Chapter 1: The Funeral I Missed

The transit station loomed like an exhausted cathedral.

Pigeons fluttered in the rafters. Rain clattered off the stained glass dome — flickering with lingering wardlight that hadn't been refreshed in weeks. The cracked sigils in the glass pulsed a slow lavender, an old enchantment stuttering like an overused song.

It smelled like incense, ozone, and wet concrete.

People moved in slow spirals, packed shoulder to shoulder in the early morning crush. Wands clacked against belt buckles. Mana cases buzzed faintly from overuse. Crying kids. Dripping coats. Magic-infused coffee steaming like cauldrons from vendor carts.

Calen Rusk didn't see any of it.

He stared at the queue counter slowly ticking down — red digits in the middle of an arcane LED.

57.
56.
55.

The folded envelope in his coat pocket was damp now, soaked clean through.
Not from rain. From the cold sweat he hadn't stopped producing since reading it.

He touched it again, like that would make it go away.
Dear Mr. Rusk. We regret to inform you...
It felt like those words had carved his chest open with surgical precision.

He hadn't slept since the boat touched down.
Didn't call anyone. Didn't know who to call.
The neighbors back in Eastridge had already changed their message sigils. The landline was disconnected. The salvage shop — closed. Shuttered by Combine order.

His parents had been gone seven days. Cremated three.

He was off-mainland. He'd missed everything.

"Next."

He blinked.

The line had moved. The glass security arch hummed quietly as he stepped across. Enchanted lines traced faintly underfoot, reading his mana imprint. Verifying.

He stepped to the counter.

"Name?" said the clerk — a thin man with a pinched mouth and holographic Combine badge stitched into his vest.

"Calen Rusk."

"License?"

Calen unclipped the charm from his belt and slid it over. A dull gray core glowed faintly — his registry sigil swirling sluggishly. It was valid, but drained.

"Freelance class," the clerk said, glancing down. "No guild affiliation?"

Calen shook his head.

"And your purpose?"

"I'm here for my parents' effects. Mae and Henry Rusk. The fire in Eastridge. They passed. I was on expedition—"

"Date of death?"

"Seven days ago."

"Next of kin form?"

"I didn't—" Calen hesitated. "I wasn't reachable during the mission. It was Outer Island sector—"

The clerk's fingers tapped the sigilpad again.

"No 17-G on file. No Will Claim Spell. No guardianship override."

He looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said in the driest voice imaginable, "but policy is policy. Without proper documentation or a licensed advocate, we cannot release their belongings to you."

Calen's hand twitched.

His pulse surged in his temples — not anger. Something heavier. Louder.

"They're dead," he said quietly. "That's what the letter says. They're gone. You can't—what do you think I'm here for? Just give me the box."

"There are legal procedures," the clerk replied. "This isn't a salvage counter."

"That's all they are to you, isn't it?" Calen said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Salvage."

Behind the glass wall, past the counter, sat a containment cabinet. Cold steel, wrapped in a low-tier spatial ward. Inside it: a single black box.

He knew it was theirs. His mother's name was laser-etched in Elven script on the edge.

The last time he saw them, they were standing in that shop, waving goodbye, arguing about dinner.

Now they fit in a box.

"I'm not asking for money," Calen said, louder now. "I'm not asking for their property or licenses. I just want the things they left behind."

"That is property," the clerk said. "And without documentation—"

A small flicker of light sparked on the corner of the counter.

The clerk paused.

"You cast a spell?"

Calen froze.

"No."

"Yes, you did. There's residual energy—wait—"

A shimmer rolled through the room. For just a moment, everything in the lobby bent — not physically, but visually, like the world had hiccuped through a memory.

Calen turned.

And there was his father.

Standing behind the clerk. Blurred. Translucent. Just a shadow — an echo. His sleeves rolled up, oil on his fingers, shouting at someone who wasn't there.

"You tell 'em I left my wrench behind, I swear, Calen! If they touch my workbench, I'm coming back as a goddamn banshee—"

And then the vision collapsed.

Gone.

The air snapped back. The light buzzed wrong. A sigil cracked in one of the ceiling panels and started dripping water.

Calen stared at his own hand.

He'd unconsciously raised it, palm open, fingers extended in a Support School formation. The Open Sigil of Succor.

He hadn't said an incantation. Hadn't focused.

It had just happened.

"Security," the clerk said.

Two officers moved toward him — a pair of Combine watchmages in plain black jackets. Both bore enforcement tattoos on their necks, and mage shackles looped to their belts.

"Sir, we're going to need you to come with us," one of them said.

"I didn't cast anything," Calen said.

"You triggered a Class I illusion in a protected facility."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Intent is not relevant under statute 9-B. Please step away from the counter."

He did.

Not because he agreed, but because fighting meant escalation.
Escalation meant mana records. Mana records meant inquiries.

And Calen didn't have anyone left to help fight those.

He walked toward the door.

The city greeted him with wind and sleet.

The Combine Station arched behind him like a monument to apathy. Even the runes on the exit gate blinked wearily.

He stood for a moment under the overhang, letting the rain hit his coat.
His hands still shook. Not from magic. From loss.

He'd missed it.
The call. The funeral. The ashes. The moment.

He walked down the alley beside the station, trying to find air, silence — something.

He found blood instead.

A man was curled beside a dumpster, holding his leg, panting shallowly. His jeans were soaked with crimson. Not arterial — but bad enough. His aura signature was dimming.

"Help," the man gasped. "Mage—?"

Calen knelt.

He didn't think. Just placed his hand over the wound and tried to cast:

Heal Wounds. Basic Support Spell.

He'd used it hundreds of times. On expedition. On teammates. On himself.

A soft glow sparked. Amber. Gentle.

It hovered for a second.

And fizzled.

Nothing happened.

The man flinched. "What—did you stop?"

"No," Calen whispered.

He tried again. Concentrated.

Open Sigil. Palm flat. Will focused. Memory aligned.

Nothing.

The glow faded into his skin, like a spark dying in water.

The man groaned again.

Calen stood up.

"You're—? You're not—?"

"No," Calen said, stepping back.

"I'm not a healer."

His coat clung to him like ash.

He didn't remember the walk back. Not the people. Not the streetlights. Not the sound of sirens in the distance.

All he remembered was the way the man had looked at him.

Like he'd been abandoned twice.

And for once, Calen agreed.