Stress on Anchor: 0.5%

  Why did it change? Kael frowned beneath the sheet covering him. If he thought about the worst first, it would be a countdown with stress as the watch hands. Didn't feel physical. Though wounded, he felt great with his full stomach. Mental, then. Targeted at the anchor of endurance—at his memories of his mom.

  He had already lost the warmth from them. Would they disappear if it reached 100%? Would he lose his truth of endurance, or... Would it be something worse related to the risk of breaking?

  Terror crept beneath his skin, tickling his wounds and jolting his mind. An hour and a half. That was all it took for the stress value to rise. So, seventy-five hours... In seventy-five hours, no matter what happened, he'd lose something else.

  Just thinking about losing himself terrorised him for a couple of minutes. How long? He didn't know. But long enough for Els' talk about priests to die down and for her breath to become a peaceful background noise. Then, he pressed his lips into a tight line.

  That would be the worst, but I'm not giving it any chance to happen. Sister Harrow; she must have had her truth for years, decades perhaps. Garrick, Brannick, and likely Silma must be the same, or they wouldn't control the slums. Theoretically, there has to be a method to either slow the stress on their anchors or stop it altogether.

  After a moment, he nodded. They're likely aware, but don't have my ledger to monitor the expansion. I think they stopped it. Need to find out how before I run out of time. Don't pressure yourself, Kael. You need to understand the ledger and your truth before experimenting.

  With a deep breath, he forced the question aside to focus on the basis.

  How did he awaken endurance?

  His eyes trailed to the core of his truth.

  I persist.

  He had stated it with everything he believed in as he lost consciousness. He marked it as condition one, then moved to condition two: almost dying. Could near-death experiences help someone awaken a truth? His father did during the mine collapse, so most likely.

  Perhaps there were other ways, but that was what he deduced with the little he knew. Nodding, he moved to the anchor.

  His crystallised endurance in recollections of his mom's unbending back. If his statement triggered the truth awakening, the recollection—no, his personification of endurance—must have caused it to latch on his memories of her. Those memories became his anchor, and the price... the painful price took away his most important treasure.

  He clenched his loose, yellowed shirt, feeling his heart hasten beneath the rough linen. If only he had known...

  In vain, he reached for the image of his mom. Still no warmth. He let out a long sigh. On one hand, he hated endurance for what it took from him. On the other, he knew he would have bled out and frozen to death in the alley.

  Survival had costs. Powers had costs. If it ever happened again, he would choose what it took next.

  His next question made him clench his fist. Who gave him his truth? Not the gods. He wouldn't believe these distant, cold bastards cared about him, or anyone, for that matter. If not the gods, then truths existed on their own. Perhaps rules like how boiling water made out steam. What if truths were the very tools the gods used to rise to power? Could they—could he—wield more than one?

  Dangerous ideas without understanding how stress works. I should drop them for now and test what endurance truly changed in me. I need less food, and winter frost can't freeze me. Is there something else? And that ledger appeared out of nowhere...

  He undid his bandages. Red skin veered to its natural pale already. Silma's balm helped, but he believed endurance healed him faster. Strength calmly returned to his broken arm, much faster than he would have expected. The stab wound at his side still burned beneath a healthy scab. No blood, not when he had woken up, now that he thought about it. So, endurance also made him harder to kill. Other tests would wait until he recovered.

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  Then, he pondered the ledger. With his prior deductions, assuming they were mostly true, he was fairly sure the ledger didn't give him his truth of endurance. It was a record of what he was becoming. And what he left behind.

  He continued to speculate until Els' sheet ruffled beside him. He peeked out, and the girl winked as she covered her yawn. "Slept well?"

  Kael yanked the sheet back over his face. "No."

  "About that book..."

  "No." He cut her off, and she clicked her tongue.

  He heard footsteps, then his sheet flew up. Els grinned over him. "Alright, stingy boy. Keep your secrets, but you need a mental breather after what happened to you. Still remember how to make candles?"

  "Stingy... What? Nevermind. Mom taught you, so why would I not know?"

  "Great. I guess you'll manage a couple then." Waving, Els sat at the stone plank. From beneath, she pulled out a small container that smelled of poor-quality tallow. She lit up the half-consumed coal in the hearth, lining tin cans made from scavenged metal on the plank.

  Kael opened his mouth to refuse, but eventually joined her with a grumble, his ledger never leaving his hand. As a guest, he should help, especially since Arthur's illness sank the family's earnings. That, and he wouldn't have anything to eat if Els didn't sell her cheap tallow candles.

  For the rest of the afternoon, he watched tallow melt before he poured the liquid into the long tins. Between two sticks, he stabilised a wick recycled from old pants.

  Participating in this simple task and watching the tallow harden somehow helped him relax. Ash, Tovin, Garick, Harrow, the ledger, and truths—they all faded from his mind. Instead, he remembered a younger Els burning the tallow when his mom didn't look, the two lines of tears cutting her darkened cheeks, and Arthur's worried lecture.

  His chest warmed from these memories. Els had been right. He truly needed a breather.

  Once the candles solidified, Els swiped them into her basket. "Not bad. Looks like getting your ass whooped isn't the only thing you remember."

  "Hey! I seldom lost." Kael rolled his eyes.

  "You seldom fought. That's why." Els' lips curved into a half-smirk as she opened the door. "At least your gloomy expression eased a bit. Alright, see you later. And show me your book when I'm back."

  "Get lost!" Kael snarled, yet smiled.

  The next three passed by in the same fashion. Slices of bread and water as their only meal, speculations that led to even more questions, and a tight monitor on the stress on his anchor.

  Somehow, it seemed locked at 0.5% for now, which should have relieved him. But his cluelessness about the trigger buzzed in a corner of his mind like broken machinery. It felt like he gambled with himself; he hated it.

  Arthur shook his thoughts that day with a call to his room. Besides meals, Els' father never left his room, or rather showed himself. When he did, he forced crooked smiles on his sunken cheeks—the same kind as Kael's mom's.

  Kael knew... That Arthur didn't want others to see him, that shame strangled his guts each time someone gazed at him with pity. So, when he entered the room, he didn't. Like with his mom, he looked at the man as if illness didn't ravage him.

  "Kael..." Arthus coughed from his bed, and Kael went beside him.

  Before he could say something, Arthur continued. "Tovin and Ash. I can't stomach what they did to you. I know you can't either. It'll haunt you, my boy."

  Kael's eyes narrowed into slits. Though he tried not to think about these two traitors, he found himself dreaming of breaking their bones.

  "What should I do?" His voice came out as cold as the frost outside.

  Arthur let silence thicken in the room. Then, he leaned against the headboard, his voice solemn. "Someone wise would advise forgiveness. But if Ashcoil Row birthed wise men, we wouldn't live here. No, Kael. We return blow for blow to protect the little we have. Take your revenge. You deserve it. You need it to move forward."

  Kael clenched his fist, a dangerous glint sparking in his eyes. He would. Harrow and Garrick would come one day, too.

  Arthur shook his head. "Garrick and Harrow are... too much even for fools like us. That's also why I'm telling you to take revenge on these two. Make them the symbol of your humiliation and let those who can't be touched untouched."

  No, with my truth, I can make them all pay even if it takes years.

  Burying his thoughts, Kael nodded. "I'll make these two feel worse than me."

  "Good. They're nothing much, but don't forget they're gang members. The Ragged Crown has eyes everywhere, and you still need to lie low, so do it discreetly after healing in a month or two." Arthur let himself slide on the bed, his voice lowering to a murmur that told Kael the discussion was over.

  "Mhh. Thank you, Arthur." With purposeful steps, he left the room.

  He didn't want to hear about patience and forgiveness, as his mom always preached. He wanted revenge. Having a single person agree was all he needed to begin scheming.

  But when he checked his ledger before sleeping, his pupils constricted, and an icy shiver ran down his spine. There, in sky-blue ink, the stress on his anchor had slithered to 5%.