"The more I think about this, the worse of an idea it seems," Mirak muttered, his one good hand flexing nervously. His shackles rattled as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. "This is insane, Lock. Absolutely insane."
Lock smirked, the kind of smirk that had gotten them both into trouble countless times. "What's life without a little madness? You said you wanted a challenge, didn't you?"
"I said a challenge," Mirak shot back, "not certain death!"
"Well," Lock drawled, adjusting his hood to better conceal his face, "the line between the two is thinner than you think."
Kord, leaning lazily against a nearby wall, snorted. "Oh, quit your whining, Mirak. You were the one who agreed to this. Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now."
"It's easy to say that when you're not the one risking your neck," Lock retorted, jabbing a thumb in Kord's direction.
Mirak folded his arms, glaring. "Do either of you actually realize what we're about to do? This isn't just some petty act of rebellion. It's the wall, Lock. The Sixth District's wall. It's practically a symbol of Koona itself! If this goes wrong—"
"It won't go wrong," Lock interrupted, his tone unusually firm. "Because you're going to make it work. That's what you do, Mirak. You make the impossible happen."
Mirak scoffed. "Oh, sure. And if I screw this up, the Saki sentries will kill us before we even have time to regret it."
"Lancelot said it could be done with enough Atta," Kord chimed in dismissively, waving a hand. "Just do your Sorcerer thing and the wall will crumble like stale bread."
"Easy for you to say," Mirak hissed. "You're not the one who has to actually control the flow of resin so it doesn't backfire and blow up in my face!"
Kord grinned. "Exactly why I'm not a Sorcerer. But hey, best of luck to you two."
Lock rolled his eyes and shot Kord a glare before turning back to Mirak. "Don't let him get to you. We've been through worse."
"Worse than this?!" Mirak asked incredulously, gesturing toward the towering wall visible in the distance. It loomed over the district like a glass monolith, gleaming in the sunlight. Sentries patrolled its top, their winged forms stark against the azure sky. "I don't think so."
Lock ignored the outburst, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd bustling through the streets. "Listen, if we pull this off, it won't just be a message. It'll be a legend. A Revenant taking down one of the walls of Koona? That'll make them sit up and listen."
"Or hunt us down like animals," Mirak muttered.
"Small price to pay for making history," Lock said with a shrug. "Now, let's figure out how to get you close enough to do your thing."
They blended into the shadows of the alleyways, staying out of sight as they edged closer to the wall. The Sixth District bustled with life, its streets alive with scholars, scribes, and artisans. Vendors hawked their wares, children played near fountains, and the smell of roasted nuts mingled with ink and parchment. It was a far cry from the suffocating mines of the lower districts or the opulence of the Second District's nobles.
Mirak felt the weight of the task pressing down on him as they reached the edge of the plaza. The wall loomed impossibly large now, its translucent surface shimmering like a barrier between worlds. It wasn't made of the strongest materials—glass could shatter—but the sheer scale of it made his chest tighten.
"Why even do this?" Lock asked suddenly, his voice softer now.
Mirak didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered on the wall, then shifted to the Saki patrolling its heights, their forms graceful and otherworldly. He could feel the resentment curling in his chest like smoke, sharp and bitter. "Because that wall is everything wrong with Koona. It's a monument to their perfection, to their so-called superiority. But it's hollow, Lock. Just like this city."
Lock studied him for a moment before nodding. "Fair enough."
Mirak exhaled shakily, his hands trembling. Atta flickered weakly at his fingertips, but he pushed it down. He couldn't afford to waste it now. "Do you have a plan?"
Lock grinned, the glint of mischief returning to his eyes. "Of course I have a plan. I'm me." He nodded toward a robed man walking through the crowd. "See that scribe? Head librarian of the Sixth District."
"The one everyone's avoiding?" Mirak asked.
"Exactly. I'll stir the pot. You focus on the wall."
Mirak raised an eyebrow. "You sure you can pull this off?"
"Mirak," Lock said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "I'm offended you even have to ask."
Before Mirak could reply, Lock melted into the crowd. Mirak stayed back, leaning against a fence and watching as Lock "accidentally" bumped into the scribe, scattering books and papers across the street. The head scribe looked furious, his sharp gaze snapping to Lock's wrists, where the Publici shackles gleamed in the light.
It didn't take long for people to notice. Whispers spread through the crowd, and the Saki sentries turned their attention to the commotion.
This was it.
Mirak crept toward the wall, his breath shallow and uneven. The towering glass surface loomed before him, smooth and cold under his palm. The faint hum of resin within the structure vibrated against his fingertips, an invisible barrier mocking his every effort.
He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, reaching for the familiar threads of Atta that always flickered faintly within him. It danced at his fingertips, a soft, steady presence, but as he pushed it into the wall, nothing happened.
The glass stood untouched, unwavering.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening against the surface. "Come on."
He gathered more Atta, forcing it outward in a stronger surge. The tendrils of energy flared brighter this time, licking at his skin and pooling against the glass in spiraling wisps. Yet still, the wall resisted. The force simply rebounded, slipping off the glass like water from a stone.
"Damn it," Mirak hissed, slamming his fist against the unyielding surface. His breath came faster, harsher. The shackles on his wrists clinked softly, mocking him in the silence.
He tried again, his frustration mounting with every second. He poured everything he had into the glass, forcing the Atta forward in an angry rush. The heat burned his fingertips, and the air around him crackled faintly with energy. Still, the wall refused to yield.
His mind screamed with doubt. I can't do this. I'm not strong enough.
He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze locking onto Lock, who was still holding the Saki's attention. The knife gleamed in his friend's hand, and the crowd surrounding him swelled with panic. Lock dipped his head ever so slightly—the signal to act—but Mirak's fingers hesitated against the glass.
The memory of Akash and Daenys flashed in his mind, their faces smiling, patient, trusting. His chest tightened. He couldn't fail them. He couldn't fail Lock. He couldn't let the Revenant down.
"I won't let them die for this," he muttered to himself, his voice shaking but determined.
The words grounded him, steadying the chaos in his mind. He closed his eyes again and reached deeper into himself, past the familiar burn of Atta, past the fear clawing at his chest. He reached for something more.
It was there, faint and distant—a rushing, endless force that hummed in rhythm with the world around him. It wasn't like the steady, controlled flow of Atta. This was wild, untamed, and terrifying. It felt like an ocean roaring through him, surging with waves that could crush mountains.
His breathing hitched. This was the power Sanni had spoken of—the layers, the hidden currents that shaped the world itself. His hand trembled against the glass as the force began to respond to his call. The Atta within him shifted, bending and reshaping itself into something rawer, deeper.
His fingers pressed harder against the glass, and this time, it answered.
A low groan reverberated through the wall as the first threads of energy seeped into its surface. Mirak gasped as the force exploded outward from him, a river of blinding light spilling from his hands. The air around him warped and twisted, the pressure building in a deafening crescendo.
The Atta wasn't just pouring from him—it was tearing through him. His veins felt like molten fire, his chest heavy as if the weight of the ocean had pressed against his lungs. His vision blurred, his knees buckling under the strain, but he didn't let go. He couldn't.
The glass began to shimmer, faint cracks spidering across its surface. The resin within the wall fought back, pushing against his intrusion, but Mirak clenched his teeth and pushed harder. The burning in his veins intensified, his muscles screaming in protest. The tendrils of Atta lashed out in chaotic arcs, striking the ground around him and scorching the air with heat.
"Break," he growled through clenched teeth, his voice a guttural snarl. "Break!"
The cracks spread faster now, webbing outward like a living thing. The wall shuddered, groaning louder as the pressure mounted. The resin's resistance faltered, giving way to the relentless flood of energy pouring into it. Mirak's fingers dug into the surface, his entire body shaking from the effort. Blood trickled from his nose, dripping onto the glass and vanishing in the blinding light.
The pressure built to an unbearable peak, a storm of energy coiling tightly within the wall, ready to snap. Mirak felt the moment coming, felt the tipping point as the barrier between stability and destruction teetered on the edge.
And then, with an ear-splitting crack, the wall shattered.
The explosion was deafening, a tidal wave of sound and light erupting from the epicenter. Shards of glass flew outward in every direction, catching the sunlight in a dazzling cascade. The ground beneath Mirak trembled violently, and he stumbled back, his chest heaving as the sheer force of the event knocked the breath from his lungs.
The wall was gone. Where it had once stood tall and proud, there was now only devastation—a storm of glittering fragments raining down upon the district. The shards pierced the air like falling stars, embedding themselves in the cobblestones and nearby buildings. People screamed, scattering in every direction as chaos erupted in the plaza.
Mirak stared at the destruction, his legs trembling. His vision swam, his body numb with exhaustion. His fingers still tingled with the remnants of the energy he'd unleashed, the burn lingering beneath his skin.
He'd done it.
The wall was broken.
A hand gripped his shoulder, jerking him back to reality. He turned, his vision blurry, and saw Lock's pale face inches from his own.
"Time to go," Lock said, his voice tight. He glanced over his shoulder, where the Saki were already descending from the sky, their wings slicing through the air like knives.
Mirak nodded weakly, his legs barely supporting him as Lock helped him move. The screams and chaos faded into a dull roar as they slipped into the shadows, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleys.