No Path Chosen

Leon didn't wait.

The moment the vendor and the masked figure turned the corner, deeper into the valley, he moved. Quiet steps, careful breaths. He stuck to the wall, motioning Lucian to follow with a flick of his fingers.

Lucian hissed under his breath, "You're serious about this?"

"I want to know who they are," Leon whispered. "And why that vendor's with them."

Lucian sighed, already knowing he couldn't stop him. "Then I'm coming too."

They crept deeper into the narrowing passage. The stone walls around them grew older, vines threading cracks, old carvings eroded by time. The city's heartbeat faded behind them, replaced by distant wind and the scuff of their own shoes.

Back near the alley's mouth—

Silas and Harry arrived just as the breeze shifted. The bench was empty.

Silas's eyes scanned quickly, then landed on the narrow alley.

"They're gone."

Harry nodded, uneasy. "They went that way. Leon chased after that cloaked guy… Lucian followed."

Silas crouched and placed a hand on the cobblestone. "This is bad. Too fast. Too careless."

He turned to Harry. "Go back to the orphanage. Tell Eva not to let anyone else out. Lock the door. Got it?"

"But—"

"No buts. This might get dangerous."

Harry clenched his fists, hesitated, then turned and ran.

Alone now, Silas dropped to a knee. His eyes flicked to the shadows—and whistled.

A soft rustle answered. A small rat emerged from a drainpipe nearby, its whiskers twitching.

Silas spoke low. "Two boys. One tall, brown hair. Other sharper eyes, quick feet. Seen them?"

The rat twitched, then turned and pointed with its nose—deeper into the narrow valley.

"Thanks," Silas muttered.

He stood. His form shimmered—feathers bursting outward, bones reshaping. A raven took flight, silent and sharp, wings slicing through the air toward where the boys had gone.

And far below, in the old paths of the city no one bothered to map anymore, two boys were about to learn exactly what kind of people wear owl masks.

Leon and Lucian crept farther into the maze of stone and shadow. The air grew heavier, colder. The echo of their own footsteps began to fade beneath a stillness that didn't feel natural.

Then—they lost them.

Gone. No footsteps. No voices. The two figures had vanished.

Leon turned in a slow circle. "Where did they—"

A voice spoke behind them.

"You're not supposed to be here."

They spun.

The vendor stood only a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets. His face was calm, but his eyes carried something colder.

Leon tensed. "How did you—?"

"You're being targeted," the vendor interrupted, voice low but clear. "Because of what you did two days ago. Those people? They're not the kind to forgive and forget."

Lucian's hand drifted near the hilt of the knife tucked under his belt. "Are you one of them?"

Leon stepped forward, jaw clenched. "Are you with them? Are you part of the bad guys?"

The man let out a dry chuckle. "Bad guy? What a childish word. You're still kids. You don't know how the world works." He took a step closer. "Yes. I'm with them. You may address me as Velocity. And since you've been such loyal customers, I'm giving you one favor. A warning."

Leon's breath caught.

Velocity continued, tone even. "Go home. Stay away from Gloryrail. They don't know where you're from—yet. I haven't told them. But we saw you trailing us."

His gaze sharpened. "You keep this up, you're going to die. I heard the rumors—you're Fireborn. That's cute. But there are powers out here that'll snuff you out before you even flare."

Neither of them spoke. The alley felt smaller. Colder.

"Hide your talent," Velocity said. "Forget this. Don't come back."

Lucian placed a trembling hand on Leon's shoulder. "We have to go."

Leon nodded slowly, still processing.

But just as they turned to leave, a low rumble reached their ears.

Wheels. Hooves.

A caravan approached from the far bend, its lanterns flickering between iron bars and canvas.

Velocity's hand reached into his coat and pulled out a porcelain owl mask. He slid it over his face without a word.

Then, urgent now, he hissed, "Quick—hide."

They ducked behind the collapsed stone archway just as the first caravan came to a stop. The creaking of wheels quieted. Lanterns flickered like distant fires trapped behind glass.

From the lead wagon, a woman stepped down.

Her boots landed softly, yet something about her presence made the air feel heavier. She wore a tailored coat—black as ink, edges trimmed with deep crimson. A high collar framed her face, though most of it was hidden behind a lace-veiled mask. Her stride was deliberate, almost graceful, like someone used to walking through rooms full of knives.

One of the masked figures bowed low. "Vice-Stringer. Gloryrail is secured."

Lucian's breath caught. Vice-Stringer? That wasn't just a code name. That was a rank.

More owl-masked operatives began unloading crates from the wagons. One of them dripped. Red. The scent of iron reached even the boys' hiding place.

Lucian whispered, barely audible, "We shouldn't be seeing this."

Leon said nothing. He couldn't.

Then—another sound. Wheels again. Hooves. A second caravan.

It rumbled in from the opposite direction and stopped with a sharp snap of reins. The door swung open—and a man was dragged out.

Chains clinked as they yanked against his neck.

He stumbled to the ground. Blood smeared his cheek. His coat—torn and dark with sweat. One eye swollen shut. A limp in his leg. But even broken, Leon recognized him.

"Bluebreaker," he whispered.

Lucian's head turned, eyes wide.

It was him. The man they'd fought before. Larger-than-life then. Reduced to this now.

Bluebreaker coughed. "What about… my daughter?" he rasped. "Is she safe?"

The veiled woman looked down at him like he was a smudge on her boot. "For now," she said. "But if you embarrass us again… both of you will be corpses in the gutter."

Leon's jaw tightened. Lucian barely breathed.

The woman flicked her fingers. A masked man stepped forward and unlatched the chain from Bluebreaker's neck.

She held out a mask.

"Last chance," she said flatly. "There won't be another."

Bluebreaker took the mask with shaking hands. Didn't speak. Didn't look up. Just nodded—slowly—and pulled the porcelain over his face.

The moment it settled, he seemed to shrink even more. A former brawler now just another ghost behind glass eyes.

He picked up the blood-dripping crate like it was nothing and walked—away from the light, deeper into Gloryrail's unmapped veins.

The woman turned without another word and pushed open the door of a crooked tavern tucked between the stonework.

From the outside, the tavern looked almost regal—an old concert hall disguised in shadows. Arched windows lined its facade, their glass tinted like aged amber. Intricate carvings ran along the eaves: swirling patterns that resembled treble clefs, harp strings, and quiet crescendos frozen in wood. A grand iron sign swung above the door, its lettering clean but understated:

The Resting Note.

Elegant. Quiet. Too quiet.

Velvet drapes hid the view inside, and lanterns hung in wrought-iron sconces, casting a warm, welcoming glow that didn't quite reach the cracks in the alley around it.

But the moment the doors opened, the illusion fell.

Inside, the tavern's charm soured.

The oil-lamps flickered with a dull golden light, illuminating warped floorboards that tilted just enough to keep you uneasy. The tables were finely made—but chipped and stained, their lacquer dulled by time and conflict. Brass instruments hung from the walls like trophies, some dented, others broken, as if silenced mid-performance. A worn piano rested in one corner, its keys yellowed and cracked—its lid shut like a coffin.

Behind the bar, four blades were mounted in a precise line above an aged cello case. The swords were rusted, their hilts mismatched. Rumor had it each belonged to a man who once tried to expose the Silent Chord… and failed.

In here, music no longer played.

But silence? Silence echoed.

The woman disappeared into the tavern.

Velocity followed, silent and close, blending in like he'd always belonged there.

But the moment felt wrong. Too calm.

Then—the third caravan arrived.

One of the wagons was smaller. Guarded tighter. From its rear, two men stepped down, dragging something between them.

A child.

Small. Unmoving. A cloth bag covered his head.

Leon leaned forward—and his heart stopped.

That messy brown hair.

That familiar frame.

Harry.

His voice almost broke from his throat, but Lucian grabbed him—hard—clamping one hand over his mouth and yanking him back behind the stone.

Leon struggled, eyes wide with panic, fists pounding lightly against Lucian's chest.

"Stop," Lucian hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't be stupid."

Leon's body trembled, but Lucian held him firm.

"Look at them," he whispered. "Look how many there are. You heard what Velocity said. There are people here that could end you before you blink. We need Silas. Now."

Leon's breaths were sharp and hot against Lucian's palm.

Finally, after a tense second… he stopped resisting.

Lucian let go.

Leon didn't speak. Just nodded once, fury and fear mixing behind his eyes.

Leon and Lucian remained crouched in silence as the final wagon door slammed shut.

One by one, the masked figures dispersed—melting into alleys, ducking through doors, or vanishing into hidden stairwells. Bluebreaker, now just another pawn, carried the bloodied crate deeper into Gloryrail. The veiled woman disappeared inside The Resting Note, Velocity following like a loyal shadow.

But not everyone left.

One man stayed behind, standing at the center of the street.

His mask was shaped like a wolf—sleek and angular, dark silver etched with jagged black lines.

He knelt and placed one hand on the ground.

The stone under his palm rippled.

"Zone Distort."

The word left his lips like a trigger.

The ground trembled.

Walls groaned. Windows folded inward. Entire buildings shifted—not crumbling, not collapsing, but rearranging. Brick by brick, timber by beam, the street reconstructed itself, reshaping with the silent logic of a puzzle reorganizing mid-solution.

The tavern vanished behind a wall that hadn't been there seconds before. The alleyway twisted. The sky overhead blurred, its color darkening like dusk had been pulled forward.

A thick, seamless wall now stood between the boys and everything they'd just witnessed.

Lucian turned in place, eyes wide. "What just—"

Behind them, the way they came was gone too.

Stone corridors had rerouted. Landmarks erased. The city itself no longer made sense.

Leon stepped back. "They changed the layout."

Lucian whispered, "We're trapped."

A tense pause.

Then—

Footsteps.

Not echoing. Not rushing.

Just one pair. Close. Deliberate.

A presence formed behind them.

Before either of them could move, hands reached out—

And grabbed them both..