The sun hung low over Sern Ka’Torr, a bleeding ember half-drowned in mist. The city's uneven tiers caught the light in broken shards, gilding the salt-streaked stone and leaning merchant signs in molten gold. Long shadows tangled across the narrow streets, weaving a labyrinth of light and gloom that seemed almost to move as ProlixalParagon passed.

  His boots struck the stone with steady rhythm — a quiet, deliberate sound swallowed quickly by the yawning alleys and sloping thoroughfares.

  Behind him, The Turning Moment slept once more behind its heavy doors, the quiet workshop folded into itself like a dream remembered only in pieces. The ghost scent of heated copper and scorched mana clung to his clothes and fur, a reminder of the inferno of learning he had survived — and forged himself within.

  Now, carrying only his well-worn satchel and the dense, invisible gravity of his new knowledge, Prolix made his way back toward the Vermillion Troupe.

  He moved through the city like a shadow now, quieter, sharper, no longer the hesitant kit who had first stumbled into Sern Ka’Torr’s labyrinth. The lessons burned into his bones by Haidrien had left marks deeper than any blade — not in scars, but in purpose.

  The Scrap-Drift Shade ghosted along the crumbling walls behind him, its adaptive camouflage blending seamlessly with the swirling late-afternoon haze. A few dockworkers glanced up as he passed — their eyes lingering not out of recognition, but from the instinctual wariness reserved for creatures who moved with unseen weight.

  The city's air tasted of salt, rust, and the oily tang of distant shipyards preparing for dusk loading. Banners above the trade squares fluttered in sluggish protest, their dyes faded to muted greens and ochres by years of sun and storm.

  As he crossed a narrow bridge slung low over a drainage canal, the first distant chime of the Fourth Bell sounded — a hollow toll that echoed through the ravines of the city.

  Late afternoon.

  A heartbeat from dusk.

  Prolix quickened his pace instinctively, weaving through a clot of arguing fishmongers hauling tangled nets and crates dripping brine. His dagger — the same old blade, scabbarded and worn — knocked gently against his hip with each step, a grounding weight against the surreal bloom of the day’s events.

  The city blurred past him: painted shrines to forgotten gods tucked into alley corners; scraps of fabric and prayer ribbons knotted along stair rails; merchant children chasing each other with shrill, laughing shrieks through the dusty byways.

  But it was all distant to him now.

  He moved with a different rhythm — his mind half-here, half in the spiral of blueprints, mana threads, and entropy patterns still burning behind his eyes.

  Already he could feel the slow churn of growth in his core: the leveling, the surging strength of his lattice reinforcing itself. His Focus sharper. His Perception widened like the aperture of a lens, drinking in subtle currents that had once been invisible to him.

  A trio of dock guards passed by — their armor rough and salt-pocked — but Prolix melted around them with a slight shift of body and shadow, unnoticed, untouchable.

  He smiled faintly to himself.

  This, he thought, is what it means to move between the cracks of the world.

  And for the first time since Dustreach, the thought didn’t taste like fear.

  It tasted like freedom.

  The Troupe’s wagons came into view as he crested a winding ramp that overlooked the second dock tier.

  Their circle of vardos huddled close together in the long light, the canvas roofs painted in muted oranges and golds that caught the sun’s dying breath like a patchwork flame. Cooking fires smoked lazily into the heavy air, the rich, spicy scent of root stew and roasted grain mixing with the salt wind.

  Children darted among the wagons, their laughter softer now, tempered by the cautious patience of families who knew their time in this city was measured by a dwindling wick.

  Ralyria stood watch near the firepit, spear slung across her back, her automaton frame catching glints of light like a statue carved from starlit steel. Nearby, Marx leaned against a wagon axle, whittling something small and sharp from a scrap of wood, his scarred hands moving with idle grace.

  Prolix’s heart eased at the sight of them.

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  Of home.

  Even if it was a fragile, temporary thing — a home that rolled on wheels and slept under wary stars — it was his.

  He slipped into the outer ring of wagons unnoticed, savoring the moment of quiet anonymity. His body screamed for rest, but his mind was still crackling with restless energy, the echo of Haidrien’s voice hammering lessons into the marrow of his thoughts.

  He reached the familiar Conestoga wagon he had claimed during their stay — its canvas flap tied closed against the gathering dusk — and ducked inside with a breath of relief.

  The interior smelled of worn linen, desert herbs, and faintly of the soft oils used to treat wagon wood against salt air. Blankets and hay pads were piled haphazardly at the far end, a small lantern hanging from a central hook casting warm, muted light.

  Prolix dropped his satchel with a soft thud, unbuckled the worn leather straps of his armor, and collapsed onto the blankets with a groan that felt pulled from the depths of his soul.

  His muscles ached.

  His hands throbbed.

  His mind spun with schematics and entropy patterns, potential constructs blooming and wilting behind his closed eyes.

  But even exhaustion couldn’t smother the fierce, low thrum of satisfaction that pulsed through him.

  He had survived.

  He had grown.

  And tomorrow — when the ship to BaiGai finally crested the horizon — he would step onto that deck not as the uncertain fox who had hidden in Dustreach’s alleys, but as something new.

  A creator.

  A defier of fates.

  A whisper of Void and Vow.

  Sleep claimed him before he could untangle the thought, folding him into its heavy, dreamless arms as the last bell of the day tolled low and long across Sern Ka’Torr.

  The camp had long since surrendered to nightfall.

  The fires burned low among the wagons, their light guarded carefully against the prowling dark. Stars pierced the heavy mist above the docks, casting trembling silver veins across the restless water. Somewhere in the distance, the tide bells sang again — a hollow, mournful sound swallowed almost immediately by the wind.

  ProlixalParagon stirred.

  The instinct was faint at first — a tickle at the edge of his newly sharpened Perception.

  A wrongness in the air, subtle and mean, like iron filings scattered across silk.

  Half-asleep, he shifted on the mound of blankets, his dagger belt loosened but still within reach.

  He should have trusted that instinct.

  The canvas flap of the wagon shifted — not enough for noise, but enough for shadow.

  Three figures slipped inside: lean shapes wrapped in dockworker's garb, their steps careful, their movements practiced. Oilcloth wrapped their boots, muffling every tread. Their faces were hidden behind scraps of dyed cloth — only their eyes gleamed: flat, hungry, cold.

  ProlixalParagon’s body snapped into wakefulness, his hand closing around the hilt of his dagger.

  But it was already too late.

  The first blow caught him across the temple — a weighted sap, swung with brutal precision. Light burst behind his eyes, his world tilting sharply sideways. His dagger clattered from numb fingers as he tried, instinctively, to roll away.

  A second strike drove the air from his lungs.

  Pain flared, sharp and sudden, but he barely had time to register it before rough hands grabbed him, binding his wrists with coarse rope slicked in something that smelled faintly of resin and oil — hard to break, even for someone stronger than him.

  Through the daze, he caught a voice — low and mocking — muttering.

  "Lord Kasserrith said to bring him quiet. Best not damage him too much."

  Lord Kasserrith.

  The name cracked through the fog of pain with brutal clarity.

  The Cataphractan noble.

  The one who had falsely accused him.

  The one who had mistaken him for Haidrien.

  The one who wasn’t finished yet.

  Prolix tried to twist free, but another blow — deliberate, professional — hammered the back of his skull.

  The last thing he saw before the world winked out was the canvas flap closing softly behind them, swallowing the faint orange glow of the Troupe's dying fires.

  When ProlixalParagon woke, it was to cold marble beneath his cheek.

  The air smelled wrong — too clean, too polished, sharp with incense and undercut by the faint sourness of damp stone.

  He groaned, trying to push himself upright, but his wrists were still bound behind him, the rough bite of the resin-treated rope digging into his fur.

  A heavy boot struck his ribs, not viciously, but firmly enough to roll him over.

  Blinking against the glare of wall-mounted mana lamps, he took in his surroundings: a long, low-ceilinged hall paneled in dark wood and lined with silver-veined marble columns. Expensive tapestries dripped from the walls — scenes of battles fought by men in stylized armor, Cataphractan glory bought and sold a hundred times over.

  Standing at the far end of the hall, his arms folded behind his back, his expression one of barely-concealed distaste, was Lord Yosthar Kasserrith.

  The Cataphractan noble’s robes were immaculate, a deep indigo chased with silver thread, his dark horns polished to a mirror sheen. His gold-chased boots clicked softly as he stepped forward, each movement precise, rehearsed, perfect.

  "You are persistent," Kasserrith said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "Vermin usually scatter after the first fire."

  Prolix forced himself upright into a sitting position, head throbbing, the room spinning unpleasantly.

  "I told you," he rasped, "you have the wrong Fennician."

  Kasserrith's smile sharpened.

  "No," he said. "You are the right lesson."

  He turned slightly, gesturing toward the shadows behind him.

  Two more thugs emerged — one carrying a thick manacle assembly, the other holding what looked disturbingly like a mana siphon rod.

  "You embarrassed me in the city courts," Kasserrith said, his voice growing colder with every word. "Made me appear foolish before Lady Mellissandre. Before my peers."

  His hands clenched behind his back — a flash of anger he couldn't quite smother.

  "For that," he said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous, "you will serve."

  Prolix's mind raced.

  The bindings were too tight to slip, the room too open for a quick escape. His mana pathways, still sluggish from the blow to his head, throbbed uneasily.

  The Scrap-Drift Shade — his only companion — was nowhere in sight.

  For now, he was alone.

  But he was also not the same naive crafter who had once fumbled in Dustreach’s shadows.

  He was a Synthete.

  A builder of the impossible.

  And he would not be broken easily.

  Not by Kasserrith.

  Not by anyone.

  ProlixalParagon lowered his head slightly, masking the flicker of calculation burning in his golden eyes.

  Time, he thought.

  I just need time.