Chapter Twenty-Five: Wordrot

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The Common District came into view, its rooftops a jagged skyline against the murky glow of distant lanterns. Jace crouched low, then leapt. His movements were fluid, almost predatory, as he ascended with an effortless grace. He landed silently on a rooftop, crouching there like a shadow given form. Below, the street lay quiet, save for the occasional burst of distant laughter, muffled and faint.

He scanned the houses. The windows glinted coldly, their interiors silent and still. Jace could feel the families inside, the children huddled together, their tiny sparks of life dimmed by fear. His gut twisted.

They deserved better.

He clenched his fists, the memory of those days on the streets gnawing at the edges of his resolve. Back then, survival had been a lonely, bitter game. No one had stepped in; no one had cared. It was always “somebody else’s problem.” The words echoed in his mind, bitter and sharp. The best way to hide evil wasn’t to make it invisible—it was to make it irrelevant, unnoticed, buried under the excuse of apathy.

Jace exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool night air. He wasn’t that scared kid anymore. He had power now, enough to stop being a passive observer in a world that thrived on indifference.

The street stretched out before him, empty but for shadows. He made his decision.

Every good thing in Jace's life had come when he refused to let things stay somebody else’s problem. When he dared to think, maybe I can make a difference. Sure, pain came with it—loss, heartache—but so did adventure and growth. If he’d looked the other way when he first met Dex, he wouldn’t have gained a friend. Thistle would be dead, not recovering. So many moments, so many lives intertwined because he chose to act.

And this city? It was no different.

Movement caught his eye below. A group of nobles—foreigners, by their dress—strolled down the street, their laughter cutting through the stillness. He recognized some of the intricate patterns on their cloaks. Two were from the Egyptian district, their dark silks embroidered with gold ankhs, and the others hailed from the Norse zone, their fur-lined coats marked by subtle runes. Five in total, their camaraderie loose and boisterous, like young nobles testing the limits of their freedom.

They looked jockish—broad shoulders, too much swagger in their steps. Winter wine, probably. The sharp, sour tang of it lingered faintly in the air as they passed. One kicked at a stray rock, sending it skittering into the shadows, while another tossed a pebble at a nearby house. The stone pinged harmlessly off the wooden siding, but Jace’s jaw tightened.

He Shifted silently, keeping to the rooftops, moving like smoke on the wind. As he tracked them, his eyes narrowed on one of the Norsemen.

Then he saw them.

Farther down the street, just at the edge of the district, dark figures emerged from the night. At first, they were indistinct shapes, but as Jace shifted closer, he realized there were dozens—no, hundreds. A line of people trudging forward, heads bowed low, their silhouettes stark against the cold light of the moon.

They came from the farmlands, their slow, weary march taking them toward the Commoners' district. The air around them seemed heavier, charged with a quiet despair. Jace froze, crouched on the roof, watching the line stretch out into the distance.

Each figure trudging forward had something wrapped around their faces and arms. In the obscured moonlight, it looked like golden rope—thick and shimmering faintly beneath the shifting gray of snow clouds above.

Flakes began to fall again, soft at first, gradually building into a swirling cascade. The air grew heavier, the muffled crunch of snow underfoot the only sound as the line of figures drew closer to the Commoners' district.

Ahead, one of the noblemen noticed them. “Hey, look who’s here,” he said, his voice loud enough to echo off the empty streets.

The group paused, their attention shifting to the line of trudging farmworkers. One of them, a tall Norseman with a fur-lined cloak, hesitated, casting a glance at the others. His steps faltered, but he fell in with the group as they sauntered toward the farmers. The rest radiated rowdy arrogance, emboldened by their numbers and the sharp bite of winter wine in their blood.

They surrounded a man and a woman from the line. The couple didn’t look up, their faces half-concealed by the golden wraps.

“Hey, you deaf or something?” one of the nobles jeered. His tone dripped mockery. “Just a couple of Wordrots.”

The word landed like a slap, heavy and deliberate. Others joined in, each chanting, Wordrot, Wordrot. The taunts came fast, punctuated by sharp laughter. The man and woman didn’t respond, their silence only feeding the group’s cruelty.

One of the noblemen, shorter but broad-shouldered, shifted uncomfortably. “All right, we’ve had our fun. Let’s head back,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to call them out.

The others stopped, their grins turning sharp. “What’s the rush? We’re just getting started,” another said, his voice carrying an edge of menace. He smirked and gestured toward the man. “What about him? Is he a Wordrot too?”

The reluctant one shook his head quickly. “No. He’s not.” His tone was firm, but his unease was clear.

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The smirker’s grin widened. “Then prove it. Hit him.”

The tension thickened. The reluctant noble swallowed hard, glancing at the others. Their stares bore into him, hard and expectant. A second passed. Then another.

“You gonna let us think you’re soft?” someone pressed. “Maybe we should report you. What if you’re a dirty little Wordrot?”

The words hit their mark. Slowly, reluctantly, the man stepped forward. He raised a hand and struck the farmer—a single blow to the face. The man staggered, his knees buckling as he crumpled to the snow. He didn’t fight back.

Jace watched from the rooftop, his jaw tightening as the scene unfolded. The others stepped closer, their jeers intensifying. One raised a boot, ready to kick, but the woman moved between them. Her eyes pleaded silently, her body trembling but resolute.

Jace frowned. Why doesn’t he fight back?

The other farmers stood in clusters nearby, watching. Some slipped into their homes, their doors closing softly behind them. None stepped forward.

A creak broke the stillness as the door to one of the nearby houses opened. A boy stood there, his face ruddy and smeared with mud. Jace recognized him—it was the boy he’d met earlier.

“Hey!” the boy shouted, his voice fierce despite the quaver in it.

The man and woman scrambled to their feet, rushing toward him. They didn’t speak, only motioning frantically for him to get back inside. The boy resisted, planting his feet stubbornly in the doorway.

The nobles turned toward him. One sneered, his voice low and venomous. “What do we have here? The runt of a Liar. Maybe we ought to teach him his place, huh? Don’t want to end up like your parents, do you?”

The boy’s parents tried to mime apologies, their gestures desperate. The man raised a hand as if to stop the inevitable. One of the goons loomed closer, raising a fist toward the boy.

The man’s anger flared, raw and searing. It blazed in his eyes as his hand shot up, and a golden rod materialized, crackling with energy. The weapon shimmered in the cold light, lengthening as he raised it high, preparing to bring it down with brutal force.

Jace moved instinctively, the world narrowing to the boy and his parents. He Shifted, reappearing beside them, his body vibrating with the sudden transition. Without hesitation, he grabbed them—something he hadn’t attempted before with his new abilities—and Shifted again, dragging them a few feet away. The sensation was disorienting, like being yanked through thick, syrupy air, but the gamble paid off. The golden rod smashed into the ground where they’d stood moments before, sending shards of ice and snow scattering. Jace staggered slightly but grinned grimly. Much better, he thought. It hadn’t drained all his aether, and that was progress.

Before they could recover, he Shifted again, this time appearing behind the group of nobles. They spun toward him, their expressions darkening. One sneered, gripping the golden rod that had now extended into a full staff. He swung it in an arc, the air humming with power as it moved. “What do we have here, eh? A Rot sympathizer?”

The fight erupted in a chaotic blur. Jace ducked under the swing of the golden staff, his movements fluid and precise. He called forth his Shadow Weapon, the dark energy coalescing into a heavy club. The weapon thrummed in his grip as he swung it, aiming for non-lethal blows. Not that I don’t want to break something, he admitted to himself, but he held back, teeth gritted.

The first noble crumpled under the weight of the club, collapsing with a grunt. Jace Shifted again, dodging a blast of force that erupted from the outstretched hand of another. The air shimmered where the attack passed, close enough to ruffle his cloak. He spun, bringing the club down on the next man’s shoulder. The impact reverberated up his arm as the man staggered and fell.

A sharp burst of pain flared in his side as one of the others struck him. Jace stumbled, a hiss escaping his lips as he turned to face the remaining three. Each was armed with unique powers: force blasts, crackling energy, and the devastating reach of the golden staff. They moved with a practiced precision that made Jace’s stomach twist. These weren’t just drunk fools—they knew how to fight.

The odds turned quickly. A blast of energy caught him in the chest, throwing him back against a snowbank. Another strike landed on his shoulder, numbing his arm. His health plummeted, the bar in his peripheral vision flashing red. Panic flared, but then his aether surged, warmth spreading through his body as the healing kicked in. The wounds closed slightly, enough to keep him standing, but not enough to turn the tide.

Jace swung his Shadow Weapon wildly, catching one of them across the knee. He threw out his Soul Chains, the dark tendrils wrapping around another’s arms and yanking them back. But it wasn’t enough. A sharp blow to his ribs sent him reeling, his vision blurring as his health dipped again.

The last thing he saw before his knees buckled was the golden staff rising high above him. The noble who wielded it smirked, his features unnervingly familiar. Jace blinked.

And then the rod came down.

Out of nowhere, a blur sliced through the chaos—a lithe figure, a woman dressed in black, her face shrouded beneath a dark veil. She moved like a shadow come to life, fluid and unpredictable, her every step precise yet almost impossible to track.

Jace barely registered her arrival before she struck. A whirlwind of kicks, punches, and strikes landed on the nobles, each hit quick and deliberate. None of the blows seemed powerful enough to incapacitate, but they came in relentless succession. A dozen strikes. Then another dozen. The nobles tried to retaliate, their weapons swinging through empty air, their powers fizzling against her sheer speed and agility.

She was untouchable.

Frustration turned to panic as the nobles realized they couldn’t land a single blow. One by one, they broke ranks and ran, their bravado crumbling under the relentless assault. Within moments, the street was silent again, save for the faint crunch of their retreating footsteps in the snow.

The figure stood motionless, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the shifting clouds. The curve of her form, subtle and deliberate, left little doubt that it was a woman, though every other detail seemed obscured, shrouded in an unnatural haze. Jace’s Truthsense flickered uselessly against her presence, as if she were a shadow slipped through the cracks of reality, her very essence defying his grasp.

Her head tilted ever so slightly in his direction—a gesture that felt intimate and unnerving all at once, like a silent acknowledgment meant only for him. A mask obscured her face, its surface smooth and featureless save for faint, intricate carvings that seemed to shift when he looked directly at them. It was as if the mask itself was alive, reflecting no identity, only a barrier to the truth he sought.

And then she was gone, vanishing in a gust of wind that stirred the snow at his feet.

Jace sat there in stunned silence, the adrenaline draining from his body as the pain of his wounds resurfaced. He glanced toward the house. The man, woman, and boy were inside now, safe. The boy’s face peeked through the frost-clouded window, his wide eyes fixed on Jace.

Jace mustered his best "I'm alright" wave, though every movement sent sharp pangs through his battered body. Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as he channeled his remaining aether to heal his injuries. The warmth spread through his limbs, knitting flesh and dulling pain, but the process left him light-headed.

Grabbing a handful of snow, he cleaned the blood and dirt from his face, ran a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to fix it, and adjusted his cloak.

He was late. The Welcome Ceremony was waiting, and he could already imagine Dex's snarky comments. With a weary sigh, he started moving, each step a little steadier than the last.