Echo of Aeloria

The rain was merciless. It poured in sheets, slamming against rooftops, hammering the cobblestone streets like war drums. Lightning tore jagged scars across the sky, illuminating the darkened alleys of Varos—a city that fed on the desperate and spat out the broken. The air smelled of wet stone and decay, a metallic tang lingering from the nearby foundries that never slept. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, its mournful clang swallowed by the storm.

A woman ran. Hard.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one a knife in her chest. Her soaked cloak clung to her skin, heavy with rain and the weight of her fear. She pressed the bundle in her arms tighter against her chest, shielding it from the storm. The baby whimpered, a soft, fragile sound that cut through the roar of the rain.

"Shh, little one," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Just a little longer."

Behind her—boots thundered against stone.

The city guards were closing in. Fast.

"She went this way!"

"Don't let her escape! The Magistrate wants her alive!"

Alive.

The word echoed in her mind, cold and sharp. She knew what that meant. Interrogation. Torture. A slow, quiet death in some forgotten cell beneath the city. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at her belt, its weight a small comfort. She wouldn't let them take her. Not while she still had breath in her body.

Her lungs burned as she pushed forward, feet splashing through filthy puddles that reeked of rot and waste. The streets of the lower quarter were a maze of rotting wood, crumbling stone, and the stench of piss. Shadows stretched and twisted under the flickering gas lamps, their orange glow barely piercing the gloom. Every corner looked the same, every alley a dead end waiting to trap her.

She turned sharply into an alley—too fast.

Her foot caught on a loose cobblestone.

She staggered—almost fell.

Pain shot up her ribs as she slammed against a stone pillar, the impact driving the air from her lungs. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste sharp on her tongue. No time. No time.

She ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, pressing herself against the wet stone. She dared not breathe.

The baby stirred in her arms. A soft coo.

Her stomach twisted.

Not now. Please, not now.

Torchlight flickered at the alley mouth. A shadow moved.

A guard.

His sword gleamed, water dripping from the steel. The torch in his other hand crackled and hissed in the rain, its light dancing across the slick walls. He took a step forward, his boots squelching in the mud.

She clenched her jaw. If he found her, she'd have to kill him.

Could she do it?

Her fingers twitched toward the dagger at her belt.

Another step. Closer.

The baby shifted. A tiny hand peeked from the folds of cloth.

Please, gods, don't cry.

The guard stopped. His helmet turned slightly—listening.

Then—

A scream.

Not hers.

A real, wet, choking scream from somewhere deeper in the city.

The guard froze. Another scream followed—then a sickening crunch.

Something heavy hit the ground.

The guard turned sharply toward the noise, his grip tightening on his sword.

Another crunch.

A squelch.

Silence.

The guard hesitated—then cursed under his breath. He turned and sprinted away toward the sound.

She didn't wait.

Didn't question what had just saved her.

She ran.

The woman's lungs burned with each desperate breath. Her legs trembled beneath her, muscles screaming for mercy, but she pushed on. The streets of Varos seemed endless, a cruel labyrinth designed to trap her. But she knew where she needed to go. She'd overheard the whispers—talk of a place for the forgotten, the unwanted. A sanctuary of sorts, though even that word felt like a bitter lie in a city like this.

Rain pelted her face, blurring her vision as she emerged from the winding alleys onto a wider street. Buildings loomed like sentinels on either side, their windows dark and unforgiving. Some bore the telltale blue flame of houses under the Magistrate's protection. She avoided those, sticking to the shadows, becoming one with the darkness.

The baby squirmed against her chest, hungry or cold or both. Its tiny fingers curled against the wet fabric of her dress. Seven months of life, and already running for it. The thought twisted in her gut like a knife. This wasn't what she'd wanted. None of this was what she'd planned when she'd first felt that flutter of life inside her. But plans meant nothing in Varos. The city took what it wanted and left you hollow.

She turned down another street, this one darker and narrower than the last. The cobblestones grew more uneven, the buildings more decrepit. The lower quarter. Where the city's unwashed masses huddled together against the cold and the damp and the indifference of those who dwelled above them in the upper rings.

And then she saw it.

The House of the Unwanted loomed ahead—a hulking, crumbling structure of blackened stone and rusted iron gates. The storm blurred its shape, but the plaque above the entrance remained visible, its letters worn but legible: *"Sanctuary for the Forgotten."* The irony wasn't lost on her. Sanctuary. A bitter laugh threatened to escape her throat, but she swallowed it. There was no time for bitterness. Only survival.

She paused at the foot of the steps, rain streaming down her face, mingling with tears she hadn't realized she was shedding. The woven basket she'd carried strapped to her back now felt heavier than ever as she carefully lowered it and placed the baby inside. She'd lined it with the softest cloth she could find—stolen from a merchant's cart when no one was looking. It wasn't much, but it was something.

A small pendant hung around the baby's neck—a simple metal disk engraved with a pattern too complex for ordinary eyes to understand. She touched it once, briefly, her fingers lingering on the cold metal. Then she reached for the iron bell rope. Her fingers trembled, numb from the cold and the fear. The rope was slick with rain, and the bell's clang was dull, swallowed by the storm. She waited, her heart pounding in her ears.

The door creaked open.

A woman stood there, wrapped in a tattered shawl. Her face was weathered by years of disappointment, her eyes hollow and tired. They drifted downward, landing on the bundle in the basket.

She stared at the baby.

Her mouth twisted in a sneer.

"Another one."

A deep voice rumbled from inside. "Who the hell leaves a child in a storm?"

A man appeared—Edward. Broad shoulders, thick hands, a face carved from stone. His breath reeked of cheap ale and bad choices. He grunted, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

"Take it inside."

The woman hesitated, her gaze lingering on the baby. For a moment, her expression softened, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She reached out, her hands calloused and rough, and took the basket.

The baby stirred, tiny fingers curling at nothing.

For a brief second—just a second—the mother's lips parted. Like she wanted to say something. To explain. To beg for forgiveness. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the weight of what she was doing.

Then she turned and ran.

She didn't look back. Couldn't bear to. The pounding of her heart drowned out everything—the rain, the distant thunder, the sound of her own ragged breathing. She ran until her legs gave out, until she collapsed in a forgotten alley, her body heaving with silent sobs.

It was done. The child was safe. Safer than with her, at least. The Magistrate wouldn't look for an abandoned orphan. They wouldn't see the threat in those innocent eyes. Not yet.

As dawn broke over Varos, painting the rain-slick streets in pale gold, the woman was gone. Whether she had fled the city or met a darker fate, no one would know. No one would care. In Varos, people disappeared every day.

And life in the House of the Unwanted continued.

The years passed like shadows—quick and dark and gone before you could grasp them. The House of the Unwanted remained, unchanging in its decrepitude, a monument to the city's indifference. Children came and went. Some were claimed by relatives who suddenly found room in their hearts. Others were taken by the factories when their hands were deemed steady enough for work. A few simply vanished in the night, whisked away to fates unknown and unspoken.

But some remained.

Seven winters came and went. Seven summers of heat that clung to the skin like oil. Seven years of barely enough—barely enough food, barely enough warmth, barely enough space to breathe. But for those who had nothing, barely enough was something.

The attic was small, cold, and smelled of rust. The wooden beams creaked with every gust of wind, and the candlelight cast long, trembling shadows. Nimara hunched over her worktable, hands stained with oil. The flickering light danced across her face, highlighting the determination in her eyes.

Clink. Twist. Adjust.

She grinned as the tiny automaton twitched to life.

"Alright, Beeps—try not to die on me again."

The mechanical spider whirred, its small, glowing eyes flickering. It looked up at her, almost expectantly.

Nimara was no longer the infant left on the doorstep in a storm. Seven years had turned her into a girl of sharp edges and sharper mind. Her dark hair hung in perpetual tangles around a face that had never known softness. Her fingers, thin and nimble, were always stained with grease or ink or whatever materials she'd managed to scavenge that day. She wore the same clothes as all the others—threadbare and patched, handed down so many times that the original color was just a memory. But around her neck hung a small metal pendant, its complex pattern gleaming even in the dim light.

The attic had become her sanctuary. While the other children fought over toys or space or the meager attentions of the caretakers, Nimara sought refuge among the forgotten things. Old clockworks. Discarded mechanical parts. Bits of wire and metal that no one else saw value in. From these scraps, she built her treasures. Small, clever things that moved and whirred and sometimes even seemed to think.

Like Beeps. Her latest creation. A mechanical spider no bigger than her palm, constructed from the innards of a broken pocket watch and the springs from a discarded door lock. It wasn't much, but it was hers. It was—

A hand snatched it away.

"What the hell—!" Nimara spun, heart slamming into her ribs.

A boy grinned at her, tossing Beeps between his fingers. His teeth were sharp in the candlelight.

"Still wasting time with your little junk piles, Nimara?"

Ryke. Fifteen years old and mean with it. The oldest of the orphans still at the House, and he made sure everyone knew it. He'd arrived three years ago, already hardened by whatever life he'd led before. Rumors whispered that he'd been caught stealing from a Magistrate's carriage. That his parents had sold him for a bottle of gin. That he'd killed a man. Nimara didn't know which, if any, were true. She only knew that Ryke enjoyed breaking things. Especially things that others cared about.

"Give it back, Ryke."

He smirked. "Nah."

The other kids laughed, their voices echoing in the cramped space. They stood behind Ryke like shadows—not friends, exactly, but followers. Afraid to cross him. Afraid to be his next target.

Jace stepped forward, quiet and controlled, but his fists were clenched. At nine, he was taller than most, with a steady gaze that unsettled adults and children alike. He and Nimara had formed an alliance early—the quiet boy and the girl who built things. They watched each other's backs. Shared their meager findings. Survived.

"Give it back."

Ryke's grin widened. "Or what?"

A blur of motion.

Jace slammed his fist into Ryke's face.

The laughter died.

Ryke staggered back, cursing. Blood dripped from his nose. His expression twisted—a mix of rage and disbelief.

"You little shit."

He lunged.

The attic erupted into chaos.

Fists, curses, boots slamming against wood. Nimara shoved herself backward as Ryke tackled Jace, fists flying.

Jace took a hit to the jaw, but he didn't go down.

Instead, he grinned—spat blood—and hit back harder.

The other children backed away, forming a rough circle around the fight. Some cheered. Others watched in silent fear. And in the corner, barely visible in the shadows, Fearyn and Darian huddled together. Fearyn's eyes wide with a terror that seemed out of proportion to the scene. Darian's hand on her arm, steadying.

Fearyn had been at the House longer than any of them—abandoned as an infant like Nimara. Quiet, bookish, with eyes a strange shade of violet that earned her whispers and sideways glances from the caretakers. Darian had arrived just last year, a small, serious boy who spoke little but observed everything.

Now Fearyn moved forward, her thin frame trembling. "Stop it," she whispered. No one heard.

Ryke had Jace pinned now, a knee on his chest, fist raised for another blow.

"Stop it!" Fearyn's voice stronger now, but still lost in the chaos.

The air shifted.

A crackling hum.

Nimara turned. Fearyn stood still. Hands raised. Her violet eyes burning.

The dust stirred. A wind—but not a normal one.

The shadows twisted.

The air hummed with something ancient.

The fight stopped.

Ryke stared at Fearyn, chest heaving.

"What the fuck—"

A pulse of energy.

Ryke flew backward, slamming into the wall.

Silence.

Beeps scurried back to Nimara, mechanical legs clicking frantically across the wooden floor.

Fearyn lowered her hands, breathing hard. Her fingers trembled. Like she wasn't sure what had just happened.

"I—I didn't—" she stammered, looking at her own hands as if they belonged to someone else.

Jace wiped blood from his lip. Grinned.

"That was new."

The room remained frozen. No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the distant rumble of thunder—another storm rolling in from the sea. Appropriate, Nimara thought. It had all started with a storm. Perhaps it would all end with one too.

Ryke pushed himself up from the floor, his movements slow and careful. There was fear in his eyes now—real fear, not the practiced intimidation he usually wore like armor. He looked at Fearyn like she was something dangerous. Something other.

"You're one of them," he whispered. "A witch."

Fearyn shook her head, backing away until she bumped into Darian. "No. I don't—I'm not—"

But Ryke was already moving toward the attic door, his gaze never leaving Fearyn. "The Magistrate pays for information about witches. Did you know that? Pays well."

The threat hung in the air between them.

Jace stepped forward, placing himself between Ryke and Fearyn. "You say a word to anyone, and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Ryke's confidence was returning, the fear replaced by calculation. "Beat me up? While I'm telling the guards about your witch friend? They'll take her, you know. Like they took my sister. And she never came back."

Something shifted in Ryke's expression then—a flash of old pain quickly buried. He backed toward the door, eyes darting between them.

"Just keep her away from me," he muttered. Then he was gone, the attic door slamming behind him.

The remaining children dispersed quickly after that, murmuring among themselves, casting nervous glances at Fearyn. Within minutes, only the four remained—Nimara, Jace, Fearyn, and Darian.

Fearyn sank to the floor, her face in her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know what happened. I just—I couldn't watch him hurt Jace anymore."

Darian knelt beside her, his dark eyes serious. "It's okay. We won't let anything happen to you."

Jace nodded, though his expression was troubled. "Ryke's all talk. He won't go to the Magistrate."

But Nimara wasn't so sure. She'd seen the look in Ryke's eyes. The calculation. The hurt. People did desperate things when they were hurting.

She clutched Beeps closer, feeling the soft whirr of its mechanical heart against her palm. "We should sleep," she said finally. "It's late."

They made their way silently back to the dormitory, where narrow cots lined the walls like graves. The caretakers were already asleep—or pretending to be. They rarely intervened in the children's disputes unless blood was spilled on the good carpets.

Nimara lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, listening to the rain against the window and the soft, even breathing of her friends. She thought about Fearyn's power—how the air had bent to her will. About Ryke's fear and anger. About the pendant around her own neck, its pattern complex and unreadable.

Something was changing. She could feel it in the air, like the electric charge before lightning strikes.

When sleep finally came, she dreamed of a woman running through rain-slick streets, clutching a bundle close to her chest.

Ryke was gone before the morning bell rang.

His bed was empty. His blanket folded neatly.

No one saw him leave. No one asked where he went.

But the message was clear.

Nimara, Jace, Fearyn, and Darian sat together at breakfast. No words were spoken, but they all knew.

They had won.

For now.

Because something told Nimara this wasn't the end.

The dining hall was unusually quiet that morning. Word of the previous night's events had spread through the House like wildfire, carried in whispers and meaningful glances. The other children gave their table a wide berth, as if Fearyn's strangeness might be contagious. Even the caretakers seemed on edge, their eyes lingering on the four children longer than usual.

Edward stood at the head of the room, his massive frame blocking the weak morning light from the windows. He surveyed the children with the disinterested gaze of a farmer counting livestock. When his eyes fell on Ryke's empty seat, his brow furrowed slightly, but he made no comment. Children disappeared from the House all the time. One more was hardly worth noting.

Nimara pushed the lumpy porridge around her bowl, her appetite gone. Beside her, Fearyn hadn't even touched her food. Her violet eyes were fixed on the table, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller.

"Eat," Jace nudged her gently. "You need your strength."

Fearyn shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"You did nothing wrong," Darian said quietly. It was the first time he'd spoken since they'd sat down. "Ryke was hurting Jace. You stopped him."

"I didn't mean to—" Fearyn began, then stopped. Her fingers twisted in her lap. "I didn't know I could do that."

Nimara glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "Have you ever done anything like that before?"

Fearyn hesitated. "Sometimes... sometimes things move when I'm upset. Small things. A book sliding off a shelf. A door shutting too hard. I thought it was just the wind, or—or coincidence."

"It's not coincidence," Jace said, his voice low and intense. "It's power."

The word hung between them, dangerous and thrilling. Power was something orphans never had. They were the powerless ones, the forgotten ones, the ones whose futures were decided by others. To have power—any kind of power—was unthinkable.

And yet.

"What if Ryke tells someone?" Fearyn whispered, voicing the fear they all shared.

Darian's expression darkened. "Then we'll have to leave."

"Leave?" Nimara repeated. "And go where?"

None of them had an answer for that. Outside the House lay Varos—a city that devoured children like them every day. Factory work, if they were lucky. The streets, if they weren't. And always, the shadow of the Magistrate and his guards, hunting for anyone different. Anyone dangerous.

Anyone like Fearyn.

The breakfast bell rang, signaling the end of the meal. Children rose from their tables, carrying their bowls to the washing station before heading off to their assigned duties for the day. Nimara and Fearyn would be in the laundry, scrubbing sheets until their hands were raw. Jace and Darian would be in the kitchens, peeling vegetables and hauling water. Mundane tasks for a day that felt anything but mundane.

As they stood to leave, Edward's voice cut through the clatter of dishes. "Nimara. A word."

The other three froze, exchanging alarmed glances. Had Ryke already reached the Magistrate? Was this the beginning of the end?

Nimara swallowed hard. "Go," she whispered to the others. "I'll find you later."

She approached Edward with measured steps, her heart hammering in her chest. The caretaker towered over her, his broad face unreadable.

"Sir?"

Edward studied her for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the pendant around her neck. "There's someone here to see you," he said finally. "In the study."

Nimara blinked, confusion momentarily replacing fear. No one ever came to see the children of the House unless they were looking to adopt—and no one had ever looked at Nimara twice.

"Me? Are you sure?"

Edward's mouth twisted in what might have been amusement. "Quite sure. He asked for you specifically." He paused, then added, "He's paying for the privilege, so mind your manners."

He turned and walked away, clearly expecting her to follow. Nimara cast one last glance at her friends, who were watching with wide, worried eyes, before hurrying after him.

The study was a small room near the front of the House, reserved for official business and the rare occasions when prospective parents came to view the children. Nimara had never been inside before. The walls were lined with bookshelves, though the books themselves were coated in a thick layer of dust. A desk occupied one corner, piled high with papers and ledgers. And by the window, silhouetted against the gray morning light, stood a man.

He turned as they entered, and Nimara felt a jolt of—something. Recognition, though she was certain she had never seen him before. He was tall and lean, with silver threading through his dark hair and beard. His clothes were fine but understated, lacking the ostentatious display of wealth that marked the upper classes of Varos. But it was his eyes that caught and held her—gray as storm clouds and just as turbulent.

"This is her," Edward grunted, giving Nimara a small push forward. "Nimara. Seven years old. Healthy. Good with her hands." He said this last bit with a slight curl of his lip, as if her mechanical tinkering was a character flaw rather than a skill.

The stranger's gaze swept over Nimara, taking in her tangled hair, her threadbare clothes, the grease stains on her fingers. And the pendant around her neck.

"Thank you, Edward," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I'd like to speak with her alone, if I may."

Edward hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the request. "That's not how we usually—"

The stranger's hand emerged from his pocket, something glinting between his fingers. A coin, Nimara realized. But unlike any coin she'd seen before. It seemed to catch the light strangely, reflecting it in ways that made no sense.

Edward's objection died in his throat. He stared at the coin for a beat too long, then nodded. "Of course. Take all the time you need." He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him with uncharacteristic care.

Nimara stood frozen, uncertain what to do or say. The stranger studied her for a long moment, then gestured to a chair.

"Please, sit. This won't take long."

She perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if necessary. "Who are you?"

The man smiled—a small, sad thing that didn't reach his eyes. "My name is Thorne. And I knew your mother."