The mana van hummed as it wound through Ashport’s layered arteries, gliding like a pulse of energy through the city’s veined infrastructure. Pale runes on the walls of the vehicle pulsed with a low white light, illuminating the quiet hush of a cold season morning. Outside, the sun was a dull halo through smog-streaked skies, and frost webbed the van’s windows where the internal warmth met the biting chill.
It was 9:04 AM on Cyrandros 15th, 3448 A.E., and Kael Voren, the young man so many in the city called a miracle—or a menace—sat comfortably in the back seat. His dark coat lay open despite the chill, worn like an afterthought over workwear.
Beside him, Malik quietly scrolled through a translucent mana-slab, lips pressed together in the thoughtful frown of someone already organizing logistics three steps ahead. Across from them sat Veyra Sann, AGE Magazine’s lead economic correspondent for the Eastern Hemisphere—a sharp-eyed woman with copper hair braided down one shoulder and a tone of voice honed from years of dissecting moguls, ministers, and military strategists.
Her notepad rested on one knee, pages already half-filled with rapid notes from their earlier prep meeting. She tapped her pen lightly against the side, the sound rhythmic, measured.
The van was heading south now, leaving behind the polished towers of the Luminaris Ward—home to Ashport’s most sanitized wealth—and rolling toward the corroded fringe of Brinewatch, where wind-blasted tenements leaned over salt-caked streets and the sea’s breath coated everything in rust.
Taryn, the photographer assigned to the feature shoot, adjusted his rune-lens camera with smooth, silent precision. He was already taking candids: the way Kael’s shoulders settled back, how his gaze lingered on the window just a little longer than it should, the tension that flared and vanished along his jawline whenever Veyra looked too closely.
“Mr. Voren,” Veyra began, her voice a polished alto, “let’s start simple. What does a typical morning look like for the head of Ashport Disposal & Recovery, the youngest nominee ever for AGE’s Entrepreneur of the Year?”
Kael turned his head, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin. “Call me Kael,” he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable edge of Grays slang. “And you’re makin’ me sound like a grown man with a corner office. I’m sixteen. Most days, I don’t even show up this early. I sleep in.”
Malik glanced up, one brow raised as if to say not entirely true, but said nothing.
Kael continued, relaxed now. “Used to be I was at the kitchens every day. Haulin’ crates, servin’ bowls. But we’ve got dozens now. Too many to micromanage. I got teams runnin’ each of ‘em. Managers, logistics folks, guards. We’re goin’ to Kitchen 3 today so y’all can get the story people don’t see on the financials.”
Veyra’s pen paused, a flicker of interest narrowing her gaze. “So, a future billionaire who sleeps in? That’s not a story you hear often.”
Kael chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. “I earned that sleep. Didn’t have much of it growin’ up. Streets don’t let you rest easy unless you make a way.”
He folded his arms loosely, his expression sharpening. “I missed a lot of school. Could barely read when I was nine. But my ma taught me what she could, and the rest came from hustlin’. Now that I got a little peace, I spend my mornings learnin’ from my… mentor.”
He hesitated for just a beat, switching out the word “master” with care.
Veyra didn’t miss the pause. “Mentor? In what field? I assumed you'd be studying under one of Ashport’s financial elites.”
Kael tilted his head toward her, smiling wryly. “Smithin’.”
That caught both Veyra and Taryn off guard. The photographer’s lens lowered an inch.
“Blacksmithing?” she echoed, eyebrows arching. “That’s… unexpected. How does that connect to your business?”
Kael leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. Outside the window, the streets were starting to change—concrete giving way to rust-stained iron, polished shopfronts replaced by squat brick buildings and reinforced doors. The outer wall and Brinewatch was creeping into view.
“It connects more than you’d think,” Kael said. “Blacksmithin’ ain’t just hammerin’ metal. It’s repetition. Focus. Force applied with intent. Makes you sharper. Stronger. Forgin’ steel is the closest thing I got to meditation. It builds my mind, body, and soul. Every day I walk away from that forge feelin’ clearer.”
Veyra’s tone shifted, growing more curious than analytical. “You speak about it like a philosophy. Does this tie to your family? You’re the son of Tharan Voren, aren’t you? The Artifact God?”
Kael’s body stiffened just enough to be noticeable. The temperature in the van didn’t drop, but the mood did. He turned his gaze toward the frost-blurred window, watching as a trio of children kicked a dented metal can between parked carts.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Tharan was my father. But he left. Walked out before I was school age. Left my ma, left Sera. Never came back. Never sent a coin. The streets raised me more than he ever did.”
He turned back to Veyra, his voice steady now, his eyes hard. “I ain’t swingin’ a hammer to chase him. I’m doin’ it for me. Whatever he was, I’m not tryin’ to be a shadow.”
Veyra nodded slowly, scribbling without breaking eye contact. Taryn’s camera clicked once, the shutter quieter than a whisper.
The van slowed as it pulled up to Kitchen 3, a rectangular, reinforced structure with mana-etched steel reinforcements crisscrossing the facade. The logo of Ashport Disposal & Recovery stood proud on a weathered plaque above the entryway—an ouroboros consuming trash, flame, and rubble. A line of slumfolk was already gathering out front, some with bowls in hand, others cradling infants or elderly relatives.
Steam drifted from a side vent, carrying the rich scent of fresh bread, boiled grain, and something savory Kael recognized immediately: saltbone stew. A crowd favorite.
Kael unfastened the strap of his coat, rising from his seat. He cracked his knuckles absently, more from habit than tension. His mind flicked forward—to Lira’s appointment at 5 PM, to the possibility of sabotage by Theron Vex, to Garrick’s workshop and the mountain of scrap he hadn’t sorted yet.
Keep it tight today, he reminded himself. For Lira. For the empire.
Malik stepped out first, flashing his ID at the guards—two D-rank talents, both loyal, vetted, and equipped with mana-weaved coats and stunners. The crowd murmured as Kael stepped down behind him, some waving, others lowering their heads in respect.
Veyra and Taryn emerged last, the former already asking questions as she recorded the activity around them.
“Tell me about Kitchen 3,” she said. “How many people does it serve?”
Kael walked slowly through the queue, pausing to greet an older man who pressed a trembling hand to his heart in thanks. “Three hundred, on a light day. Five hundred if there’s been a storm or if the docks cut shifts.”
He gestured to the kitchen doors, which swung open to reveal a large interior with enchanted stoves, insulated serving windows, and rune-chilled pantries. Inside, a dozen uniformed staff bustled from station to station, their movements practiced and swift.
“All this runs on mana,” he said. “We process the waste, extract useful compounds, filter out toxins, and repurpose the rest. Some goes to compost. Some to material refineries. Some of it gets used right here—fuel for heat, ingredients for nutrient broths.”
“Is it sustainable?”
“More than you’d think. We got beast bones, discarded crops, grain tailings from the mills in South Grays. All of it would’ve gone to landfill before. Now it feeds people.”
Malik peeled off to check in with the head cook, leaving Kael to lead Veyra and Tarris through the kitchen’s prep area. They passed crates marked with city-licensed mana glyphs: Food-Grade, Class B, Purified Organics, Non-Hazardous Biomass.
Veyra kept her recorder running. “Your competitors claim your kitchens are a PR move. That they’re loss leaders meant to buy influence.”
Kael snorted, pulling on a pair of gloves to grab a sack of root mash and haul it onto a prep table. “Let ‘em talk. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do want influence. But not for me.”
He faced her directly. “I want these kids to grow up without starin’ down hunger every night. I want folks to stop choosin’ between medicine and food. That’s the influence I’m buyin’—a future worth livin’ in.”
Tarris raised his camera again, the lens capturing Kael in mid-motion—hands dirty, sleeves rolled, eyes fierce.
Outside, the wind picked up, whistling between rusted gutters and cracked power conduits. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled—a familiar soundtrack to life in Brinewatch.
Veyra closed her notebook and gave him a nod—not approval, not sympathy, but something quieter. Respect.
Kael wiped his hands, stepped back into the cold, and checked the time.
Seven hours until Lira’s talent awakening.
And until then, a city to hold together.
