't find a boy with violet eyes."
"Jax, please..."
"No," Jax said, backing away toward the mouth of the alley. "I loved the Saint, Elian. I really did. But the Saint died in the Weaver's District. And whatever just stood up in this mud... it isn't my friend."
Jax turned and ran, his patched coat disappearing into the grey curtain of the rain.
Elian stood alone in the dark. He looked at the gold, then at the withered husk of the man he had killed. He felt a sudden, violent surge of the Inquisitor's stolen power—a flash of light in his mind that showed him the path out of the city, through the sewers and past the gates.
He reached down and picked up the gold. His touch left a charred, blackened mark on the leather of the purse.
The Birth of the Shadow
As he turned to leave, he caught his reflection in a puddle of rainwater. The boy he saw was gone. His features had sharpened; his gaze was no longer that of a victim, but of a predator who had finally realized the world was made of prey.
"You were wrong, Jax," Elian whispered to the empty alley. "A knife doesn't enjoy the blood. But the man holding it? He finally stops feeling the pain."
He didn't run. He walked. Each step felt heavier, more certain. He wasn't a healer anymore. He wasn't a thief.
In the distance, more lanterns flickered. More Inquisitors were coming. They were looking for a boy.
They wouldn't find one. They would find a void that was beginning to learn how to grow.