Quinn was a mage.

  But that was impossible.

  She was Altiman, and there was not a mage among their people for as long as recorded history. Even mixed-heritage Altiman had a stark absence of magical potential.

  At least, in recorded history, this was all known to be fact.

  And it was always peculiar that Rockwell framed the Catchers as those who snatch up people they suspected of being mages within the District.

  Abel had always assumed it was a joke.

  It both made perfect sense and no sense at all. In fact, Abel was so confused by the revelation that he fell ill shortly after and remained bedridden for several days.

  Though, perhaps the fever was more a result of the shock of stress his body endured shortly before the revelation, when he nearly succumbed to a wave of bloodlust.

  Regardless, he was interred in his room, where his only means for gauging the state of affairs of the District was Neymar’s appearance when he walked in with dinner in hand and a cloth mask over his mouth.

  “That’s a little excessive.” Abel noted, gesturing to the mask.

  “Just eat your soup.” Neymar grunted. “Can’t afford to get knocked down right now.”

  “Got plans or something?” Abel sniffed as he tested the soup’s temperature.

  “I just can’t afford to miss a day of Math. That shit’s hard to understand.”

  There was a stutter to Neymar’s voice that made it clear that that was complete bullshit. There was something else on his mind that came first that he was not willing to talk about.

  But Abel never pointed it out.

  And so there was a certain filter he placed over every update that made it clear he didn’t suspect Abel’s afterschool spying with Quinn in the slightest and wanted to keep it that way.

  It was one part reassuring, one part annoying, for when Abel finally made a recovery and returned to school, he was blind to the fact that Quinn was completely missing.

  He couldn’t find her by their usual meeting spot by the abandoned classrooms nor on their usual patrol routes.

  At first Abel panicked— had the Catchers realized who she was and taken her out?

  Had Milo gotten to her?

  But no whispers of either story emerged. In fact, Milo himself harped on Quinn’s elusiveness during one of his frequent pep talks. When he asked Rockwell, she merely redirected him to Milo’s patrols.

  “They’re everywhere. If she was going to be found, they would do it, just like they’ve done with all of the Catchers’ friends.”

  There was no suspicion of Quinn’s abilities. No mention of magic.

  So everything should be as it was.

  A pit of apprehension began to form in his gut. For he could only conclude that Quinn was certainly avoiding him.

  Waiting for him to rat her out.

  Maybe she was part of the Catchers all along. But it made little sense. She was with the District since infancy.

  Maybe she was pretending to be allies with the Catchers. But then what was she after instead?

  All Abel knew was that she was his only way of getting to the woman that threatened his peace. A woman who also had a hand in Milo’s madness.

  He needed to get to that woman first. The true identity of Quinn Volta could matter another time.

  So Abel shut up and did absolutely nothing.

  He became the normal student Neymar was expecting him to be.

  It was agonizing— listening to the same three speeches Milo used to rally his base, barely registering the history lesson in class on the founding of the Empire, back in the previous era when savage demons roamed the continent. Humans had been driven into the icy forests of the northern continent, taking refuge in the one basin of water, Lake Setia. Still, the demons descended upon them. And, when they thought they had cornered the human population, the First Flame Saint Alinassia had the city of Setia built as a maze to funnel, trap, and wipe out its leading forces in a last stand against them.

  It all didn’t matter. It mattered less to his classmates, who could only take the fact that the Empire’s finesse over magic was something they took with great pride. Something that was so antithetical to the foundation of Altiman society that they could only get pissed off at the soliloquy being shoved down their throats.

  The irony ate away at Abel.

  He might as well have been chewing rocks.

  It took a week for Quinn to appear before him again in the abandoned classroom.

  He had to stop himself from grabbing onto her. He anchored his grip on his guitar instead.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” Abel attempted to sound casual. “You were gone for a long time.”

  “You’re looking healthy.” She noted from her seat on her usual window. She was hard to read, impassive.

  “I got sick.”

  “I know. Your cousin was pretty insistent on telling everyone about your fever during his patrols.”

  Abel bristled. He plucked a few notes to ground himself.

  “So you kept a close eye on Neymar. Was that before or after you decided to disappear?”

  She fell into silence, her firm stare boring into his eyes. Abel returned the look innocently, gently strumming to fill the empty air.

  “Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” Quinn tilted her head.

  “You might be a little heavy, but you shouldn’t call yourself that.” Abel remarked, trying not to smile.

  Quinn’s let out a huff of a laugh out of shock.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’ll admit I was surprised by it when I tried to push you away. But I have to live with Neymar and he’s big-boned. It’s not that different.” It was very different. “Did you think I would judge you or something?” Abel raised an eyebrow.

  “I-…” She hesitated, still processing the words. Her thoughts seemed to pivot, leaning into Abel’s story. “I’m very embarrassed by it. It’s not a very flattering trait for most people.”

  “It must be so difficult to care what others think about you when you think of yourself as a giant animal.”

  “I’m offended.” Quinn remarked, not sounding offended at all.

  Abel shrugged. “Well, luckily I don’t mind who you are.” He then set his guitar aside. ”And I don’t want to abandon our mission over it. I promise to behave better next time. ”

  It was hard to gauge whether Quinn bought Abel’s bluff or whether they were still talking around the suspicion that she was a mage.

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “What?”

  “You’re just such a pansy. You folded the minute Milo began his trial. How could I rely on you?”

  Abel pouted.

  “Now we know you can stop me if it comes to that, as much as it hurts my pride.” Abel reasoned as he approached the window, closing the distance between them. “I’d still do all this, trailing the patrols, finding a way to take down Milo, on my own otherwise. But don’t you think it’s better to work together? What if I get caught?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Quinn blanched.

  If Quinn believed his bluff, only her sense of responsibility for his life would’ve moved her to say yes.

  If she still suspected he had a sense of her magic ability, this was very much a threat to expose her.

  How effective that threat was entirely depended on her true relationship with the Catchers, Milo, and Toilet.

  All of which she kept him in the dark about, but her avoidance of him gave him enough of a hint to know that she feared it.

  So Abel was uncertain if Quinn agreed out of virtue or resentment. Regardless, they resumed their regular meetings in earnest, adding in combat training to help Quinn neutralize him during dire straits.

  She questioned the source of his knowledge, so he gave her a story about learning from soldiers headed to the war front coming through the border town he lived in before the District.

  And when the time came and they were late to reach the next trial, Abel abandoned the mission faster than Quinn.

  And she was satisfied with that.

  But this time— this third time, they tracked down the first patrol to reach the trial grounds. They were early, had a plan, and looked the part.

  Abel wore a deep hood, which was always a little askew from being hand sewn onto one of his jackets himself, with a mask attachment that loomed over his face, distorting the shadows of his features to resemble a snake— it was a blind homage to Ciella’s Dragon motif, though an unskilled version of it that looked a little silly in comparison.

  They followed the three-person patrol to the namesake of the school: a Metalworks foundry overlooking Lake Setia. The patrol stopped before the main entrance to the foundry, where the foreman blocked their path.

  “Good afternoon, folks. What brings you here?” He addressed the group, light and chirpy.

  “We’re here for Emil Yuba.” The patrol girl piped up.

  ”Emil hasn’t shown up to work in over a week, the slacker.” The foreman shrugged. “You’re better off finding him at his home or somethin’.” He struggled to hide the wariness in his tone.

  The patrol trio wasn’t phased. They stepped closer.

  “Get him out, and you won’t find trouble.”

  “You better hope he’s in there. He got one of our own Captured.” The patrol girl sneered.

  The foreman mutely nodded, and retreated inside.

  “If the foreman’s protecting him, the trial will be bloody.” Quinn murmured from their perch on the fire escape of the building across.

  “Think we can stop that before it happens?” Abel asked, crouched beside her.

  ”Depends on how Milo reacts.”

  More patrols were beginning to trickle in.

  But there was no sign of Milo yet, thankfully.

  “Let’s go.” Quinn was the first to slide down the ladder and rush around the back alley. Abel mirrored her moves, taking an alternate route and leaping a metal fence to reunite at the cargo unloading dock behind the building, which was in the process of being sealed by a factory worker.

  Abel pressed his fingers to his lips, letting out a high-pitched SQUEE.

  The gull call erupted in a mirror of hundreds of birds flocked along the lakeside taking to the skies at once. The flurry of noise distracted the factory worker for just a moment, which was enough time for Quinn to slam her foot into the back of his knee and knock him down. She slipped through the doorway while Abel began to rummage through the cargo boxes out back.

  “Just let them take me. Please! I deserve it.” He heard a voice cry within the building, audible just beneath the hiss of steam from the forges.

  Abel shook off the urge to look inside.

  He had to focus.

  He had to stall Milo.

  His eyes fell on the factory worker by the doorway struggling to get up.

  —-

  Neymar hated that his throat twisted less and less with each passing trial. That the notion of beating someone within an inch of their life was becoming an expectation. Yet he stomached it, as long as it meant he was closer to controlling the risk against Abel’s life. Not just for Abel– certainly not. It was a matter of Madame Fenharrow’s reputation.

  Abel could take care of himself, Neymar hoped, but it didn’t hurt to have a little insurance.

  But what was worse, trial after trial, was that Neymar remained out of Milo’s favor. Rockwell’s words had given him an avenue to look for the Catcher he needed to clear Abel’s name.

  Despite that knowledge, encountering the right Catcher in the open was more of a rarity than he thought. So, after several days of shallow promises of progress, Neymar was relegated to doing grunt work for Milo, patrolling on the fringes of the District.

  It was a blessing, Neymar thought, that he was placed so low on the totem pole during the trial of Emil Yuba.

  It was what allowed him to remain ignorant of how futile his plans truly were.

  Neymar was one of the last to arrive at the foundry grounds, so he did not see Milo’s stricken face when a familiar hooded figure– though now masked– carrying what seemed to be a bound body dressed in workman’s clothes over his shoulder.

  And so, Neymar was not part of the first line of defense that gave chase to the hooded figure, who sprinted down the street at a breakneck athletic pace.

  “He has Emil!”

  “Get him!”

  What was that idiot doing?

  Neymar was about to follow the crowd when his patrol partner pulled him back.

  “Hey! We’re on lockdown duty.” She jabbed a thumb towards the foundry. Neymar gulped.

  Right.

  If anyone resisted or aided the target, they were to face the consequences.

  And the foreman was certainly on that list.

  He hesitated, looking after the retreating crowd, conflicted.

  If the hooded figure truly were Abel, he couldn’t exactly help Milo bring him down, nor could he somehow help Abel get away without Milo throwing him out of the gang entirely out of suspicion.

  If Abel lied to him, he had to face the repercussions.

  Better to pretend he didn’t know any better and follow orders.

  Fuck.

  So he followed the remaining patrols into the factory. It’s large metal doors opened into a lookout deck flanked by halls of offices. Metal rails and catwalks stretched over dozens of forge pits where giant crucibles carrying bright burning hot metal rested within, casting a glow to the room. Large carts on rails carried hunks of scrap metal across the warehouse. Sand dusted the ground around crates of moulds. Chains hung from the ceiling, some carrying large hooks that looked like anchors attached to metal tubes. A crowd of factory workers stood beside one lit forge.

  Before he could get a closer look, Neymar came face to face with the foreman, who attempted to shove him back.

  “You can’t be here.” The Foreman nervously asserted.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Neymar murmured. He slammed an elbow into the foreman’s shoulder and shoved past as the foreman attempted to tackle him, leaving his fellow patrol members to take on the ensuing fight.

  Neymar descended down metal stairs into the forge landing. Steam and heat obscured his vision, painting the air in orange and white.

  “Let me go, please. This isn’t worth it.” He heard a voice crack from the crowd.

  “I’m not going to harm you. I’m not going to blame you. I can promise to hear your case, and maybe I can help you survive this.” A second resonant familiar voice rang out. Neymar couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  As he got closer to the lit forge, the better he could make out the grim faces of the workers, including one silhouette which stood out, her face partly covered by a deep hood.

  Quinn Volta.

  He was about to surge forward and approach her when he stopped to listen to the voices that spoke up around her.

  “Tell her, Emil.”

  Emil? Then who did Abel take?

  “You deserve to be heard.” a foundry worker interrupted his thoughts.

  “You’re done for either way. Might as well.” Another piped up.

  “No, I deserve this–” a shaky voice responded.

  Quinn lowered herself to Emil, who was sprawled on the floor, on his knees.

  “You deserve nothing.” She said plainly, then tilted her head. ”So why did you call the Catchers? Who did you hate so much that you couldn’t stand to see them in this place anymore?”

  Emil continued to tremble. His gaze slowly lifted to meet Quinn’s.

  “I just wanted to make it stop.” He croaked, barely audible above the crackling of the forge behind them. “Every day. It was the shoving, the yelling, the names– he took my things and destroyed them.”

  “Hard to believe you couldn’t get help when these folks are vouching for you now.” She made a point to look up at the crowd that warily eyed her.

  “Farron Weyhand’s protected.“One of the workers grunted. ”Can’t call the neighborhood watch on him if he is the neighborhood watch.”

  Farron Weyhan.

  Neymar recognized the name.

  More than once, he had the pleasure of Farron’s temperamental company on patrol. He was a spirited boy– always cracking jokes, even if some were at someone’s else’s expense. He was also someone who took satisfaction in violence— always rough and aggressive, a guy who liked to get hit and strike back just as fiercely. But he was also amongst Milo’s inner circle. It was presumed that despite his tendencies, he had a code of honor to him. Neymar never expected those qualities to take a more sinister turn.

  Nor did he expect anybody to do anything about it.

  And now, nobody will.

  For Milo never demanded the stories of his targets. His trials were in name alone, a judgment already sentenced for the irreproachable crime of calling a Catcher on a fellow man.

  No, this only proved one thing.

  Quinn Volta could be reasoned with. She had sympathy, or at least put on the air of it.

  She had mercy.

  Which only meant that the real threat to his peace in the District was Milo.

  And if he could get on Milo’s side, he could keep Abel safe. He could keep himself and his current life as a Fenharrow safe.

  If he could be the one to bring Quinn Volta to justice the way that Milo had been agonizing over for weeks, maybe Milo would turn a blind eye to Abel’s involvement.

  So Neymar let out a yell, alerting the rest of the patrol, and lunged for her.