THE SKY MENDER

Dawn in the capital always carries a damp stench of horse manure mixed with oats. I crouch behind my cobbler’s stall, wrapping a tattered blanket tight around my legs. My left leg is a fraction shorter than my right; the wooden sole of my prosthetic is worn smooth and shiny, looking like an old stool gnawed on by rats.

"Boy, make 'em shine for me."

A silver-trimmed boot steps before me, the heel still stained with last night’s wine. I grin, dipping a filthy rag into a basin where a few withered leaves float. "Bright enough to reflect your noble nose, sire," I say. Beside me, One-Eyed Ned, the chestnut roaster, chuckles—a sound like a leaky, rusted bellows.

Suddenly, the bells go mute. I look up. The bronze bell atop the Holy Tower should have struck a seventh time, but it sounds as if someone throttled it; only a muffled groan escapes. Sparrows tumble from the eaves, thudding onto the flagstones. Wings twitch twice, then go still. People stop in their tracks, mouths agape like a row of puppets with their plugs pulled.

"The sky—" Ned pokes me with a finger like an iron hook.

In the east, a crack as thin as a hair has been torn across the sky. A violet-black light leaks from the seam, dripping onto the rooftops like spoiled wine.

"The Heart-Abyss Crystal has shattered," the news whispers. It grows legs, sprinting from the palace to the slums in the time it takes to finish a bowl of porridge. I don’t know magic; I only know boots. But I know that when a boot splits, water seeps in, and the foot rots. When the sky splits, it’ll likely rot, too.

Soldiers storm into the narrow street. "Where is the Child of Prophecy?" they roar. Ned, the old fool, points his hook at me. "Him! He's the one who dreamed of the purple light!"

I freeze. I distinctly remember dreaming I wasn't lame—that I could run and jump and kick the rent collector. Instead, the tip of a soldier’s spear presses against my chest. It’s ice-cold, like the first gulp of well water in winter.

The palace is brighter than I imagined—and colder. The marble floors reflect my twisted face. My wooden sole clacks rhythmically: da-da, da-da, like a broken drum. The King speaks, his voice gentler than expected. "Touch the crystal shard, and the rift will close."

I stare at the chunk of amethyst in his hand, sharp as shattered teeth. "And if I don't?"

"The rift will swallow half the capital," the King sighs. "Including your shoe stall."

I remember what Ned said: "Boy, for folk like us, life ain't worth a copper, but we still need a place to hide from the rain."

The moment my fingertip brushes the shard, it snaps like an agitated feral cat, exploding outward. Purple light surges. With a crack, the rift tears wider—from a hair to an arm, then to a gaping maw. "Seize the fraud!" someone yells. Soldiers drag me out, my knees scraping the stone steps until they bleed. I know I’m finished.

They toss me back into the narrow street like a bag of refuse. Violet-black "rain" falls. Where it hits the roofs, tiles sprout mold. People pelt me with rotten vegetables. "Calamity-bringer!" they scream. I crawl back to my stall. Ned sits there, his lone eye red like a scorched marble. "Run, boy," he says.

I can't run. I was born unable to run.