CHAPTER 5: WHISPERS IN THE ASH

The needle in Kael's neck throbbed—a dull, rotten-tooth ache buried deep under muscle and bone. 

He lay on the thin bunk in Barracks Nine, the coarse blanket scratching his ash-gritted skin. Valen's sneer echoed in the dark: *"Void Rat."* 

Sleep wouldn't come. Not with the thing in his neck humming like a trapped wasp. 

Then the whispers started. 

Not the rune's hungry hiss. Deeper. Older. 

***"Kael…"*** 

A woman's voice. Frayed. Familiar. 

***"Come home."*** 

He jerked upright, heart hammering against his ribs. Sweat slicked his temples. The barracks were silent, filled only with the ragged breathing of sleeping initiates. Dawn hadn't yet cracked the high, grimy windows. 

*Just a dream.* 

*Just the Void.* 

He swung his legs over the bunk's edge, boots hitting the cold concrete floor. Something pricked his thigh through the thin fabric of his trousers. 

Not the needle. Something… else. 

He reached under the rough blanket. His fingers brushed softness. Cold. Like river silt. 

A feather. 

Black as a Gate's shadow, longer than his hand. And etched along its spine in faint, shimmering violet light—*his* rune. The same mark seared into his palm. 

*The scarred Hunter.* 

No note. No explanation. Just this relic humming with the same alien energy that lived under his skin. He clenched it. The rune on his palm flickered weakly in response—a guttered candle choked by the needle's persistent ache. 

***"Rise and rot, Thorn!"*** 

Valen's voice sliced through the gloom. He stood silhouetted in the barracks doorway, already armored in sleek training gear. A smirk twisted his lips. ***"Sparring day. Hope your Void magic doesn't… misfire."*** His golden eyes dropped to Kael's fist, still curled around the feather. "Found a pet, gutter-scrape? Looks diseased. Fitting." 

---

The Crucible Yard stank of wet ash and anticipation. 

Commander Rhys stood at the center, a dark statue against the grey dawn. "Sparring pairs. Hand-to-hand. Rune activation permitted *only* to enhance physicality. Any lethal force, any uncontrolled discharge—" Her flint eyes locked onto Kael. "—earns a week in the Pit. Understood?" 

Kael nodded, the feather tucked securely inside his shirt. It felt cold against his skin. Alive. 

Valen stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. His golden rune pulsed faintly on his forearm. "Looks like we're paired, Void Rat." 

Before Kael could brace, Valen lunged. 

Not with fists. With *speed*. His rune flared—a burst of light—and he blurred. Kael barely got his arms up. Valen's strike slammed into his guard, numbing his forearms. The force drove him back, boots skidding in the ash. 

*Too fast!* 

Kael tried to reach for his own power. To push back. The violet rune sparked under his skin… 

**AGONY.** 

The needle in his neck ignited—white-hot wires fraying his nerves. His rune sputtered and died. Valen's boot caught him in the ribs. 

Kael hit the ash, breath exploding from his lungs. Ash filled his mouth—bitter, like charred bone. 

Valen loomed over him, not even breathing hard. "Pathetic," he murmured, loud enough for nearby initiates to hear. "The Void's so weak, it can't even help you stand?" He leaned down, pretending to offer a hand. His whisper was venom. ***"Silas' little tracker working well, isn't it? Keeps your filthy power leashed. Where it belongs."*** 

Kael's blood turned to ice. *Silas.* The name from the Black Gate. Valen *knew*. 

He slapped Valen's hand away and scrambled up. Pain lanced through his side. The needle's burn faded to its dull, grinding throb. His rune flickered weakly, useless. 

*Focus. Not the rune. Just you.* 

He remembered the backstreets. The desperation. The *dirt*. 

Valen came again, golden rune flaring. Another burst of unnatural speed. Kael didn't try to block. He *dropped*. Slick ash gave way. He slid under Valen's strike, kicked out hard at the back of Valen's knee. 

***"Ugh!"*** Valen stumbled, surprise flashing across his perfect face. 

Kael was on him. No rune. No grace. Just elbows and knees and raw slum-fighter fury. An elbow cracked against Valen's jaw. A knee drove into his thigh. Ash flew. 

Valen snarled, his composure shattering. His golden rune flared *brighter*—not just speed now, but *strength*. He grabbed Kael's tunic, lifting him off his feet. 

***"ENOUGH!"*** 

Commander Rhys' voice cracked like a whip. She stood beside them, having moved faster than sight. Her hand clamped onto Valen's wrist. The golden rune sputtered and dimmed under her touch. "Unsanctioned force augmentation, Thorne. Pit. One hour." 

Valen dropped Kael, his eyes blazing with pure hate. "He started it! He fought dirty!" 

"He fought like he wanted to live," Rhys said flatly. "Pit. *Now*." 

As Valen stalked toward the filthy trench, Rhys turned to Kael. Her gaze wasn't approving. It was… assessing. Like a butcher weighing meat. "You channeled nothing. Why?" 

Kael touched his neck. The lie came easily. "Couldn't focus. The needle… hurts." 

Rhys' eyes narrowed. She knew he wasn't telling the whole truth. "Pain is the Crucible's first lesson. Learn it." She jerked her chin towards the barracks. "Dismissed. Tend your bruises." 

---

Back in the empty barracks, Kael slumped against his bunk. His ribs screamed. Valen's knuckles had split his lip. He pulled out the black feather. 

In the weak light filtering through the window, the violet rune along its spine pulsed gently. It didn't burn. It… *hummed*. A low vibration that resonated with the fading embers of his own mark. 

He pressed the feather against the needle-knot in his neck. 

The grinding throb… *lessened*. Not gone. Muffled. Like a blanket thrown over a drum. 

And deep within his mind, beneath the whispers and the pain, a single, clear thought formed—not his own, yet utterly familiar: 

***They fear what they can't cage.*** 

The scarred Hunter's words. Not just a warning. 

*An instruction.* 

Kael Thorn closed his fist around the feather. Its cold bite was a promise. Valen knew about the needle. The Assessors were silencing him. The Academy was a cage lined with knives. 

But the feather pulsed. His rune, starved and suppressed, flickered back to life against his palm—not a dying star anymore. 

A spark in dry tinder. 

---

End of chapter 5