Chapter 1
The forge hissed behind me, its mechanical lungs exhaling steam as I stepped away from the shaping bed. Heat clung to my skin, sweat pooling at the nape of my neck beneath my hood.
I raised the blade into the dim overhead light, the only illumination left running after hours. The weapon shimmered. Thin and pointed, the spine glowed faint blue-orange where I'd worked the core.
Kade, the one who ordered it, needed precision. Light enough to conceal, strong enough to pierce armor. Risky? Definitely. Worth it? Absolutely.
I slid the blade into cloth, wrapped it twice, and tucked it deep into my satchel. My pulse hadn't slowed since I'd broken into Forging Headquarters. Not from guilt. That had burned out months ago. This was fear. The cold, prickling kind that sank beneath your ribs and stayed there.
Unauthorized forging was a Tier 2 offense. But a Divisionless girl lighting up a forge alone? That was intension. And they punished intension hard.
I checked the power readout, killed the heat panel, and reset the vent timer to sync with grid rotation. Exactly how Mom taught me. Lessons I was never meant to use without clearance.
She'd kill me if she knew.
Or worse, she'd report me.
But it hadn't always been like this.
I remembered one night, years ago, when I woke to the sound of metal clattering in the kitchen. I found her crouched on the floor, shoulders shaking, her hands bleeding from a shattered tool she'd gripped too hard. She didn't look at me, just kept whispering my father's name like it could bring him back. That was the only time I saw her cry. The next morning, she was back to perfect posture and clipped commands, like nothing had cracked through.
She hadn't always wanted me in the system either. After the accident, she kept me home longer than most kids, teaching me the basics of forging herself before finally signing my application to the Forging Headquarters. She said it was to protect me. Said if I was going to be thrown into the flames, I'd better learn to shape metal before it shaped me. She handed me over with steady hands, but I remember the way she didn't speak the whole way home.
That's how she was built: a believer in order, in rules that didn't need explaining. I used to think it made her cruel. Now I think she's just scared of what love turns people into.
***
The tunnels behind the maintenance deck reeked of copper and sour water. My boots splashed through shallow puddles as I moved fast, hood low. The walls pressed close, tangled with wiring and stained with rust. Graffiti from the Spy Division and rogue Distributors painted the walls in fading neon symbols.
Sirens screamed from three levels up. Shift change. A warning.
I passed a sealed entry labeled HEALER STORAGE and slipped behind the overflow valve, climbing the rusted ladder. Every rung squealed under my weight, echoing too loudly in the silent underground of the city. At the top, I pried open the vent grate and crawled inside.
The air changed immediately. Less metallic, more filtered, warm and dry. The crawlspace grew tighter here, squeezed beneath the upper-level housing just inside Sector Two. This part of Natar didn't reek of rust and sweat. It smelled of sterilized air and regulated warmth.
I braced myself and eased open the grate into the hallway beyond.
Unlike most houses in the Forging District that had basic smart vents, maybe a recycled stone counter if you were lucky, ours was large. Too large. Smooth black floors reflected the white track lights above. Glass paneling separated the dining and living rooms, soft-lit and haze-resistant. Clean and steady, like it was designed to keep you from thinking too much.
But the quiet was sterile. Unforgiving. Like everything here had been chosen for function, not comfort.
At the far end of our hall, a set of custom magnetic doors led to my mother's study; forged iron with Forging seals etched into the surface. No one entered without permission. Not even me.
The moment I slipped inside, I knew she was waiting.
My mother didn't yell. She didn't need to.
She just watched, like a hawk weighing the moment it strikes.
She stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, eyes dark. Her posture didn't change as I stepped through the panel and dropped my satchel on the cot.
"What station?" she asked. Voice flat. Not angry. Just... disappointed.
"Station 5," I muttered, barely audible.
She crossed the room without hesitation. I didn't flinch when she opened the satchel. Didn't stop her as she unwrapped the blade.
She turned it in her hand once. Twice.
Her face didn't change, not even a blink of surprise. Just a cold scan, like she was staring at something she wished didn't exist.
"You used my override code." A statement.
I nodded. "I adjusted the vent delay. Synced to grid. I covered my entry."
"And why," she asked, calm and cold, "would you need to cover anything if you weren't doing something that should never be done?"
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
She set the blade down. Not tossed, placed. Precise. As if it mattered more than me. "You think you're smarter than the system?" she asked. "You think because you can forge steel, you can forge your own path?"
"No," I said. "Maybe."
Her expression didn't shift, but I saw something flicker in her eyes. Not anger.
Worry, maybe. Or shame.
Or something worse.
"You are nothing without discipline," she said. "Without rules. You think this is rebellion? This is childish. This is weak."
My chest tightened but I nodded anyway. Not because I agreed, but because arguing wouldn't change anything.
"You do it again," she said quietly, "and I won't protect you. Understand?"
"Yes."
She studied me for a moment longer. Then turned back toward the wall window, the one that faced the Forging headquarters. You could still see the blinking lights in the distance. Red. Blue. Red.
That's how you knew who was being reassigned tonight.
I let out a breath I hadn't meant to hold and dropped onto the floor. Behind my mother's back, my fingers found the blade. For a second I let the cool metal settle against my palm. The blade was beautiful. Slim and balanced, with a soft violet shine. Along the spine, I'd dared to etch my own symbol, a violet teardrop. Only because the weapon wouldn't last long enough to be traced back to me. It was proof of my defiance. Of a future I was carving one stroke at a time.
Her voice cut through my swirling thoughts. "I'm putting you on lockdown."
"What?" My pulse thundered in my ears. "Why lockdown?!" This blade was for a customer! My head spun with panic.
"You're going to Distribution tonight, aren't you? You've already broken enough rules."
"That's different! I'm just trying to save money before they take me. This is your last month with me. Can't you just let it go?" Every word was a fight to keep myself from collapsing, begging on my knees. "Please."
I locked eyes with hers, searching for mercy in that cold electric blue. But all I got was a hard, steady glare.
"What exactly are you saving for? To run? To avoid the Front?"
The words hit like a slap. I waited. Maybe there would be a flicker of doubt, of softness.
Nothing.
"Not a chance." Her voice was like iron. "Hand me your ID. Now."
Hands trembling, I pulled the worn card from my pocket. She took it without a word and left the room.
