“He was a real Mistborn.”

“He was a scholar,” Gemmel said, walking forward. He kicked at the corpse.

“I picked a weak one first. Won’t be so easy next time.”

Kelsier walked back into the room with the skaa. He freed them, one by one. He couldn’t do much more for them, but he promised that he’d see them safely out of the keep’s grounds. Maybe he could get them in touch with the local underground; he’d been in the city long enough to have a few contacts.

Once he had them all freed, he turned to find them looking toward him in a huddled group. Some of the life seemed to have rekindled in their eyes, and more than a few were peeking into the room where Shezler’s corpse lay on the floor. Gemmel was picking through a notebook on one of the tables.

“Who are you?” asked the matronly woman he’d spoken to earlier.

Kelsier shook his head, still looking toward Gemmel. “I’m a man who has lived through things he shouldn’t have.”

“Those scars...”

Kelsier looked down at his arms, sliced with hundreds of tiny scars from the Pits. Removing his coat had exposed them.

“Come on,” Kelsier said to the people, resisting the urge to cover up his arms.

“Let’s get you to safety. Gemmel, what in the Lord Ruler’s name are you doing?”

The older man grunted, leafing through a book. Kelsier trotted into the room and glanced at it.

Theories and suppositions regarding the existence of an Eleventh Metal, the scrawl on the page read. Personal notes. Antillius Shezler.

Gemmel shrugged and dropped the book to the table. Then he carefully and meticulously selected a fork from the fallen tools and other scattered laboratory remains. He smiled and chuckled to himself. “Now that is a fork.” He shoved it into his pocket.

Kelsier took the book. In moments, he was ushering the wounded skaa away from the keep, where soldiers were prowling the yards, trying to figure out what was happening.

Once they were out into the streets again, Kelsier turned back to the glowing building, which was lit with bright colors and beautiful windows. He listened in the curling mists as the guards’ shouting became frantic.

The numbness was gone. He’d found something to replace it. His focus had returned. The spark was back. He’d been thinking too small.

A plan began to bud, a plan he barely dared consider for its audacity.

Vengeance. And more.

He turned into the night, into the waiting mists, and went to find someone to make him a mistcloak.