"The fastest up the Gauntlet was Liam Mairi, of course, earning him the Gauntlet patch. Pretty sure that guy doesn't know how to take second place…"
Liam took the clocktower's wooden stairs two at a time, his boots landing with practiced precision. He avoided every creaky step and splintered stoop. The climb used to leave his legs burning, his breath ragged—but not anymore. Now, the effort barely registered. His stamina could be spent on less honorable, more satisfying pursuits than scaling the town's forgotten tower, but this place, tucked away from prying eyes, was the only refuge he trusted.
Reaching the final landing, he stepped into the moonlit rotunda, archways opened to the night air. The wind whispered through the gaps in the aging bricks, carrying with it the faint scent of damp wood and rust of the clock frozen in time since he'd moved to the town a few years ago.
Undoing his jacket, he tossed it into the familiar corner he always claimed. His alloy-infused blades clattered against the floor as he removed the weapons strapped to his thighs, followed by the leather harness he wore over his chest. The weight of them relieved his body.
And then there was the book.
Liam's hand brushed the cool brick wall as he walked the circumference of the rotunda, his fingers seeking the familiar groove of the loose stone. He pulled the loose brick free. Behind it lay the worn book he'd hidden there weeks ago, its cover cracked and unassuming.
Carefully, he removed it from the hollow and set the stone back in place. He never lingered in one place for too long—not when carrying something this incriminating. But the old clocktower had served him well. Its isolation offered safety, and its forgotten walls seemed to breathe secrets of their own.
Liam perched on his jacket, the fabric soft against the worn wood. The book rested in his lap. The Art of Desolation. The words were etched into the cracked leather cover, faded but still unmistakable.
He hated reading—the way the words required too much stillness, too much focus. It was easier to throw himself into the physical, to push his body until he didn't have to think. But this wasn't something he could fight his way through. If he wanted to be better—stronger—he had to know what was inside.
The moonlight pooled around him as he flipped the book open, its brittle pages rustling in protest. He'd read parts of it already, though the archaic phrasing made each sentence feel like a riddle. The diagrams were clearer—sketches of Venin forms, their deformities ranging from protruding veins to bloodshot eyes. Weak points were marked with careful precision: the hollow beneath the throat, the exposed blood vessels at the wrists. But the notes scrawled in the margins held the real value. They weren't original to the book—others before him etched them in.
They move in patterns—predictable, if you know the rhythm.
Unpredictable, if their opponent hesitates.
The glow fades before they strike.
Liam turned the page, his fingertips brushing the fragile paper. The next diagram stopped him: an Asim. The notes beside it detailed how its magic was triggered by emotion, warping reality itself. A disturbingly normal face exhibited this stage of transformation.
The mind goes first. The body follows.
A shiver ran down his spine, a helplessness weighed on him that he couldn't shake. He set the book aside for a moment, running a hand through his golden blond hair. The duke's estate wasn't safe enough to keep these secrets, not when anyone might stumble upon them. And if they did, the questions they'd ask would be too dangerous to answer. Questions about how he'd gotten the book—or why he'd risked everything to keep it.
He leaned his head back against the bricks, staring up at the stars visible through the crumbling ceiling. His parents' faces flickered unbidden in his mind, sharp as the diagrams etched into the pages. They'd known too much. Their conviction had signed their death warrants.
He wondered if they'd ever had a moment like this—alone in the dark, trying to decide whether the fight was worth the price.
The wind shifted, carrying a faint sound up to the tower.
Liam froze, snapping into stillness. His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of the knife still strapped to his boot. He hadn't seen anyone nearby on his way up, but the sound was unmistakable: the creak of footsteps on the stairs below.
Someone was here.
Liam's mind raced, assessing his options. The shadows of the rotunda could grant him the element of surprise, giving him a physical upper hand if it came to a fight. But if he was found crouched in the darkness, questions would follow—questions he couldn't afford to answer.
And then there was the book. Too much movement risked drawing attention to it. He couldn't leave it out in the open, but putting it back into its hiding place now would take too long.
His decision was made in an instant.
As quickly as he'd ascended the stairs, he slipped into his gear. The harness buckled snugly against his chest, the familiar weight of his blades settling at his thighs with practiced ease. Finally, he reached for the book, tucking it into the folds of his jacket. The weight of it pressed against his ribs.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing the balance of his weapons and the concealed book. His footfalls were silent on the worn wood as he positioned himself purposefully near the silver-lit archway, the faint sound of approaching steps growing louder. His focus shifted between the staircase and the quiet town below, his fingers curling around the railing's cool metal.
From this vantage point, he could pass as nothing more than a restless observer, seeking a moment of solitude high above the streets.
The being stopped at the top step, the sound of its landing never coming as it hesitated. Liam knew exactly where it stood, counting the number of steps it had taken. From his peripheral, he noted its size—small enough to pose no threat to his stature.
"I'm afraid we share a hiding place." Liam sized up the silhouette, uncertain of the purpose behind its hesitation. He posed the statement as an invitation, his tone calm but edged with curiosity.
The figure shifted, the soft scuff of boots against the wood betraying its presence, as well as labored breathing. A female's breath.
"That's not what I'd call it," a familiar, edged voice replied.
Liam's stance relaxed in curiosity, a moment of vulnerability between straightening once again. "Ashbourne," he said, his tone light. "Didn't take you for the type to wander into clocktowers after dark."
"Didn't take you for the type to stake out rooftops like some kind of brooding sentinel," she shot back, stepping forward just enough for the moonlight to catch her face. Her blue eyes pierced through the dim light, sharp as silver, cutting straight in his direction.
If he weren't so taken aback by her presence, he might've laughed at her assumption. A smirk tugged on his lips as he lifted an eyebrow. "Fair point. So, what brings you here?"
Her eyes flicked to his jacket, the faint outline of the book barely visible beneath the fabric. It wasn't much, but she'd noticed. "I could ask the same of you," she said, her tone lighter than the suspicion evident in her gaze.
Liam refused to adjust or draw attention to the concealed object, though his confident front wavered beneath the onslaught of frazzled thoughts. How long had she been in the clocktower? Had she heard him retrieve the book?
He shrugged casually, leaning back against the railing. "Quiet spot. Decent view. Thought I'd clear my head."
"Convenient," Myla replied, tilting her head slightly. "Seems like more than a coincidence that I find you up here of all places."
Liam quirked a brow, feigning amusement. "Should I be flattered? Or are you suggesting you were looking for me?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Not everything's about you, Mairi." Her voice softened, the edge fading into something more genuine. "Sometimes people just need space."
The words hung between them for a moment, quiet but weighted.
Liam relaxed a fraction, though he kept his posture carefully neutral. "Fair enough. Guess the clocktower's got more fans than I thought."
Myla crossed her arms, glancing at the railing, then back to him. Her curiosity lingered, though she didn't press further. Not yet, at least. "So, are you going to keep brooding, or—"
A second set of footsteps interrupted her, heavier and deliberate, echoing from the stairs below.
Liam's smirk disappeared, his jaw tightening as his focus shifted toward the staircase.
Myla noticed the change immediately. "Expecting company?"
"Not exactly," he muttered, his fingers brushing the hilt of the knife still strapped to his boot.
Myla backed towards him, as if trusting he was safer than whatever climbed the stairs. He bit back a smirk, failing to ignore the satisfaction that settled in his chest.
A low chuckle echoed up from the stairwell. "You know, you're not as sneaky as you think, Mairi."
Liam exhaled sharply, his shoulders loosening as Xaden stepped into view, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"Xaden," Liam said, his tone carefully even. "Didn't realize you'd be dropping by."
Xaden smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the archway. "Thought I'd check on my favorite foster brother. You've got a habit of sneaking off." His gaze shifted briefly to Myla, his smirk widening. "Didn't realize you'd started bringing company."
Liam held Xaden's gaze, refusing to react. "Wasn't exactly planned."
Myla frowned, glancing between the two of them. "I didn't realize the clocktower was private property. Should I leave you two to your...brooding?"
"Not necessary," Xaden said smoothly, though his expression darkened slightly as his eyes flicked toward Liam's jacket. "Some female company could be good for him."
"I assure you, I am not that type of… company," Myla's words caught awkwardly.
He didn't blame her for the falter. Xaden had a way of getting under everyone's skin.
Xaden pushed himself off the wall, retreating back toward the stairs. "Don't have to prove anything to me!" he called over his shoulder, his hands flying up in mock surrender. His voice echoed off the stone walls as he descended. "Get home soon—or don't."
Xaden's connotation thickened the air that once felt crisp. Liam exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He leaned back against the railing, his fingers tapping idly against the metal.
Myla shifted where she stood, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
The silence that followed wasn't just a pause—it was a stalemate. Neither of them eager to speak first.
Unbearable silence.
"So, are you–"
"What are you–"
Their voices overlapped, breaking the quiet with a suddenness that startled them both.
Myla let out a small, nervous laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "You first," she said quickly, her cheeks faintly flushed.
Liam raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "I was going to ask if you are admiring the view?"
Myla scoffed, rolling her eyes as she stomped toward the railing. "Some humility could do you good, Mairi."
The words lingered in the air, and Liam's smirk faded as he shifted his gaze to the disbanding celebration below. "But actually... this view," he said softly, his voice losing its teasing edge.
Myla glanced at him, her gaze lingering as if willing him to meet her eyes. But he kept his focus on the scene below, his fingers gripping the railing tightly. His heart thudded against his ribs, the unspoken between them far louder than it should have been. What would he find in her stare? And what might she see if she looked past his facade?
"Whatever it is you're hiding," her voice dropped low, "I hope it's worth the weight."
Her words struck like a hammer, forcing his breath to hitch. His skin cooled as she tore her eyes away from him, her gaze falling to the town below.
"Spoken like a true brooder,"he said lightly, stopping himself just short of bumping her shoulder. He'd seen her lift those crates at the festival, seen the strength in her hands, but something in him compelled him to treat her as if she might break. "What secrets have you got in that pretty head of yours?"
"You first." Her tone was sharp, but not unkind, as she nodded toward the faint outline beneath his jacket.
"Far as I recall, I already told you why I'm here. Your turn, Miss Myla."