A new day, Kael awoke to a sliver light cutting across his face. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The room at the rusted feather was a small one but he had a mattress and a window to look at the stars with. For now he was content with this even though it was a small room.
He plucked himself up splashing water from the wash basin near the window outlooking the streets of Arlinne which were alive even in the early hours. It seemed like in Arlinne sound was never really gone. Merchants set up their stalls in the corners of looming buildings, a child chased a chicken through the cobbled streets, and a drunk slumped against the closed door of an apothecary.
He pulled on his coat, adjusted his tattered scarf, and slung the satchel over his shoulder. As he made way through the streets, Kael realized he had time to kill so he decided to explore the various routes to the theatre. Along the many routes one path stood out. It was a scenic park with a sign that read "Sliver Row" spelt out in peeling silver paint. The letters were hanging by single nails. There were warning signs everywhere " Watch your step" "Moss slippery when wet". Kael smirked as he faintly thought as if he were back at Saint Seraphina. The smell of the morning dew, nostalgic memories.
But alas it was too late, as it was time to work. Kael had made his way from the stone bridge of Silver row to the booming market square. Then up ahead, the theater stood, crooked and proud, the faded boards and chipped windows almost a badge of honor. It was a place that had seen everything.
A new poster had joined the others outside the theater doors hand-drawn, too accurate to be casual. It was Kael. Posed mid-song, mouth parted, eyes somewhere far away. But he hadn't sat for it.
Beneath the portrait, a list of names appeared: Kael, Lys, Aroa, Bran, Miren, Lorne, and Brayda. His name was there already inked in with an ornate flourish. Upon seeing this, he should've been proud. But, a strange unease settled over him, something deeper than the usual nerves that came with joining a new group.
Inside the theater, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, sweat, and dust. Ropes creaked above him. Set pieces shifted under quiet orders. A mirror rolled past, and Kael caught a glimpse of himself from an angle that didn't quite match the room.
He stepped deeper into the theater, blinking away the dissonance.
"G'Morning, Saint."
Kael turned to find a stocky man with copper-red curls and a painted smile lounging casually on a crate.
"Didn't peg you for an early riser," the man said, raising an eyebrow.
Kael smirked, a flicker of his usual sharpness returning. "Didn't think you were a clown."
"Bran," the man replied, hopping down and offering a hand. "Resident trouble maker and master of the wardrobe closet."
"Kael."
"I know." Bran's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Everyone's talking about the red moon song. Apparently, you made Lys tear up. No one does that. Not unless you die on stage. Literally."
Kael gave a modest shrug, though his chest tightened. The red moon song hadn't been planned. It had just…happened
"Sorry? Who's Lys?"
"She's the director. You know the one with the feather hat that looks like a chicken exploded on her head," Bran said with a grin.
Kael's mouth dropped open. "Oh… my bad, I forgot that was the director's name."
Bran chuckled. "What a plot twist! You would've been in for it if I didn't tell you."
The woman with the feathered hat was already barking at Aroa wobbling on stilts, herx sharp voice cutting through the low buzz of conversation.
A clap of her hands rang out, and silence followed.
"Alright, misfits and melodramatics," Lys said, stepping onto the stage, her gaze sweeping across the room with laser precision.
"First rehearsal. We're rough, but I expect you to be honest, loud, and alive."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "We bleed the truth on this stage. Let's begin."
Her voice was sharp, but there was something compelling about it, a force that made even the most hardened actors straighten in their seats.
"Scene three. Kael, you're with Miren."
A lean woman with short-cropped purple hair and sharp cheekbones stepped forward. She offered a brief nod, her eyes sharp.
She handed Kael a script its edges curled from use. Miren was already flipping to the page. "Scene three," she murmured, then looked up at him. "You ready?"
He gave a small nod, heart thudding louder than it should.
They stepped into the light, the world narrowing to just them and the script.
Miren started, voice firm and clear:
"You left the door open. Again."
"Maybe I wanted someone to come in," Kael answered, finding the words, feeling the edge in them.
"You don't want. You avoid."
Kael hesitated but only a breath. Then:
"You think running is the same as hiding but it isn't."
Miren's eyes flared, just for a second. She pressed forward.
"You lied. That's all it was."
"I chose. That's what you don't understand."
Something shifted in him. The rhythm found its footing uncertainty softening into conviction. The words weren't just lines anymore. They hit too close for comfort. Miren's delivery was polished, shaped by years of performance, but Kael was no stranger to the art of wearing masks. Still, Lys watched like she was peeling him open.
"Again," Feather-Hat ordered. "Slower. Feel the stakes."
They did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, Lys' eyes sharpened, as though she were searching for something that hasn't surfaced yet.
Hours passed in sweat, song, and aching lungs. The air felt heavier with each repetition, a kind of silent pressure building around him.
Maybe this was normal, this pressure. I've gotta start getting used to it.
During a short break, Kael stepped outside for air. The city had grown louder, the clatter of cart wheels, hawkers shouting their wares, pigeons scrabbling above. Posters covered the stone walls like a patchwork quilt of hope and desperation. Puppet shows. Alchemists offering miracles. Recruitment signs for private guards.
One caught his eye.
Stark. Black and red. A metallic hand raised not in welcome, but warning.
THE IRON HANDS ARE COMING.
DEMONS WILL BLEED.
TRUTH WILL BURN.
Kael stared at the poster, his pulse quickening. The image felt eerie. Like it had weight. A prophecy. Or a promise.
Bran appeared beside him, crunching into an apple. "Creepy, right?"
"Who are they?" Kael asked, still gazing at the poster, as if the metallic hand was somehow going to reach for him.
"Demon hunters. Northreach. Real serious. Think plague masks and holy iron. Sermons about sin. They come when things get... weird."
"Do you believe in demons?" Kael asked lightly, his voice betraying nothing, but a part of him was unsettled. He had lived through too many acts of theater to dismiss the weight of that warning so easily.
Bran shrugged, taking another bite of his apple. "I believe in nightmares. I believe in too much citrus wine. But demons?" He shrugged again, though his voice held an odd edge. "In this city, sometimes it's hard to tell what's real and what's just an act."
Kael's gaze lingered on the poster, its weight sinking deeper into his chest. The Iron Hands. They weren't just a group of hunters—they were something more, something waiting. He turned away from the poster, but something in him couldn't shake the image.
Back inside, the rehearsal deepened. The lines came easier now. Kael sang with more conviction. His voice cracked once someone clapped too early. The sound echoed strange, like a cavern, not a theater.
A mirror onstage reflected backdrop shadows that seemed off, angles that didn't make sense. For a second, the world behind him bent in ways it shouldn't have, a distortion of reality he couldn't quite explain.
A stage light popped, loud as a gunshot, as Kael hit a high note.
Then, at the back of the theater, a figure. Dressed in black, his face hidden beneath a brimmed hat. His hands clasped over a cane tipped in iron.
Unmoving. Watching.
Others noticed, glanced, then quickly looked away, as though acknowledging his presence would summon something darker.
Kael blinked and the figure was gone.
"Who was that?" he asked, turning to Lorne, a dancer with sharp features and a habit of always standing just slightly off-center.
She didn't meet his eyes. "No one."
The answer came too quickly. Too flat.
Before he could press further, Brayda, an older woman always with a cigarette tucked behind her ear murmuring without looking at him, "They always come for the new blood."
Kael frowned. "What does that mean?"
But she was already walking off, muttering something under her breath in a language he didn't recognize.
The rehearsal wrapped up late. Kael stepped outside into the cooler dusk, the city humming with the pulse of life. The light had faded, but the streets were still alive, shifting into their nighttime rhythm.
The clatter of cart wheels. Hawkers shouting in raspy twilight voices. Pigeons scrabbling along the rooftop gutters. A violin playing from an open window above. Posters on every wall like a patchwork quilt hope and desperation stitched together with staples and fading ink. Puppet shows. Alchemists promising miracles. Recruitment signs for private guards.
But it wasn't just noise—it was like the city had changed its tempo again. Faster now. Offbeat. Unsettling.
Kael paused on the stone step, eyes scanning the street.
"I don't remember feeling this… off," he said quietly to himself.
Or maybe not to himself.
He wasn't sure if it was the city that had changed or if something else had started echoing behind his eyes, syncing with its beat.
Then he saw it.
Another poster.
It was the same drawing of him: charcoal lines too clean, eyes too hollow, expression more ghost than grin. But now, behind him, half-hidden in the black ink shadows… a second figure. Just a shape. No face.
He stepped closer.
"I don't remember it being there," he muttered.
Silence.
He glanced back to the step where Brayda was. She was gone. Only the cigarette remained, still burning faintly in the gutter.
A slow chill crept down his spine.
Kael looked back at the theater.
High above, in the tallest window, a figure stood still.
Watching.
Not moving. Not blinking.
Just there.
Kael didn't look long.
The street had changed its tempo again. But something was keeping time with it.