I spent the next week with my head down, my gaze fixed on the endless tasks of my father's bakery. The scent of fresh bread was my shield, the heat of the ovens a constant, familiar warmth. But even that was a lie. The heat wasn't just from the oven; it was in me, a nervous, anxious flicker of Ignis I was constantly fighting to suppress. The incident at the market, the surge of power that had nearly exposed me, was a cold dread in my gut. I had seen what happened to men who lost control of their power, men who were dragged away by the Sisters of Purity. My brother was one of them. The whispers, the feeling of the elements in my blood, were no longer a private curse; they were a death sentence waiting to be delivered.
My father, bless his weary soul, saw the fear in my eyes. He'd lost one son to the Matriarchy's iron fist, and he was terrified of losing another. He kept me busy, scrubbing floors and kneading dough with a frantic energy that mirrored my own internal struggle. "Keep your hands moving, Kaelen," he'd say, his voice low and urgent, "and your mind quiet." He knew. He'd seen the signs in me, the same subtle hints of elemental energy that had marked my brother for death.
The morning after the marketplace incident, the city was tense. A section of the city's power grid had failed; the grand fountains had stopped flowing, and a few of the street lamps flickered erratically. It wasn't a major disaster, but it was enough to put the Matriarchal Guard on high alert. The Guard, an elite order of female channelers, were everywhere, their steel armor glinting in the sun, their faces set in grim determination. At their head was Commander Lyra, a woman whose name was spoken in hushed tones. She was known for her relentless pursuit of any threat to the elemental order, a woman whose elemental senses were said to be unmatched.
I was sent on an errand to the city's main archive, a place I usually found solace in. I was delivering a new set of ledgers my father had commissioned. As I neared the archive, my heart began to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs. There they were—the Guard. Commander Lyra was questioning a group of street vendors, her voice as sharp and cold as a winter wind. I ducked into a narrow side alley, my body pressed against the cold stone wall. I knew what she was looking for. She was hunting the person responsible for the power fluctuation, the "tainted" male channeler who dared to exist in their pristine city.
I felt the heat in my own blood, the nervous jump of the Ignis that was my own. It was a beacon, a screaming part of me that wanted to reach out, to understand. I had to control it, to smother it. I took a deep breath, focusing on the cold, damp stone of the alley wall, on the scent of dust and rot, anything to distract myself from the fire within.
Lyra's gaze swept over the crowd, a methodical, all-seeing search. I felt the skin on the back of my neck prickle as her eyes passed over the entrance to my alley. She didn't see me, but I knew she had felt something. A faint, questioning wrinkle appeared between her brows. She had sensed a flicker of something not quite right, a ripple in the elemental symphony of the city. I flattened myself further into the shadows, a silent, terrified prey. The hunt had begun, and the city's most feared hunter was on my trail.