Chapter 6 – The House on East Smoke Lane
East Smoke Lane lay at the edge of the city's ribs—where the bones of old buildings creaked and leaned like tired elders, and the air always smelled faintly of ash.
Here, the gas lamps burned dimmer. Not because the city forgot them, but because the city remembered too well.
Haron walked past shuttered storefronts and rusted iron fences. His breath curled in the cold, but he did not shiver. Not anymore.
The trial had taken something from him.
And given something else in return.
At the very end of the lane, nestled between a soot-streaked chapel and a butcher's shop that rarely had meat, stood a crooked little house.
Three stories tall, though the top floor had half-collapsed during the flood last spring.
Its bricks were blackened from old fires. Its windows were fogged from within.
It wasn't much.
But it was home.
Haron pushed the door open gently. The hinges squeaked their usual protest.
Warmth greeted him—not from fire, but from the scent of broth simmering over a coal stove.
And a voice, young and sharp, rose from the stairwell.
"You're late again."
He looked up.
At the landing stood a girl of twelve, arms folded, dark curls tied back with a frayed ribbon. Her eyes—grey, like their mother's—were narrowed in practiced scolding.
"Did you fight again?" she asked.
He gave her a tired smile. "I passed the trial."
That stunned her into silence.
For a heartbeat.
Then she bolted down the stairs and threw her arms around him. "You idiot! You're not even supposed to qualify till next year!"
"I didn't qualify," he murmured, hugging her back. "I just went anyway."
She pulled back and smacked his shoulder. "That's worse."
He only smiled.
Her name was Elfa—bright, sharp-tongued, and far too clever for a place like East Smoke Lane.
She was the reason he hadn't given up.
"Elfa," he said softly, "how's Mother?"
Her smile faded.
"She's awake. But the fever's higher today. I had to ask Miss Blythe for more willow tincture. She said we're running out of favors."
Haron's jaw tensed.
He nodded and made his way to the bedroom on the ground floor.
The room was small—just a bed, a cracked dresser, and a window sealed with cloth. A kettle hissed gently on the side table.
Their mother lay beneath thin blankets, skin pale as parchment, lips dry.
Her eyes opened as he entered. "Haron," she whispered, "you came back."
He sat beside her and took her hand—cold, fragile.
"I always come back," he said softly.
Her fingers twitched. "I saw your name in the smoke."
That made him pause.
"What do you mean?"
Her eyes drifted, unfocused. "There was a bell. A whisper. Something old watching you."
His blood turned to ice.
She couldn't have known. Not really. Not about the system. Not about the thing that had observed him.
And yet—
"The Gates aren't just openings," she murmured. "They reach."
Then her eyes closed again, and she sank into sleep.
---
Haron sat there for a long time, listening to the slow ticking of the clock on the wall.
He didn't know what path lay ahead.
But one thing was certain.
The world had noticed him now.
And it would not forget.
---