The meeting room had no windows. That was intentional. The Flock never met above ground. Too many eyes up there, too many echoes in the air. But down here, beneath layers of stone and silence, their words could stretch out their wings without fear of being clipped.

  Qlaark stood at the front of the low-ceilinged chamber, leaning against a lectern made of salvaged driftwood and copper pipes. Around him sat two dozen individuals, most of them birdfolk—crows, starlings, a couple of hawks—but here and there a rabbitfolk in threadbare leathers, a quiet tortle with moss growing on his shell, even a flame-haired tiefling leaned forward on their elbows, eyes alert. They were all Wings of the Flock, gathered from their perches across the city to hear what Qlaark had to say.

  The room itself was part of an old wine cellar beneath a friendly beneficiary's apothecary in the Flesh District—one of the few remaining places where the Flock could speak freely without being interrupted by patrols or prying ears. The ceiling dripped occasionally from old pipework, and the walls bore faint outlines of fungus that had long since been burned clean. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe.

  He waited until the shuffle of bodies settled into silence, then cleared his throat.

  "We need to talk about recovery," Qlaark said. His voice was steady, but low, the rhythm of his speech more sermon than command. "And not just recovery of homes or streets or shopfronts. I mean recovery from our own mistakes. We lost the bombs. We made noise we couldn't take back. And people got hurt. Some of that blood is on us—on our chaos, our confidence, our carelessness.

  The garden's collapse shook everything. The air, the soil, the trust between neighbors. I know. I was there. I flew supplies past blockades. I sheltered refugees in lofts barely big enough for one. I brokered ceasefires in alleys soaked with rot. I did what I could—and I won’t pretend it was enough."

  He let that hang for a moment, scanning the room for reactions.

  "But it’s what happened between that matters now. Between the Garden District, where it began, and the Flesh District, where it ended—two places scorched into memory. And right between them? Bazaar and Taste. These districts were devastated in their own way. Not in bursts of flame or screams of agony, but in long silences and slow collapses. Thousands died. Entire buildings became tombs. Markets closed mid-sale. Performers stopped mid-song. People didn’t flee. They vanished into the spores. Entire streets were quarantined, entire families lost. These were not spared. They were consumed differently.

  And because they’ve always been wealthier—because their buildings stand taller and their merchants wore finer shoes—the city government’s already decided they don’t need the same kind of help. Aid is going elsewhere. The walls will be rebuilt, yes, but what about the fear? What about the silence that crept into every corner? The people of Taste and Bazaar might not need more bricks, but they need something deeper. They need to know they haven’t been left behind. They need to believe it won’t happen again. That another spore storm isn’t just waiting in the next week, or month, or year. That someone—anyone—cares whether they sing again."

  He paused, wings folding neatly behind his back.

  "And yet, while I did all I could, the one who saved the city wasn’t me. It wasn’t any of us. It was a stranger from a place no one here has heard of. Eugene. From Cincinnati. I know, the name sounds fake. But I saw him with my own eyes. He walked through fire and fungus and fear. He saved the Number. He saved the Districts. He saved all of us."

  Qlaark tapped the map behind him. "And now, we do the work that comes after. The work that makes survival worth it."

  A murmuring passed through the crowd—sharp feathers brushing together, claws tapping on stone benches. On one wall, a patchwork of maps had been pinned—hand-drawn and updated with charcoal smudges. The Garden District was outlined in green, but next to it, two districts were marked with heavy question marks: BAZAAR and TASTE.

  "The Bazaar District's in shambles," said a hawkfolk woman named Skree, her feathers ruffled with exhaustion. "Merchants barricaded their stalls. No flow of goods. Price gouging everywhere. People are afraid to even barter. It’s chaos."

  "Taste isn’t much better," added the tiefling, their voice a rough whisper. "Half the food merchants fled. The art houses are shuttered. Street performers are begging instead of playing. It's like joy took a wound. You can smell the hopelessness."

  Qlaark nodded, his wings twitching slightly beneath his long coat. "Those districts were between the rot. Between where it started and where it ended. They weren’t hit directly, but they were poisoned in spirit. And now? They’re bleeding out."

  He stepped out from behind the lectern, pacing slowly in front of the group. His talons clicked against the stone. His eyes, bright and sharp, passed over each face in turn.

  "Most of the city doesn’t cross districts often. They live where they live, work where they can, and maybe they take a trip once a season—like pilgrims crossing invisible borders. That’s how it’s always been. But the rot didn’t care about those lines. It moved through everything. And now the places it passed through are scarred."

  He paused in front of the map.

  "The Bazaar and Taste Districts were buffer zones. And buffers absorb shock. They look fine, mostly. But they’re brittle now. Cracked."

  One rabbitfolk adjusted a scarf embroidered with feathers. A starlingfolk fiddled with a handmade flute.

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  "The city needs a reminder of how to feel human again. Or goblin. Or bird. Whatever you are—what we are. People need food, yes. But they also need music. They need movement. They need meaning. The city already has guards. The Number. Sellswords. Fighters for hire. There’s no standing army—not formally—but there’s no shortage of blades. That’s not what we’re here to be.

  We are not soldiers. We are the ones who walk into silence and fill it with song. We’re artists and anarchists. We’re the memory-keepers and the myth-makers. When people cry out in pain, others bring medicine. We bring stories. We bring rhythm. We bring noise to remind people they are still alive.

  We help not through control, but connection. Through presence. Through joy. The soul of these districts was torn. And it is our duty to help it mend—not with walls, but with warmth."

  A hush settled across the room.

  Qlaark spread one wing slightly for emphasis. "Taste was never just food. It was a place where sensations collided—flavors, colors, sounds. And Bazaar was never just commerce. It was connection. Faces you knew, voices you trusted. If we let those places become hollow, the city will follow."

  He let that sit.

  "I want volunteers," he said at last. "To rebuild Taste—not just the infrastructure, but the soul. Pop-up galleries. Free performances. Mutual kitchens. Trade circles. Temporary Autonomous Zones. No masters. No borders. Only sky."

  A crowfolk raised their hand. Then a rabbitfolk. Then a tiefling. Then more. A dozen hands, wings, and claws lifted in silent agreement.

  Qlaark smiled. Just slightly. A flicker of warmth, like dawn catching the edge of a weathervane. These were the kinds of missions he preferred anyway—the kind where no one got blown up. Building gardens, not barricades. They'd had enough of violence for now. Art didn’t explode. Stories didn’t leave scars. This was better. Safer. Not easy, but meaningful. And still rebellious in all the right ways.

  "Good," he said. "We start at dawn. Taste is still breathing. Let’s help it fly again."

  After the meeting, Qlaark made his way aboveground and spread his wings, launching into the air with a sharp gust that rattled nearby awnings. The flight to the Taste District didn’t take long—just enough time to scan the city’s wounded skyline, to note where colors had dimmed, where plazas once lively now moved like bruised hearts. Taste was quieter than he remembered. Not empty, but... cautious. Like a performer unsure whether the audience had returned.

  He stopped to chat with merchants who had managed to reopen. A spice vendor with trembling hands. A sculptor selling from behind a cracked glass pane. A baker with only two loaves left but still offering one for free. They recognized him, of course. His robes still bore the sun-and-shadow sigil of Ranvar, the old god of wind and mercy. Most people still called him priest, even if he no longer wore it formally. And that recognition—that quiet nod of trust—let them tell him the truth.

  They were trying. But they were scared. Many said others were planning to leave—setting up in the farther districts, hoping for distance, for safety. Some mentioned the papers, and the rumors that The Number was reorganizing in the Flesh District. That meant attention. That meant danger. And they’d had enough of danger.

  “We just want to sell our work,” said the sculptor, her hands white with powder. “Not bury friends.”

  Qlaark listened. Took notes. Promised nothing except that the Flock would listen too.

  But as he walked away, his thoughts darkened. The Number. The supposed saviors. Since their return, the city had seen a bridge collapse under mysterious magical strain, a fungal outbreak of unprecedented scale, and the deaths of thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—across every district. He wanted to believe Eugene was different. He did believe it. But belief was easier in a basement full of candles than in streets that still smelled faintly of death.

  Krungus unnerved him the most. Power like that wasn’t earned, it was survived. And Qlaark found himself wondering—for the first time out loud in his own mind—if he was on the right side of this. If the Number was really here to help, or just to rebuild a playground for their power. The Number talked about destiny and responsibility. But the Flock talked about people.

  He wasn’t sure which one the city needed more right now.

  He passed one of the Threadwalker stations near the edge of Taste—a low, hexagonal building marked by its copper-inlaid sigil of interwoven strands. Every district had at least one. The Threadwalkers weren’t powerful mages, not compared to the Number, but they were quick. Couriers, communicators, dispatchers of urgent warnings. When a crisis hit, the guards and medics didn’t hear it first—the Threadwalkers did. Their network of Weave nodes allowed messages to ripple across the city in seconds, hopping from station to station. In emergencies, they were the only reason districts didn’t fall in complete isolation.

  Initiates in the guild spent their early years learning how to access the Weave through those nodes. It wasn't simple spellwork—it was coordination, memorization, discipline. They logged thousands of hours studying the locations of every station in the city, not just by map, but by memory, instinct, and physical travel. Only when an initiate could name, locate, and reach any station without hesitation were they considered ready. Only then did they shed the title of initiate.

  Despite their utility, the public wasn’t allowed to access these nodes freely. Travel through the Threadwalker network required exhaustive paperwork and approvals from at least two city offices—sometimes three, if crossing district borders. Even then, the cost was astronomical, with permit fees, spell tax, and arcane tolls that made it a luxury reserved only for the wealthiest or most powerful. For the average citizen, Threadwalker travel wasn’t just rare—it was unimaginable.

  As Qlaark passed, a commotion spilled out from the station’s main archway. A guard—soaked in sweat and dirt, armor half-buckled—had just finished materializing on the platform inside. The arrival spell left a faint shimmer in the air, and the moment his boots hit stone, he shouted, voice cracking with urgency.

  "Invasion! Reports from the north! An army of monsters—impossible things, shapes that don’t stay put, tearing through the outer ring. The local guards fled. Gone. Both the Defense District and the Council District have sent their private armies, but—"

  He stopped, catching his breath. "No other news yet. No clear numbers. Just—chaos."

  The air around the Threadwalker station had changed. Everyone nearby could feel it—not a sharp panic, but a bone-deep weariness. People didn’t run or scream. They just stopped what they were doing and listened, like soldiers hearing the war resume after a brief silence. They were still sweeping ash from stoops, still patching fungus-stained walls, still counting the missing. The idea of another threat didn’t stir fear anymore. It stirred exhaustion.

  Qlaark immediately made his way back to the Veiled Pinnacle. The Flock was his but they would be fine. He had a feeling The Number was going to be far more effective in this fight than his group of actors and musicians.