The Door with No Lock

The street narrowed the deeper Kael walked.Behind him, Lantern Way street stayed busy — carts rattling, hawkers calling, rain soaking it all.. But once he turned off it, Ashveil's breath changed.

Here the cobbles cracked underfoot, patched with scrap tin where the stone had sunk. Gutters overflowed with yesterday's rain and the city's leftover grime. A stray dog ghosted past, ribs showing through matted fur. He caught its eye; it didn't bark, didn't snarl — just vanished behind a stack of junk crates.

He passed three doors with no numbers, shutters nailed shut with crooked boards. A rusted street sign overhead read Darrow Lane, but someone had scrawled SORROW LANE across it in chalk. Kael almost laughed — fair enough.

He knew this wedge of Ashveil — the half-rotted lanes behind Lantern Way street where families squeezed ten to a room, where coin changed hands for more than bread if you were desperate enough. He'd drifted through here plenty, but never with something like a real name in his pocket.

The note from Brannick sat in his coat like a promise. 

He paused at the edge of the lane, squinting through the drizzle at the crooked sign nailed above the patched-up door.The Cinder Order.

Brannick's voice came back, softer than it had sounded in the school's dusty air — "Darrow Lane. Cinder Order. You find that sign, you knock. Don't drift past it, Kael — Cinder Order. Remember it, don't forget where the door is."

Kael almost smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Brannick must've seen something worth saving if he'd said it three times — like Kael's head was full of holes. Maybe it was.

He let the rain run off his hood, boots sunk in the gutter's edge. The door looked like it had fought off more winters than he had — and it was still standing. Maybe he would too.No brass plaque. No grand lanterns. Just a hand-painted sign nailed above a door reinforced with battered scrap sheet. Whoever had patched it hadn't bothered to paint over the old wood. Kael touched the rough grain once, half expecting a splinter.

He glanced around. Two boys loitered across the street, passing a battered tin cup back and forth, steam rising from whatever boiled inside. They didn't look up.

Kael drew in a lungful of Ashveil — steam, coal smoke, distant food grease — then knocked.

Inside smelled of boiled tea leaves and floor polish — not rich. A row of mismatched chairs lined the entry wall — one had a cushion patched with oilcloth, the others bare wood worn smooth by more tired backs than his.

A door behind the desk squeaked open. A woman stepped out — older, sleeves rolled high, hair pinned back in a no-nonsense knot. Her eyes swept him head to boot and lingered on the scrap note clutched in his fist.

"You lost?" she asked.

Kael shook his head. His voice cracked once but held. "Keeper Renn?"

"That's me."

Her gaze softened a notch when she saw how thin his coat was. "You look like you could use a bite."

Kael shook his head. "I'm fine." He held out the note. "Brannick sent me."

She took it, turned it over, read it twice. Her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but almost."Brannick, huh." She almost smiled. "A lad off Ashveil's back lanes with a scout slip from him? That's rarer than an honest Shard."

Kael just lifted his chin. "I work. I don't break easy."

Renn tapped the note against her palm. "Good. Then you start tomorrow. The Cinder's got an old back lot behind this place — scrap piled high for years. You'll clear it. Sort what's worth a Shard, stack what's not, burn what's too far gone. Safe, mind you — last boy nearly set my ledger alight."

She nodded toward a coat peg where a battered cap and a heavy work coat hung limp. "You'll be with Torman Wester. He'll show you the ropes — knows the pile inside out, doesn't chatter much. Watch him, work like him. End of the week, five Cog Shards, if you last that long."

Kael cleared his throat, voice low. "So… will there be food? Or—"

Renn tucked the note into her ledger, not missing a beat. "We don't run a soup hall here, lad. Maybe there's a tin of dry biscuits in the cupboard, kettle's always on. That's all you get — you work, you earn. Understand?"

Kael didn't argue. He just let his eyes drift past Keeper Renn's shoulder — to the wall behind her desk. Old photographs in dusty frames, corners curled with age. One showed a young man standing on a mountain of scrap, sleeves rolled, grin bright and wide like he owned every rusted nail behind him.

Below it, an award plaque leaned crooked in its case, a dent along the edge like someone had dropped it — maybe in a hurry, maybe on purpose. Two faded certificates pinned beside it. Proof that once, the Cinder Order had tried to stand taller than the scrap it sorted.

Kael wondered if the man in the photo ever thought he'd end up on a wall in a hall that smelled of cold tea and old oil.

The floor creaked under him as he shifted his boots. "I'll show up."

Renn's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "See that you do. We don't have much to spare — but I'd rather not see a coat peg where you should be." She shut the ledger with a soft snap. "Six bells sharp, Darrow Lane gate. Torman'll be waiting. Don't drag your feet."

Kael nodded, too quick. His throat felt tight, but he swallowed it down before any thanks slipped out and made things softer than they should be.

Outside, Darrow Lane rattled with loose tin signs and rain dripping through broken gutters. Rusted pipes leaked in steady drips that splashed cold against his boots. He hunched deeper into his collar, trying to keep the small warmth he'd found from slipping out with his breath.

The Cinder. Just another scrap pile, maybe — but it hadn't slammed its door.

In Ashveil, that was enough to keep his feet moving — for now.