The refinery's gloom coiled around Kael, a damp grip tightening as he jolted awake, remnants of the nightmare still rasping in his throat. Gutter, a strange, crystal-furred stray, lay nearby, his low hum thrumming in sync with the factory's irregular pulse. The ghost of peaches lingered on Kael's tongue—honeyed, sticky juice dribbling down his chin, so vivid it made his teeth throb. Jarek's laughter rang in his skull, bright and boundless, from a time when betrayal was a concept, not a festering wound.
They'd plotted for weeks, half fantasy, half desperation.
The First Credit Union of Ironhaven, a relic of a bank, held a vault older than the city's worst secrets. Jarek had charmed the blueprints off a drunken clerk, the edges smudged with sweat and cheap liquor.
"East side's blind," he'd pointed out, tapping the faded security sketches. "Guards rotate at noon. Two minutes, clean and easy."
Kael's gut clenched. "We're not killers, Jarek."
Jarek's usual warmth sharpened into something keen-edged. "We won't have to be."
The pistol's weight in Kael's grip felt all wrong—slick with another man's sweat, its chill leeching into his bones.
"Just for show," Jarek had assured him.
But in the alley behind the bank, the vault's brass face glinting under the sun, Kael questioned whether Jarek's confidence masked something darker.
Jarek adjusted the stolen uniform, sleeves pooling over his thin arms. "Ready?"
Anticipation crackled in the air, a live current under Kael's skin. Their escape from the gutter was within reach. He nodded, tucking the gun under his threadbare shirt.
Inside, the bank was a dim cavern, the scent of old wood thick as dust. Jarek strode to the counter, chin high, voice steady. "Vault. Now."
The teller, ink-stained fingers trembling, stammered, "I-I can't—"
Jarek slammed his fist down.
Something was wrong. The sound—off. Not flesh on wood, but stone fracturing. Fissures splintered across the marble counter. Screams erupted. A child's stuffed toy hit the floor, its glass eyes shattering. Kael's grip slipped on the pistol, sweat-slick, as Jarek's arm twisted, skin graying, veins blackening, knuckles solidifying into jagged rock.
Stonebreaker.
The Shard's resonance thickened the air, the vault's hinges shrieking in protest. Jarek turned, eyes streaked with gray, and grinned. "Told you we wouldn't need the gun."
The vault crumpled like paper.
Gold gleamed in the dimness, credit chips scattering like metallic rain. Jarek whooped, clasping Kael's shoulder, his touch burning, charged with unnatural energy.
"We did it!" Jarek exulted.
Kael's laughter spilled out, reckless and raw. For a heartbeat, they were untouchable.
Jarek tossed him a peach, stolen earlier, its skin golden. "To us!"
The fruit burst between Kael's teeth, syrupy and sweet. Perfection.
Then the sirens wailed.
"Inquisition!"
Jarek's grin didn't waver. "East gate. Move!"
They sprinted, boots striking cracked pavement, shouts fading behind the thunder of their pulse. Kael glanced back—Jarek had stopped.
Jarek stood at the alley's entrance, Shard-arm burning, gaze locked on the advancing hound-drones.
"Run."
"Jarek—"
"I'll hold them."
The lie tasted like peaches. Kael swallowed it.
He ran.
They caught him three blocks away.
Pavement tore at his cheek, guards wrenched his arms back, credit chips scattering. "Where is he?!" The Inquisitor's boot crushed against his ribs.
Kael spat blood. "Rot."
They locked him away in a cell of rust and regret. For days, he clung to Jarek's grin, the Shard's hum, the taste of stolen fruit. He'll come, he told himself. He's just waiting.
The truth came in guard whispers:
"Stonebreaker went rogue… Docks in ruins… Six enforcers torn apart…"
When they tossed Kael back into the slums—starved, shattered—the city was quieter, colder.
Jarek's mother shut the door in his face. "He's not my son."
A wanted poster flapped in the wind, Jarek's Shard-branded face staring back at him.
The peach's aftertaste soured.
Now, years later, Kael crouched in the ruined factory, Gutter's warmth against his leg. Acid dripped in the shadows, keeping rhythm with his fury.
Gutter nosed a spore-laced locket into Kael's palm—plucked from a dead Progenitor's fingers. Inside, a photo: two boys, arms slung around each other, grinning against Ironhaven's smog. Jarek's peach pit rested beside them, dry and fractured.
Kael snapped the locket shut.
The refinery trembled, as if the past itself pressed against its walls. Somewhere, Stonebreaker's heartbeat pulsed—nearer each day.
Gutter's growl rolled low.
"I know," Kael murmured, venom curling in his fingers.
The dog leaned into him, crystal fur sharp against his skin. Loyalty could endure betrayal. Chains could become weapons.
He rose, the locket burning in his pocket, and turned toward the refinery's east wing. The Shard in his chest whispered, eager.
This time, he wouldn't be the one left bleeding.
This time, Jarek would taste the rot.