Rowan didn’t know what he’d expected when he moved Downhill, but he certainly hadn’t expected the lower city to feel so…alive. Lanterns bloomed to life as he made his way through the twisting and winding streets, and the avenues transformed before him as a low fog rolled in and children darted between the adults, laughing. Down here his Fulminant lights were still relatively sparse. That will change soon, he thought, hiding a smile. He’d given Cashin further information on his prototypes this afternoon, as well as some of his ideas on how to expand the concept. Soon not even the Downhill would use traditional lamps.

  Some shops were shuttered with Fulminant wards— protective magic purchased from licensed Uphill citizens— but many stayed open late into the night, especially during Drystorm season. The wind occasionally blew entire stands over, but it was something the Downhill citizens took in stride, laughing and joking as they chased down portions of their destroyed shops. Between flooding, fire damage, and a blown away awning, Rowan supposed he’d prefer the latter as well.

  Rowan followed the streets into Bloodring, a nicer neighborhood not far from Uphill. The Archives cleaved the city in two, and book shops spilled out around the gargantuan building even as scholars hurried through the fog, piles of tomes in hand. Rowan approached one that had a reputation for keeping tomes in stock that other shops found distasteful.

  Some were worried about offending Mariel’s followers, while others tried to stay clear of those who worshiped Fanas or Faleas. In Rowan’s estimation, the original Seats had just been people, but he wasn’t foolish enough to admit that out loud. If anything, Fanas— mother of the Ashfall— seemed to him the most appropriate deity to appease. After all, city destroying storms certainly seemed like something to avoid.

  A sign hung on the door suggesting that all sash colors were welcome, though the owner’s gruff countenance seemed at odds with the sign. Rowan pushed open the reinforced doors into the shop itself and breathed in the smell of paper and ink. He still found it odd to go into a shop himself. Years of living Uphill meant he was used to servants running errands for the family, though his father had kept very few of them. He made his way to the counter, trying not to pause at the shelves on the way. Arlette would have his head if he was late again, especially with so much money on the line.

  A balding man looked up from a book and scowled at him through his spectacles. Rowan tried a tentative smile, but the frown only deepened.

  “Apologies for interrupting you, but I sent for a book awhile back. It was—“

  “Yes, yes,” the man said, waving at him dismissively. Rowan wondered if the man knew who he was. The scowl would certainly indicate that he did. The man pushed up his glasses, snagging a paper from the desk. “I believe it was called Genetic Acquisition of Fulminancy: A History of Elemental Transfer.” He lowered his glasses and looked at Rowan pointedly. “The Council banned this title before you were born, son.”

  Rowan leaned over the counter, frowning at the list. “And the others?” he asked hopefully. The man looked out the window, as if watching for someone, then shook his head.

  “All banned as well. Clouds, boy, if you keep asking for these kinds of things you’re going to end up in an alleyway somewhere, if the Council doesn’t get to you first— though I suppose you’ve already been disinherited, so what’s the worst they can do?” Rowan sighed inwardly, hiding his disappointment. Still, it was hard for anything to completely dampen his mood with the other successes he’d been having.

  “Thank you,” he told the man, standing to leave. “And thank you for the warning.” The man just shook his head, muttering something about Rowan’s meddling ways, and returned to his reading. Rowan sometimes made for bad business, and the shopkeeper was probably glad to see him go.

  Outside, Rowan paused in the street for a moment, marveling at the blue glow of the Uphill above him as buildings peeked in and out of the fog, ephemeral and otherwordly. Some of his green lights even dotted the mix. Fulminancy Uphill was more prevalent than it was down here, and citizens used it in a decorative fashion. Downhill, the Fulminancy was limited to guarded shop doors and windows, though only the wealthiest merchants could afford such luxury. It was worth the money both to deter thieves and to appear upscale enough to attract wealthier customers.

  He wandered up to a shop window selling children’s toys, the tops and cheap Stormclap boards hard to make out under the crackling blue energy of the Fulminant wards over the window. Rowan stared at that crackling energy for a moment, marveling at its inherent power.

  What would it be like to feel that power crackling within his veins? He swore he could almost feel it, a distant, pulsing well deep within him, but when he reached for it—

  Nothing.

  His father was Fulminant. His mother was Fulminant. Both of his brothers were Fulminant.

  Rowan was a Dud.

  He stuck his hand into the crackling Fulminancy around a shop window, and it snuffed out briefly before buzzing back to life. Several women gave him a wide berth, their eyes wide as they passed.

  Worse than a Dud, Rowan was cursed. Where he went, Fulminancy left. The very thing he chased defied him at every turn. He sighed and turned to look Downhill, over the amber lights of the lower city, each one twinkling in the twilight, a blooming warmth in the low clouds.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  He’d been cast out years ago by his family, but there was a certain charm to being the underdog, he supposed. He was a Dud, but he wasn’t useless— his success with his experiments proved that much, at least. He would find some way to get to the bottom of his problem, though life would certainly be easier if he wasn’t seen as someone to be avoided. And if he could find some way to fix himself, then perhaps even his family could be persuaded to listen to him again. There’s just the minor issue of there being no historical precedent at all for regaining Fulminancy, Rowan thought bitterly. He pushed the thought aside. He would find a way. In action there was hope.

  Rowan made his way Uphill into the Redhill District, one tier down from his former home, the Drystorm whipping his dark curls around his head as he climbed. It was odd these days to ascend the streets instead of descend— he wasn’t exactly welcome back home— but Arlette’s fight cards needed approval. Rowan himself wouldn’t be betting, but he was interested in the fighter, at least. As he climbed, it appeared that the city was just as interested as he was.

  “She’ll get absolutely thrashed,” a young man said as he passed. “Would be a fool to bet on her, but clouds, it’ll be fun to watch.”

  Rowan doubted that. He found the whole business of the rings distasteful, really, though Hillcrest was hellbent on watching men and women toss each other to the ground. It was almost a form of religion, to the point that fights outside designated rings— even petty squabbles— were subject to interrogation by Blueblades and the Council alike. He supposed it was a good way to allow social mobility, since sashes could be gained or lost through performance in the rings, which was better than money or bribes. The rings, at least, could allow someone from nothing at all to eventually rise to an Uphill rank— provided they had hidden talent for Fulminancy. Uphill and Downhill fights were distinct from one another, however— Fulminancy was its own weight class.

  Plateaus passed and the sky darkened as Rowan climbed, his legs welcoming the activity after so long cooped up inside. He longed to spar with his sword. The sword was one thing— elegant, clean, an art form in and of itself. Ring fighting— particularly in the Downhill districts— just seemed barbaric. Without the glow of Fulminancy, the snap and the beauty of it echoing off the ring, how could anyone even tell who was winning? Did they just choose the bloodiest man or woman and move on with the day?

  He shook his head as he turned onto a widened street, a giant plaza stretching before him, the tiles well-maintained and the buildings shining. The fighting had never made sense to him, but like it or not, that’s where his paycheck came from, whether he worked for Cashin or Arlette.

  Heads turned as he made his way towards the large arena, a round whitewashed building stretching into the night sky, lit by lanterns and Fulminant lights alike in the Drystorm twilight.

  “Northmont’s son,” one woman whispered. “What’s he doing back up here? I thought his father had sent him away.” Rowan rolled his eyes at that. Hillcrest was a sprawling city, but it was still just a city. It was hard to send him much of anywhere without insisting that he die in the mountains surrounding their home.

  He wove his way through the crowd surrounding the arena, and made his way to the gambling windows. It was easier than it should have been, as people gave him a wide berth; no one wanted to be associated with the Northmont family’s Dud.

  Something caught his eye as he walked up to the booth— a glowing green prototype of his own making, strung above the ticket counter. The counter itself and the surrounding people were painted a sickly pallor, but Rowan couldn’t help but smile anyway. The middle aged woman behind the counter gave him a double take, her shrewd eyes narrowing as she recognized Rowan.

  “Northmont,” she said, stamping a paper. Her hair was just beginning to gray at the edges.

  “I’m fairly certain my father won’t allow me to use the family name anymore,” Rowan said, leaning towards the window. “And in any case, I’m not here on his business, or my own.” He pushed Arlette’s betting cards through the window. “My client wants in on the fight tomorrow night.” The woman took the cards, thumbed through them, and frowned.

  “These are all for the Downhill girl— Kess, I think her name is. What’s your client playing at?” Rowan shrugged, feigning ignorance.

  “It’s not my business to question my client’s wishes,” Rowan said smoothly, meeting the woman’s eyes. “Far be it from me to deny a woman her desires.” He winked at the older woman, who rolled her eyes, stamping the betting cards decisively.

  “Save it for someone your own age, lad,” she said, handing him the cards back. “I’ll warn you, though— we don’t run any of those fixed fights up here. This is a respectable ring. If your mistress thinks she’s about to make money off of dishonesty, she’ll be sorely mistaken.”

  Rowan paused, cards in hand, then turned back towards the counter. “Are there any odd rumors about this fight?” he asked.

  “Here now lad, it’s not my place to speculate, but—“

  The woman cut off as something rocked the ground beneath them. The vibrations nearly threw Rowan off his feet, and he stuck out a hand to catch himself on the ticket booth before he pitched face first into it. The glass panes rattled, and overhead, Rowan’s prototype swung with a creak.

  “Clouds above,” the woman said, squinting at the horizon. “That had better not be another parlor. Fanas knows we’ve seen enough of that kind of tragedy for one week.” She shooed Rowan away, adjusting her glasses and a few reams of paper within the booth. “Save your speculation for another, boy— I’ve got a man to get home to.”

  Rowan let the now agitated crowd wash around him, arguing and chattering, as he took a moment to orient himself. His sense of direction could have been better, but it was hard to get lost with all of Downhill spreading out before him on multiple tiers of plateaus. There, several levels below, a dark plume of smoke rose from a neighborhood. Rowan couldn’t see which home it was attached to, but he had a sinking feeling he knew which. He left the lights of the Uphill behind and made his way back home as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Not long later, Rowan stood in what was left of a doorway as he surveyed the charred remains of his workshop. The door had been blown off its hinges into the street, sending shrapnel with it. His prototypes were glass shards on the ground, years of careful experiments an already distant memory. He crouched on the blackened ground, leaning on the doorway for support.

  It was all gone.

  And with it, Rowan’s chances for a future.

  NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.