Chronicles of the Untalented

There was no sunrise.

But the sky lightened by a shade — not brighter, just less dark. That was as much of a morning as this city ever gave.

Silas opened his eyes to the same ceiling. Same cracks, same faint dripping in the wall, same cold pressing into his bones through the thin blanket. But something was different.

He wasn't running anymore.

He wasn't being dragged by fear, or thrown into death, or clawing for breath through someone else's choices.

For once, he had space to think.

His room was still. Lifeless, as always. His mother wasn't home—she never was. And if she had been, she wouldn't have said anything anyway.

Silas stood, pulling on the same coat he always wore. He crossed into the narrow living space and picked up a crust of dry bread from the chipped plate left on the counter. It wasn't good, but it was food. He bit into it, chewing slowly, quietly.

His mind wandered.

Now that the chaos had calmed—just a little—he had choices. That thought alone felt strange.

He remembered the last mission—the way his effigy had fought. Wild, powerful… but unstable. It hadn't been rebellion. Not exactly. More like confusion. Disorientation. Rage, maybe, but not aimless.

And when Silas thought deeper—past the blood, past the fear—he understood something:

The instability hadn't come from the effigy alone.

It had come from him.

His soul had been fractured—first by his insanity, then again in the clash with the beasts, and then by the soul-splitting ritual. The part of his soul that lived inside the effigy had become too equal to the part that lived in him.

Two halves. Equal weight. No anchor.

It wasn't rebellion—it was balance. And that made it dangerous.

But now… the tear was mending. Slowly. The bond was healing, and control was returning.

That gave him time. And with time came decisions.

He knew what he needed to do.

Magic.

---

He found himself at Velira's door—again.

He didn't knock. He never did.

The door creaked open with the same familiar groan. Books lined the walls, half-organized, half-chaotic. It smelled like dust and dried ink.

Velira didn't even look up from her notes. "What is it now?"

Silas grinned, leaning casually against the shelf. "Can't I drop by just to visit a dear friend?"

Velira tilted her head slightly, not amused. "A friend, sure. A walking magical disaster with mood swings and a soul-devouring puppet? That's where I draw the line."

Silas chuckled. "Lucky for you, I've got great balance. Standing just on the safe side of that line."

Velira rolled her eyes, finally setting her pen down. "What do you actually want?"

He shrugged. "Thought I'd do some rune inscriptions today. Magic for the effigy. Figured I'd ask if you wanted in."

Velira raised an eyebrow. "Huh. So you do make plans now."

Silas smirked. "A man of many talents."

She exhaled, standing and stretching. "Fine. Could be useful. Just don't blow anything up."

---

They walked in step—both quiet, but comfortable. The streets were gray and cracked, and the lanterns hanging overhead did little to push back the city's gloom. But at least it was a gloom they'd grown up in. Familiar darkness.

Their first stop was the true library—one guarded by robed attendants, where access came with rank and contribution. The building rose like a spine from the ground, every inch of it humming with enchantments. The doors opened slowly, reluctantly, as if the books inside weighed down the hinges with secrets.

They moved through the halls together, choosing old tomes—Velira selecting water and healing inscriptions, Silas looking for more obscure branches. Nothing too complex. Just enough to give his effigy range. Distance. Options.

Afterwards, they walked to the long black building at the edge of the inner ring—where contribution points were traded for supplies. The air around it always felt heavier. Like the ground itself held its breath.

Inside, Silas handed over his slate and watched his points drain away. He picked up small vials of crystalized ink, fragments of enchanted bone, and something less ordinary—a pouch of soul-poisoning berries, dried and brittle. They were typically used in concocting poisons meant for monsters. But anything with a soul could be harmed by them.

Velira noticed, narrowing her eyes. "That's… a weird choice."

Silas shrugged, tucking the pouch into his coat. "you'll see. "

She didn't press. Not because she agreed—but because she trusted him. Or wanted to.

As they left the building, the weight of the day settled gently over their shoulders—not suffocating, not sharp.

Just real.

They didn't speak as they walked back.

But this time, it wasn't because they were afraid.

It was because—for the first time—they had the space not to.