Smoke from the broken iron-man hung in the air, a foul mist tasting of copper and burnt hope.

  Amidst the ruin stood August. His boots were bound to the cobbles by the heat of his own blood. Upon Kogsworth Avenue the silence hung like a held breath, a great stillness before the scream.

  His hands trembled, grey with dust, and the veins stood out like cords of blue wire.

  He sought to flex his fingers, but the flesh was dead, and feeling was fled, replaced by a stinging swarm that crawled to his shoulder. It seemed his arm had slept for a hundred years.

  I did this.

  The thought sat like a rough, sharp stone in his gut.

  Silas blinked. The rhythm of his breath hitched.

  "Your helper... hath melted a ton of brass, Scholar. Step aside."

  "Spirit-Sick! A Soul-Fit!" Valerius waved his hands wild, and he traced strange shapes in the air.

  "The lad is a cup! A rare earth-speaker! The open heart of the machine sang to his own spirit-shake! Hold him tighter, and you shall close the loop, and like as not burn your own blood!"

  The crowd fell silent. Even the Artificer blinked, and his rage paused for a heartbeat before such wild words.

  Silas halted. He looked at his glove, and then at August. A shadow of doubt crossed his fever-bright eyes. The fear of the unseen, of the ghost-fire that drove the engines, was deep set in every soul of Antheia. They knew machines. They knew steam. They knew not the hidden flame that fed them.

  "Burn my blood?" Silas frowned. He loosened his grip, but a little.

  "At once!" Valerius nodded fast.

  He turned to August, and his eyes were wide and fearful bright behind thick glass.

  "Run, you fool! The echo rings still!"

  He hissed the last word, and he spat it like a curse.

  Legs, lad. Use them. Now.

  August had no thought. He had no plan. The wit that kept him alive in the rough tussle of the Masons' Yard took hold.

  He yanked his shoulder free from the loosening grip of Silas. He slipped on fused stones. He went down on one knee. He scraped skin. He scrambled up. He ran.

  "Halt him!" Silas roared.

  The spell of daze broke.

  "Guards!"

  But Valerius fell, as if by chance, over his own robes, and he tumbled into the path of the coming Watchmen, a knot of limbs and cursing men.

  August looked not back. He ran.

  He ran until the shining brass fronts of the Artificers' District gave way to the soot-stained brick of the work-halls. He ran until the smell of the storm faded, and the honest, choking stench of coal smoke and unwashed folk took its place. He ran until his lungs burned like they were filled with glass shards, and his legs felt like lead.

  Through the market he fled, and he upset a cart of cabbages. Green heads rolled like severed skulls on the stones. The merchant cursed him, and he threw a rotten turnip that struck his shoulder. August felt it not. He felt only the echo of the stone's scream in his blood.

  Heresy.

  The word was a doom. A tale of horror told to fright children. Hark not to the earth, sweetling, or the earth shall swallow you whole.

  He turned down Weaver's Row. Loom shuttles clacked like bone teeth behind dark windows. Steam hissed from vents, hot and wet.

  The Masons' Guild.

  The only home he had. The only place that made sense. Stone judged not, nor did it melt brass or scream blame. Stone just was, patient and waiting.

  Iron gates stood ahead, mostly open, welcoming the dray horses and the raw granite. This day they were half-closed.

  He squeezed through the gap, and he burst into the yard. Gasping. Tunic soaked with sweat. Hair plastered to his skull.

  Commonly there was a din of chisels on granite, the steady clink-clink-clink of work. The song of the yard. This day, silence.

  Apprentices gathered near the main shed. Joss. Flyn. Boys who mostly tripped him or hid his tools. They laughed not now. They watched with wide, fearful eyes, and they clutched mallets like weapons. They parted as he stumbled toward the Master's office, and they gave him a wide berth as if he bore the plague, as if the grey dust on his skin was death itself.

  "Master Petyr!" August choked out, and he reached for the heavy oak door. "Master, pray, I—"

  The door flew open ere he touched it.

  Guild Master Petyr stood on the threshold. Thin. Weasel-faced. Sharp-nosed. He wore a velvet coat that cost more than August would earn in a life. He held a scented cloth to his nose, treating August's very self as a foul stench.

  "Get back," Petyr snapped. His voice was high. Reedy. The voice of a man who weighed gold, not stones.

  "It was a mishap," August pleaded. His chest heaved. "The ground... it was the First Dominion stone. It woke up. I meant not to—"

  "Silence!" Petyr stepped out.

  He closed the door behind him to shield the room from the yard. He looked left and right, and his eyes snapped back and forth like a trapped rat.

  "The Gear-men are writing a doom of debt already! Know you what the Iron Laws say of 'corrupted echoes'? Do you?"

  August shook his head. Tears stung his eyes. "Nay. I just—"

  "They call it Heresy, boy!" Petyr hissed.

  Spittle flew from his lips.

  "Earth-Heresy. Forbidden use of the King's Stone. If they link you to this Guild... if they think we taught you this... the Crown will strip our writ. They will bar the yard."

  Petyr grabbed a chisel from a nearby bench. He brandished it. His hand shook.

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  "I will not have the Guild broken for one 'prentice! I will not lose my place because you cannot rule your freakish blood! Get him from my sight!"

  "But I have nowhere to go," August whispered.

  The truth crashed down. No Guild meant no work. No work meant no bread. No bread meant the gutter. Or the press gangs. Or the husks.

  "That is not my care," Petyr sneered. "Guards! Remove this—"

  A shadow blotted out the sun.

  Heavy boots crunched on gravel. The sound was clear. Rhythmically uneven. Thud-step. Thud-step. Apprentices scattered like pigeons before a hawk.

  Master Borin came forth from the dark of the main workshop.

  A cliff face that chose to walk. His shoulders were a mountain range under a leather tunic. His neck was a thick pillar of muscle defying the shape of man. He carried a sledgehammer in one hand as easily as another man might carry a spoon. Stone dust coated him like a second skin, grey on grey.

  Borin stopped between Petyr and August. He looked at the Guild Master. Petyr shrank back, and his chisel lowered. Even the Master of the Guild knew better than to stand in the shadow of the mountain.

  "I shall deal with the lad, Petyr," Borin rumbled. The sound of grinding bedrock.

  "He... he is a burden, Borin," Petyr squeaked. He tried to find his calm, straightening his velvet coat. "He must be cast out. At once. Before all."

  Borin turned to August. Face like thunder. Eyes, mostly hidden beneath bushy grey brows, were hard flint.

  "You," Borin growled.

  August flinched. "Master Borin, I—"

  "Shut your mouth!" Borin roared, and the sound echoed off the courtyard walls.

  Birds took flight from the eaves.

  "You witless, heavy-handed fool! I bade you haul stone, not sing to it! I told you a thousand times to keep your head down and your hands steady!"

  He stepped forward. August tried to back away. Too slow.

  Borin's hand, the size of a shovel blade, lashed out.

  CRACK.

  The blow caught August on the cheek. Not a tap. A heavy, open-handed strike that lifted him off his feet. The world spun. Sky. Gravel. Pain.

  He hit the ground hard, tasting copper and dust. The breath left him.

  "Rise!" Borin screamed.

  He grabbed August by the collar. He hauled him upright like a ragdoll.

  "You are a curse on this yard! A stone-deaf fool are you! You are done! Hear you me? Done!"

  He dragged August across the yard. Not toward the main gate. Toward the narrow, shadow-choked alley serving as the waste chute for broken stone. The path of shame.

  "Master, pray!" August sobbed.

  His feet scrambled for hold on the gravel.

  "Don’t cast me out! I will do better! I will not listen to the song!"

  "You shall do nothing!" Borin shoved the heavy iron gate open with his shoulder.

  He threw August into the alley.

  August fell into mud and waste. The smell of rotting garbage, stale beer, and broken dreams hit him. He curled into a ball, waiting for the kick, waiting for the final crushing blow to break his ribs and leave him for the rats.

  The gate creaked shut. The latch clicked.

  Silence.

  Heavy breathing.

  "Stand," Borin said.

  His voice was changed. The thunder was gone. In its place, a gravelly, trembling quiet.

  August looked up. He wiped blood from his split lip. Borin stood over him. His fists were unclenched. The giant man shook. Not with rage. With fear.

  "Let me see the face," Borin whispered. He crouched down. His knees popped like gunshots.

  "Hold still... I had to hit you, lad. Petyr was watching. The weasel hath eyes like a hawk."

  Borin reached out. The hand, so fearful moments ago, hovered near August's swelling cheek. It touched not. It pulled back. Curling fingers into a palm that looked like worn leather.

  "You always said I was heavy-handed," August murmured. Wincing. "That I ruined the grain. That I was a butcher with a chisel."

  Borin looked away. He stared at the damp brick wall of the alley. His eyes were wet. A single tear tracked through the stone-dust on his cheek, a clean line in the grit.

  "I lied," Borin said.

  August froze. "What?"

  "I crushed your works, for they were whole," Borin said. Voice thick.

  "That ox you made? The iron-fleece? It looked like it breathed. You did not chip the stone, August, you asked it to move, and it harkened."

  Borin looked back. The wildness gone. Replaced by deep, terrible fear.

  "That is not stone-craft, son. That is Heresy. That is a mark on your back the size of the Great Church. The Guilds want no rivals. They want vessels or laborers. If they knew what you could do... if they knew you could speak the tongue of the First Dominion... they would not hire you. They would shackle you."

  He reached out. He dusted off August's tunic, rough and fast. Jerky movements betraying dread. A father trying to clean a child before sending him into the dark.

  "I kept you small, and so I kept you safe," Borin whispered.

  "I thought if I made you think you were worthless, you would never try to use it. I thought I could hide you in the dust."

  He stopped. He reached into his tunic. He pulled out a heavy leather pouch. He shoved it into August's chest.

  "Take it. It is my hoard. It is for bread, not ale. Gamble it not. Drink it not."

  "Master..."

  "And this." Borin pressed something small and cold into August's palm.

  August looked down. A small stone. Dark. Heavy. Star-iron. Carved into the surface, a single, sharp rune. Angles. Deep beyond sight. The lines seemed to hum against his skin.

  "This is old stone," Borin said. "Dweorg-cut. It means 'Endure'. It means 'To bear the weight without cracking.' It means 'Foundation'."

  Borin closed August's fingers over the stone. He held the fist for a moment. Grip tight. Desperate.

  "You are the Key-stone now, August. You must hold yourself up. Let not the world grind you down to gravel."

  "I know not where to go," August whispered.

  The need was a cold hand in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

  "Master, I cannot do this alone."

  Borin shook his head. He stood up, and the movement was heavy, final. The mask of the Master Mason slid back into place, sealing the cracks around his eyes, hiding the fear beneath layers of granite.

  "You have legs," Borin rumbled. "Use them."

  "But—"

  Borin looked at the alley mouth, his jaw set like a lintel.

  "Run," Borin said. "Go to the Lower Wards. Fade into the smoke. Go not to your room. Go not to the tavern. If you come back here, Petyr will hang you himself. And I... I cannot save you again."

  "I thank you," August whispered.

  Borin looked at him one last time. There was a fierce, desperate pride in his eyes.

  "You are a mason, August. Forget that never. Even if you never touch a chisel again."

  The giant turned his back. His shoulders shook. He marched back toward the gate without looking back. Iron clanged shut. Bolt slid home.

  August stood alone in the garbage. He clutched the pouch and the stone rune to his chest. The only father he had ever known had just beaten him to save his life.

  He wiped his eyes. His hand came away bloody.

  He turned. He walked.

  He knew not where he was going. He knew only he could not stay. He kept to the shadows. He shunned the main roads where the Watch walked. He wove through the maze of the Lower Ward. Streets got narrower. Darker. Smelling of wet wool and want.

  The city changed as he went down. The gas lamps became fewer, the glass cracked. The cobbles turned to packed earth and waste. The fair, clock-work order of the Upper City was a lie down here. Here, the city was a beast that ate its own young.

  He reached the Old Gate as the sun began to dip below the smog. It turned the sky the color of a bruised plum.

  The gate was a relic of the old city. A crumbling limestone arch. None used it anymore save the poor and the dying.

  Head down. Hood up.

  "Heavy feet," a voice rasped. "For a lad with empty pockets."

  August stopped.

  Sitting on a crate by the archway, a bundle of rags that looked vaguely like a man. Old Kael. The blind beggar. A fixture of the place. Mostly ignored. One with the waste piles. He sat with a stillness that belonged to lizards, not men.

  But as August stepped closer, the smell hit.

  Instead of rot or unwashed bodies, the scent was of crisp air, the sharp tang of lightning and pine. It had no business being in the bowels of the city.

  August tried to step around him.

  "Let go, old man. I have naught for you."

  Kael's hand shot out.

  A blur. One moment resting on his knee, next clamped around August's wrist.

  The grip shocked him, iron-hard and unyielding, a wolf's clamp rather than the weak grasp of a starving beggar.

  August gasped. He tried to pull away. He might as well have tried to pull an arm out of a vice.

  Kael tilted his head. A strip of dirty linen covered his eyes. August felt a weight pressing on him. A gaze stripping him bare.

  "Walk the stone path, lad," Kael whispered.

  Voice like dry leaves skittering on pavement.

  "The lightning strikes the high trees first. But the stone... the stone remembers the storm."

  "You are mad," August hissed. dread rose in his throat. "Let go!"

  Kael smiled. The smile was sharp, crowded with too many teeth.

  "Run then," the beggar said.

  "But the hum of your blood is loud this day. Hard to hide a ringing bell. They shall hear you in the dark, little mason. The things that eat light shall hear you."

  For a split second, a fly buzzed near Kael's face. The blind man's head snapped to the side, tracking the fly with fearful skill. His mouth opened, and for a moment, August thought he saw a tongue that was too long, too dark.

  August yanked his arm back with all his strength.

  This time, Kael let go.

  August stumbled back. He clutched his wrist. The skin where the beggar touched him tingled. Hot and cold at the same time.

  He waited not for another riddle. He ran. He sprinted through the archway and into the deepening gloom of the outer slums. The beggar's laughter, dry and knowing, chased him into the dark.

  Exile, target; the city, mostly so cold, suddenly felt like it watched him with a thousand hungry eyes. The shadows stretched, and they reached for his ankles.

  He was alone.

  The silence of the coming night was heavy. It was not empty. It was waiting.