Waves of heat radiated from Jeromy’s skin, like a second sun at their doorstep. People shoved and tripped over each other, desperate to see what was happening. And Maselli—he let himself drown. There comes a time when everything becomes too much to bear, and this was a line he refused to cross.

  “Make way! Out of the way! Now!”

  But the bystanders only pressed closer, their questions rising in volume. Minutes later, the very same people were stampeding down the stairs. Most chose safety, watching from as far back as they could. Safety—if such a thing existed here. Ascenders were capable of levelling entire cities.

  “Empty your mind, Jerry,” said Aron. “Breathe in. One step at a time. I’m not going anywhere—look, I’m still holding your hand. Don’t be scared. Me? I’m not. Why would I be afraid of my son? You look the same to me. But we can’t ignore your ailment. Yes, this is only a sickness. You’ll get better soon. Nobody is watching you, I swear…”

  Aron led Jeromy down the stairs and out of the apartment block. As the heat ebbed, the voices faded, though the crowd still followed at a distance.

  Veronica, their neighbour, guided her little boy over a mound of cracked concrete. Midway, her skirt tore. Molly from downstairs rushed to untangle the fabric from a twisted iron rod. She crossed safely, and then another couple followed, picking their way across.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  For ten years Maselli had feared someone stumbling onto Ezra by accident. Now there was a gaping hole in their wall. Ezra hid in the bedroom, but she could slip out and blend into the crowd easily—no one would notice.

  Boots crunched over debris. Franka wandered the wreckage, kicking pebbles and poking his head into windows. A plaster cut across his eyebrow; scratches streaked his neck and face, but otherwise he was fine. Without even glancing Maselli’s way, he stood where the door had once been and said: “Mari, come out. The priest asked for you. And you, Maselli. Family meeting at the chapel.”

  Mari remained silent. They waited. Minutes passed. She didn’t so much as peek through the gap.

  “She’s not here,” Franka concluded. “Well, Maselli?”

  Finding no reason to refuse, Maselli followed him.

  “Reminds me of when we were younger,” Franka said. “Nothing in the world you wanted more than to be a Gaverian.”

  The crowd parted around them as though the brothers carried a terrible disease. Ahead stood the church—and with it, the heat returned, furnace-like, recalling the factory fires.

  Jeromy sat hunched on a pew, head bowed, breath held. Around him were men Maselli knew. Aron sat closest, his shirt plastered with sweat. Uncle Jeremy and Uncle Percy lingered at the back. Conrad sat apart, with Rita and Hanna beside him. Aunt Patricia stood near the altar.

  All eyes were fixed on the priest. Father Ken stood at the altar with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a slow, deliberate tone.

  “…Yes, Sir,” Father Ken said at last. He snapped into motion, stepped toward Jeromy, and lifted his camera. He recorded a video, sending it to God knows who.