The te morning sun snted across the narrow streets of the low quarter, warming the walls, and deepening the shadows. Kyrell wound his way through the back alleys, each step purposeful as he kept a hand close to his chest, where the stone hung on a thin cord around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt. Every so often, the stone shifted as he moved, its weight resting against his skin – a small, steady reminder of st night’s discovery.

  Despite the warmth of the sun, a chill clung to the low quarter’s crooked alleys, a remnant of the morning fog that clung to the shadowed corners. The air was heavy with the smells of damp wood and stale ale, and Kyrell was forced to dodge the occasional spsh of slop tossed from a window above. The familiar sounds and scents settled around him, though today, he felt different – charged, as though the stone itself was somehow feeding him energy.

  “This is only the beginning,” a voice murmured faintly in his mind, so quiet that he almost thought it was his own thought. But it was warm, reassuring. He adjusted the stone under his shirt, as if to silence the faint murmur.

  He reached Jarek’s pce a few minutes ter. The fence worked out of a cramped room at the back of a derelict building wedged between a tavern and a storage shed. The smell of sweat, mildew, and something metallic hung in the air, unmistakeably Jarek’s blend of dubious business and secrecy.

  Kyrell pushed aside a frayed curtain and entered, Jarek, seated at a cluttered table piled high with odds and ends, looked up. A smudged oil ntern flickered on the table, casting warm light over his work. Jarek’s eyes flickered to Kyrell, then narrowed as if already sensing something unusual.

  “Back so soon?” Jarek’s voice was gruff, his expression unreadable. “You look half dead. You ever think of sleeping?”

  “Found something better than sleep,” Kyrell replied, a hint of amusement in his voice as he reached up and tugged the thin cord, pulling the stone from under his shirt. It glinted dully in the low light, its etched symbols faint but unmissable.

  Jarek’s eyes widened, his fingers twitching as though they wanted to reach out and cim the stone. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, his voice a mix of awe and suspicion. He leaned forward, eyes locked on the artifact, his rough fingers tracing the air near it as though daring to touch it.

  “Picked it up st night,” Kyrell said, a bit evasively. He let Jarek take in the sight of the stone for a moment, watching the greedy gleam in the fence’s eyes. After a moment, he slipped the stone back under his shirt, letting it settle against his skin again. Jarek blinked, his eyes snapping back to Kyrell’s face. “Stones like that… They don’t just pop up around here. Looks old. Dangerous even.”

  Kyrell shrugged. “You think I should sell it?”

  Jarek’s brows furrowed as he leaned back in his chair. “Some noble types pay good coin for stuff like that. Say it’s for ‘family history’ or whatever makes ‘em feel important,” he grumbled, his fingers twitching again. “But stones with strange symbols – those attract the wrong kind of interest. You might find yourself hunted over that thing.”

  “He doesn’t understand it, Kyrell.” The voice in his mind was clear this time, a smooth whisper that felt almost like a pat on the back. “To him, it’s just another piece of wealth. But to you? It’s a key. Don’t let him talk you into selling it.”

  Kyrell barely kept his expression neutral as the thought sank in. It felt strange – foreign but familiar, as though some buried part of him was guiding his next words. “I think I’ll hold onto it,” he said slowly, watching Jarek’s expression tighten, the hunger repced by a fsh of resentment.

  Jarek shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “Your choice, kid. But watch your back. Things like that tend to bring trouble.” He looked away, casting a wary gnce at the walls as if expecting some unseen threat to creep in.

  “Good advice,” Kyrell said with a smirk. With a final nod, he left the fence’s dingy shop and stepped into the sunlight.

  Back in the open air, Kyrell felt a wave of fatigue settle over him. His steps were slower now, the effects of st night’s sleepless hours catching up to him. Still, he moved through the streets with a sense of purpose, his hand occasionally brushing against the stone under his shirt, feeling its weight as if it was guiding him.

  By the time he reached the narrow stairway to his rented room above a musty tailor’s shop, his limbs felt heavy, and his eyes ached. He climbed the stairs, keeping his head low as he passed his neighbours, most of whom were used to avoiding each other’s gazes. His door creaked as he entered, and he slumped down onto his thin cot, the familiar scratchy fabric rough against his back.

  Letting out a long breath, he closed his eyes, one hand still resting on the stone beneath his shirt. As he drifted off images filled his mind – visions of opulent rooms, long tables crowded with food, rich silks, and the glint of golden goblets. In these dreams, he wasn’t a scrawny thief but something far more.

  Late afternoon light was snting through the narrow window when he woke, refreshed but filled with a quiet energy. Rising, Kyrell brushed himself off, slipping the stone out for a moment to feel its smooth, ancient surface.

  The urge to move, to act, burned through him now, as though rest had only stoked his desire to use his strange new power. Today he had errands to run, debts to collect, and for once, he felt no hesitation or worry, the prospect of confronting debtors was a chore, but today, a strange confidence filled him, pushing him forward.

  As he stepped outside, the familiar streets looked different in the sharp afternoon light. Faces gnced away as he passed, and the crowds seemed to part for him in subtle ways, allowing him a clear path toward Bckhold Square. He barely noticed the others in the square as he approached two men by the broken fountain, their eyes darting with uneasy gnces. They were minor thugs – old acquaintances who owed him coin but had been avoiding him for weeks.

  One of them, a heavyset man with a jagged scar across his cheek, sneered as he noticed Kyrell. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show up,” he muttered.

  Kyrell’s fingers brushed against the stone and the confidence returned, flowing through him like a shadowy tide. He looked up, meeting the man’s gaze with a steady intensity, feeling a calm authority he’d never experienced before. “I don’t like repeating myself,” he said, his voice even but firm. “You owe me, and I don’t care for excuses.”

  The men exchanged gnces, the bravado slipping from their faces as the weight of Kyrell’s stare bore down on them. The thinner one gnced away first, pulling out a small pouch of coins and shoving it into Kyrell’s hand without a word.

  Kyrell took it, feeling a spark of satisfaction as he weighed the coins. They felt small, cheap, compared to the visions the stone whispered in his mind – gold, power, and something far greater. Still, it was enough for now.

  “See?” it echoed in his mind, as he watched the two men scuttle away, faces pale. “They were afraid. As they should be.”

  Kyrell slipped the pouch into his belt, feeling a thrill of victory as he turned away. For the first time, he felt like he wasn’t just a thief surviving.

  The streets of Bckhold Square were thick with people as the te afternoon sun dipped behind the crooked rooftops, casting the marketpce into snted shadows. Every face Kyrell passed seemed preoccupied, yet he was acutely aware that eyes could be watching him, hidden among the throng of vendors, beggars, and peddlers. The alleyways here were narrow, and any number of Grey Cloaks or hired mercenaries might lurk around the next corner.

  Yet, despite the risk, he felt calm. More than that – he felt certain.

  “Fear is power,” the thought echoed softly in his mind, “and the world fears those who wield it.”

  It was an odd sensation, like his own thoughts but with a sharper edge, a certainty he hadn’t known before. The echoes of the thought lingered in his mind, sharpening his focus as his senses alerted him.

  Half hidden in the shadow of an awning, he noticed the unmistakable form of Taren – a local tough, known for both his size and his ability to intimidate the smaller thugs into line. Taren spotted Kyrell, his face twisting into something between a scowl and a grin as he watched him approach.

  “Kyrell,” Taren called, stepping forward and folding his arms. He cast a gnce over Kyrell’s thin frame, clearly unimpressed. “I’ve been hearin’ you’ve been collectin’ from my ds. Recon you’re omethi’ a bit bold these days?”

  Kyrell stilled, feeling the stone’s weight like a silent reminder. His heartbeat remained steady, and without realizing it, he stood a little straighter, his gaze unwavering as he met Taren’s eyes.

  “Just collecting what’s mine, Taren,” he replied, his voice quiet but calm. “I didn’t think you’d have a problem with that.”

  The rger man’s grin faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He was used to seeing Kyrell as a scrawny pickpocket, quick on his feet but nothing more. Yet here he was, standing firm, his gaze unwavering.

  Taren hesitated, then sneered. “You think just because you got a few coins you’re untouchable?” He took a step forward, his bulk casting a shadow over Kyrell. The people nearby gave them a wide berth, sensing the tension.

  But Kyrell didn’t flinch. In that moment, he didn’t feel like prey; he felt like something else entirely, something that even Taren would hesitate to cross. “Confidence is the armour they can’t see,” his own thoughts echoed again, strong, and sure. “Hold steady, and they’ll falter.”

  “I don’t need to be untouchable,” Kyrell replied, “I just need you to keep your hands off what’s mine.”

  Taren stared at him, the sneer flickering, repced by a hard edge of confusion. There was a pause, tense and drawn out, as if neither was sure how far to push. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, Taren took a step back, muttering something under his breath as he gnced away.

  “Just watch yourself, Kyrell” he spat, trying to salvage his pride with a gre. But his voice cked its usual force, and his eyes had already shifted away, as if some unspoken rule had kept him from pushing further.

  As Taren walked off, Kyrell let out a quiet breath, releasing the tension that had built in his shoulders. He barely noticed the onlookers drifting back into the flow of the market, murmuring amongst themselves. He had stood his ground.

  The sensation was strange, thrilling even, but there was a heaviness to it as well. The thought of facing men like Taren had always carried a certain risk; now, he found himself welcoming it, even relishing in it. That notion should have unsettled him, and yet he felt… empowered.

  Turning away, he melted back into the flow of the market, taking a winding route through the crowded streets. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, though he saw no familiar faces among the passing crowd. If the Grey Cloaks were tracking him, they were good at hiding it.

  As he slipped into a quieter alley, the sounds of the market fading behind him, Kyrell felt the cool stone pressing against his skin once more, like a reassuring touch. His thoughts were sharper now, his senses more attuned to his surroundings – the way shadows stretched down the alley, faint sounds of ughter spilling from a nearby inn, even the scent of old wood and stale smoke clinging to the stone walls.

  “See how they yield? They recognize strength, even when it’s quiet.”

  Kyrell froze, his hand tightening over the stone. The thought had felt like his own, but there was a subtle echo to it, as though someone else had spoken and his mind had merely repeated the words.

  He shook his head, brushing off the sensation. It was just adrenaline, he told himself, the rush of the moment. Still, the words lingered in his mind, seeping into his thoughts like ink spreading across paper.

  The te afternoon was bleeding into dusk by the time Kyrell returned to the small room he rented above the tailor’s shop. He pushed open the creaky door stepping into the dim, narrow space. As he closed the door, the familiar smell of dusty fabric and drying leather greeted him.

  The stone felt warm against his chest now, almost alive, as though it had absorbed the energy of his encounters in the market. Unnerved, he pulled it out, watching the symbols etched across its surface flicker in the fading light.

  It didn’t look like much – a small, rounded thing, barely the size of his thumb. But when he looked closer, he could see fine details, intricate lines and symbols carved with a precision he’d never seen. His fingers traced the markings as he wondered about its origin, the story it had before it came into his possession.

  “Who made you?” he murmured aloud, expecting silence in return.

  The words hung in the still air, and then, an unfamiliar voice, deep, menacing and otherworldly whispered in his mind, “A traitor.”

  He felt a shiver, like a distant echo resonating from somewhere deep inside himself. Shaking off the feeling Kyrell tucked the stone back under his shirt. He wasn’t one for superstition, but something about this stone – its weight, its warmth, the way it seemed to sharpen his thoughts – made him feel that he was stepping into the unknown.

  That night, sleep was elusive. Kyrell y on his cot, staring at the dim ceiling above him, thoughts churning. He kept his hand over the stone, feeling its warmth against his chest as he closed his eyes, drifting in and out of shallow dreams.

  Visions swirled in his mind – distant nds, grand halls with flickering torches, silent figures bowing as he entered a shadowed throne room. They were like half-formed memories, tinged with the strange thrill he had felt in Bckhold Square. In these dreams, he wasn’t a thief, he was something greater, a figure cloaked in shadow and mystery, commanding respect with nothing more than his presence.

  “Power is the path to freedom, Kyrell.” The voice whispered in his mind, so faint that it was almost lost in the haze of sleep.