A Turn Toward Home

The late-afternoon light stretched across the workshop yard, painting the sparse dirt in slanted, bronze tones that signaled the end of another long day. Donte stepped outside, rubbing the stiffness from his shoulders and exchanging a parting nod with Markus, who lingered near the door. The older man's mechanical fingers clicked softly at his side—an unspoken cue that he was still watching Donte's progress with a mix of curiosity and gruff concern.

Bidding the workshop farewell, Donte set out along the narrow streets leading away from the industrial sector. Every step felt heavier than usual, but in a good way—his body was tired from forging, spear drills, and the quiet skill experiments he sneaked in. Yet he could still walk without collapsing, thanks to the Flow cycle that had become second nature. The hum of it stayed under his skin, like a subdued rhythm he could call on whenever exhaustion pressed too hard.

The roads were busy with end-of-day traffic. Factory workers shuffled by in oily coveralls, a few merchants wheeled carts of battered tech for sale, and a handful of children kicked a rubber ball around the dusty pavement. Scents of grilled meat and stale smoke intermingled in the air, turning the twilight a bit hazy. Donte weaved through the moderate crowd, mindful not to jostle passersby, carefully clutching a small cloth bag of forging scraps he'd promised to deliver home for small repairs.

He couldn't help letting his thoughts drift to the Flow technique. He had come so far since first learning the slow breathing cycle, arms raising, arms lowering—a simple routine that had grown into something more. In forging, it allowed him to hammer steel longer. In spear drills, it let him pivot without losing breath. Even in those cautious moments when he tested runic lines, it had staved off total collapse. The difference was like night and day.

Yet part of him sensed he was nowhere near mastering this synergy. Markus, with all his expertise, had only given him the scaffold—a standard set of movements and breath patterns that suited a wide range of crafters. Donte's own class was tied to an ancient, forgotten language, and that demanded a more specialized approach eventually. The question was how to evolve from these universal steps into something truly his own.

We'll figure it out, he told himself. But for now, slow and steady.

He turned onto a narrower lane, quieter now, the crowd thinning. The subtle gloom of evening settled over the rooftops. Just another stretch, and he'd reach the battered tenement building he called home. But the thought of returning to a cramped room after a day of forging didn't excite him. Not yet, at least.

A gentle breeze drifted through the alley, carrying the faint aroma of fried dough from a distant stall. Donte's stomach growled in response, reminding him he hadn't eaten since midday. He scanned the street corners, debating if he should grab a cheap bite. Before he could decide, a familiar voice called out.

"Donte? That you?"

He froze, turning to see Vespera stepping from the shadow of a narrow cross-alley. The teal braids that framed her face caught the fading sun, and she wore a simple jacket with the orphanage's worn emblem near the shoulder. Concern showed in her bright gold eyes—though maybe it was just her typical directness.

"Vespera," he said softly, lifting a hand in greeting. He hadn't seen her much since the ceremony that changed both their lives—just brief glimpses, polite nods in passing. He'd been so consumed with forging that he let days slip by without seeking her out. Guilt twinged at him now.

She approached, arms crossed, gaze flicking to the cloth bag he carried. "You're out late. I heard you've been holed up in a workshop with that surly blacksmith. Everything… good?"

Donte forced a faint grin. "Yeah, I guess. Long days, but I'm learning a lot. Figured I should do something with my time." He shrugged, unsure how much to reveal. She knew he had an unusual class, though not all the details. Probably less than Markus even.

Vespera nodded, scanning his face. "You look different. Sturdier, maybe." She hesitated, searching for words. "I just wanted to see how you were. After the ceremony, you kind of vanished into your new life, huh?"

A pang of remorse squeezed his chest. He recalled how Vespera used to always check on him at the orphanage, offering quiet support. "Yeah, sorry. Been busy forging." He lifted the bag lightly, as if it explained everything. "Trying to keep up with it."

She leaned against the alley wall, braids catching the last glow of daylight. "No need to apologize. I just… wanted to make sure you haven't run yourself into a corner. Some folks find a place to train, get stuck, and forget to breathe."

He chuckled at the coincidence of her phrasing—Flow had taught him exactly that: how to breathe. "Markus is good at pushing me, but he's also making me rest. So I'm not burying myself in work."

"That's… good." She paused, shifting her weight. "So this 'class' of yours—did you figure it out yet? 

Donte exhaled, scanning the street to ensure no eavesdroppers. "I'm still figuring it out. It's definitely tied to an older script no one recognizes. Markus just calls it runic lore or something. I can't do much with it yet, but forging helps me get a handle on my energy."

She pressed her lips thin, nodding. "Just… be careful. The Church or other powers don't look kindly on unknown powers."

He swallowed, thoughts drifting to the partial lines he'd scorched onto scrap metal. "Yeah, I know. Thanks for the concern."

An awkward silence hung. The tension from months of minimal contact weighed on them. Vespera eventually cleared her throat. "You hungry? The old dough cart at the corner is still open, I think."

Donte's stomach growled in response. He laughed sheepishly. "Starving, actually."

A small, genuine smile broke Vespera's guarded expression. "Let's go. My treat—well, if I can scrounge a discount from the vendor. She's in a decent mood on Thursdays."

They walked side by side down the lane, drifting into a broader street lined with small stalls. Night lamps flickered to life overhead, glowing filaments encased in battered metal cages. Vespera led the way, skillfully weaving past a trio of children chasing each other with wooden sticks. The vendor stall appeared near an intersection—a squat cart with a massive frying vat and racks of sweet or savory dough shapes.

Sure enough, the vendor recognized Vespera, greeting her with a friendly, if tired, grin. Vespera bartered a little, explaining Donte's forging efforts in a half-teasing manner, until the woman relented and gave them a small discount on two fried dough puffs each stuffed with spiced vegetables.

Donte took one, biting into it with cautious hunger. The warm, savory filling comforted him, the salt balancing out the day's sweat. "This is good," he mumbled, mouth full.

Vespera smirked. "Told you. Don't gorge too fast, or you'll regret it."

He nodded, managing a slower pace on the second puff. As they ate, the street around them buzzed with casual foot traffic. The city's various neon signs flickered on, painting the skyline in teal, orange, and muted purple. Donte found himself relaxing, the day's forging tension washing away in the presence of an old friend.

Eventually, they strolled on, finishing their meal in comfortable silence. He turned onto a side road leading to the cluster of tenements near the orphanage. She matched his pace.

"You're heading back to the orphanage?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged. "For tonight, yeah. I'm still figuring out my next steps. My class ended up… well, let's just say it's not as spectacular as I hoped. But I can't complain." She flashed a quick, bitter-sweet grin. "Your forging is probably more fun anyway."

He chuckled. "I'm no big shot. Just learning."

They reached a dim intersection, faint lampposts flickering overhead. Donte recognized the old signpost that pointed left to the orphanage district, right to the run-down housing blocks. He paused, uncertain if he should mention the swirling thoughts in his mind about continuing to push Flow or testing runic lines again.

Vespera glanced at him. "You look like you want to say something."

He forced a smile. "Just… thanks. For checking on me. And for the dough puffs."

She studied him a moment, gold eyes reflecting the lamppost's glow. "Donte, you know you can talk to me if you're in trouble, right?"

He swallowed, recalling the partial lines, the draining skill attempts, how secret everything felt. "Yeah. I know. It's just…" He hesitated, then shook his head. "It's complicated. I've got a decent handle on it, though. Markus is helping—so are the forging drills."

She let out a breath. "All right. But I'm around, you know, if you need an outside perspective. The city's big, and you've got a weird class. Don't vanish on me."

A faint warmth spread through Donte's chest. He nodded. "I promise I won't."

Satisfied, Vespera lightly patted his arm. "Good. Well, I'm off this way." She gestured left toward the orphanage district. "Guess I'll see you around, forging boy."

He laughed softly. "Guess so. Thanks again."

They parted ways at the lamppost, her footsteps fading into the gloom. Donte lingered a moment, letting the hush of the street sink in. The flickering lamp overhead cast jittery shadows on the cracked pavement. He felt a pang of yearning for simpler times, back when they both lived under the same roof. But life had pushed them onto branching paths, each with a class that demanded secrets.

Eventually, he walked right, following the cramped sidewalks toward the block he called home. The faint hum of neon advertising signs overhead accompanied him, proclaiming some cheap mechanical repair shops or lodging houses. He remembered hearing from passersby about the Core Hunt Authority building in the upper district—some imposing structure with a stylized emblem. Vespera had joked about it once after the ceremony, but Donte had been too dazed to care at the time. Now, with Markus' mention that crafters might go there eventually, it felt more relevant.

One day, he told himself, letting the idea rattle in his head. But first, I need to handle the basics.

He arrived at a dilapidated tenement, its walls peeling paint, a single overhead bulb flickering. A bored caretaker nodded briefly as he passed inside. Donte trod up two flights of creaking stairs to a cramped single-room space. The door's lock stuck for a moment until he jiggled it free.

Inside, the room was modest: a cot, a small table, a battered dresser, and a window with a missing pane replaced by scrap wood. A gloom pervaded the space, broken only by a single overhead light that glowed a faint yellow. Donte set his cloth bag of forging scraps on the table and exhaled. The air smelled musty. He made a mental note to get some fresheners if his forging income ever improved.

He shrugged off his jacket, rolling his shoulders to ease tension. The day's forging had left him sore but not unbearably so. He could handle that. The real question was whether he should push his Flow training further tonight.

No illusions. He recalled earlier experiments with runic lines, how draining they got. But if he could anchor them deeper with a personalized Flow approach, maybe the cost wouldn't slam him so hard. The standard cycle had carried him this far—he needed the next step.

He set a small metal plate on the table—just a leftover piece from the workshop. Sitting on the edge of his cot, he closed his eyes, trying to isolate the hum of Neurys within him. The standard Flow cycle was good for forging, but it didn't quite match the swirling presence inside him that demanded runic usage. Maybe if he visualized that current more intimately?

Slow inhale. Arms at his sides. Exhale. He let the tension slip from his body. Tried to sense the distinct pattern of energy near his chest, along his arms. The standard approach guided breath, but he wanted to tweak it—maybe add a half-step or angle that aligned with how runes formed in his mind.

He inhaled again, this time imagining the script from that ancient language, faint lines connecting. Then exhaled, letting it flow through his arms. For a heartbeat, he felt a subtle alignment, a faint resonance that made his fingertips tingle. He tried to hold it, shaping the breath to nestle into that hum…

But the second he opened his eyes, the synergy broke. A wave of dizziness forced him to grip the edge of the cot. He sucked in air, chest pounding. So close. He'd glimpsed how a more specialized Flow might feel, but his body wasn't ready to maintain it.

Gasping softly, he let the attempt fade, returning to standard breath. No runic forging attempts for the night. Enough. He'd come far, but not far enough to mold a Flow approach that seamlessly integrated old symbols. That day would come eventually if he kept pushing.

After a short rest, he wiped his face with a damp cloth from the dresser. The overhead light flickered, reminding him it might go out soon. So, with the final minutes of stable light, he fished out the worn tome from Markus—the one with Thalics lines—and flicked through a few pages. Even just scanning the first diagrams showed how different it was from runes. Thalics read like verbose sentences, each line building on the last to craft an enchantment.

He smiled wryly, flipping a page. If he could combine the mainstream script with his secret power, maybe he'd forge gear that fooled everyone yet carried the force of that ancient language. But that lay well in the future. For tonight, he jotted notes about standard-tier lines, ignoring the faint headache from his earlier Flow attempt.

Eventually, the overhead bulb flickered one last time and died. Donte yawned, setting the tome aside. He folded up on his cot in the darkness, letting the hush settle over the cramped room. Exhaustion from the day's forging and training weighed on him, but a sense of quiet fulfillment balanced the fatigue. Each day he hammered steel, tested a fraction of runic skill, or adapted Flow to his class, he inched forward.

Outside, the city's neon glow bled through the battered window, painting the floor in faint colors. He let the swirl of red and purple lull him, mind drifting to the short conversation with Vespera. It was good to know she still cared. Maybe next time, he'd ask her how her class was developing. Maybe they'd even share a moment forging or exploring new aspects together.

But that was tomorrow's worry. Right now, he needed to rest. The bed creaked softly as he shifted, exhaling the last of his tension. Soon, he drifted off, the day's victories and half-steps swirling in dreams, forging a path that led from squalid shops to bigger hunts, bigger achievements—and all anchored by a Flow technique that might one day harmonize perfectly with the unknown language tethered to his class.