The marketplace of Orison erupted with the dawn, its cold stone thoroughfare transformed into a roaring beast of a thousand haggling voices. The air thrummed with the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the sharp cries of vendors, and the distant toll of a bell, heavy and mournful. Saffron merchants in crimson sashes waved their wares, their voices weaving a tapestry of persuasion, while a trader from the southern ports crouched beside a caged salamander, its iridescent scales catching the weak morning light. The creature hissed—a low, guttural warning—as the crowd surged too close, its eyes glinting with feral intelligence. Overhead, banners stitched with the faded heraldry of ancient merchant guilds snapped in the wind, a chorus of judgment against the gray sprawl below.
In a stall half-shrouded by a sagging awning, I stood motionless, willing myself to fade into the shadows. My palms were slick with sweat, the small iron-banded coffer in my hands a leaden weight I hadn't earned. It pressed against my chest like an accusation, too heavy for a boy whose memories flickered in jagged shards: a field ablaze with dying embers, a hand clutching mine, the metallic tang of blood on my tongue. Each breath came shallow and labored, as if the air itself resisted me. I wasn't sure which name belonged to me—only that the one I carried felt borrowed, a ill-fitting skin stretched over a hollow frame.
The woman across the stall fixed me with a stare, her face etched with hard lines and sun-creased suspicion. Her eyes raked over me—too thin, too ragged, too insignificant to hold anything of value.
"Three silvers," she said, her voice flat as a blade.
I swallowed, my throat tight. Her tone carried the weight of her judgment: I was a gutter rat, a thief, a pretender clutching at something I couldn't possibly understand.
"It's worth twice that," I replied, forcing my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
Her eyebrow twitched, a flicker of disdain. She leaned forward, her calloused fingers brushing the coffer's edge. "You think I haven't seen a half-spent glow coffer before? The seal's already fading."
I glanced down. The runic sigil on the latch pulsed weakly, a faint shimmer every few seconds—like a heartbeat on the verge of failing. *It's weakening,* I thought, panic clawing at my gut. If I didn't sell it here, I'd never scrape together the quicksilver to recharge it. I'd be left with nothing but a useless box and a past I couldn't piece together.
I drew a slow, deliberate breath, reaching for the ember of energy buried deep within me. I'd felt it first days ago, a raw, untamed force that nearly broke me—magic born of desperation, not skill. Now, it stirred reluctantly, a tempest coiling in my fragile frame. The effort blurred the edges of my vision, but I pressed my trembling hand to the latch and whispered the simplest invocation I knew.
A pulse of light erupted beneath my palm, white-hot and blinding. The woman hissed and recoiled, shielding her eyes. The sigil flared to life, its glow searing my retinas before dimming back to its fitful sputter. Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd, and a voice muttered, "Talent," half awe, half curse.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears, a thunderous rhythm that drowned out the market's din. A hollow ache bloomed beneath my ribs, spreading to my fingertips—a void where something vital had been spent. *Cost,* I thought dimly. *Magic always demands a price.*
The woman's gaze darted from my hand to my face, her lips parting slightly. She licked them, a flicker of greed in her eyes. "Five silvers," she said, her voice softer now, edged with grudging respect.
I hesitated, my head swimming. The exertion left me teetering on the edge of collapse, but I couldn't risk pushing further. If I fainted here, I'd lose everything—the coffer, the coins, the fragile thread of purpose I clung to.
"Done," I rasped.
She thrust wast a leather purse into my palm, the coins inside clinking with a weight that felt both foreign and promising—more wealth than I'd held since waking in this unfamiliar life. As she turned away with the coffer, I gripped the stall's edge to steady myself, my hand still trembling from a power I barely grasped.
A snort of derision cut through the crowd behind me. "Little gutter rat thinks he's a magus," someone sneered.
I ignored it, my focus shifting as a prickling chill crawled up my spine. Across the market, a tall figure in a dark blue coat stood apart from the throng, their gaze locked on me. A silver sigil gleamed on their collar—a stylized eye encircled by thorns, sharp and intricate. For a heartbeat, our eyes met, and a cold dread sank into my bones. Was it recognition? Pity? Or something colder, more calculating? Before I could move, they turned and vanished into the sea of bodies, leaving only the weight of their stare.
---
I stumbled toward the eastward lanes, the purse clenched tight in my fist. Each step felt deliberate, as if the world itself was testing my right to walk its streets. Orison was a city of scales and measures, its every corner a ledger of worth. The banners overhead juddered in the wind, their faded emblems a silent tribunal over the chaos below.
A poster caught my eye, plastered crookedly on a timber beam:
**By Decree of the Crown: All trade levies to be doubled for unlicensed vendors.**
Beneath it, scrawled in red chalk:
**Better the Union's chaos than an Emperor's yoke.**
The words sent a shiver through me, a whisper of unrest that hung thick in the air. The marketplace was a fractured mirror of Orison's soul—nobles in embroidered silks brushing past beggars in rags, their disdain as sharp as a blade. Every transaction was a battle, every glance a judgment.
---
In the quieter alleys near the counting houses, I paused, leaning against a wall to catch my breath. The ache in my ribs had dulled to a persistent throb, a reminder that even feeble magic exacted its toll. I tipped the purse into my palm and counted: five silver drakes, their edges worn but gleaming faintly in the dim light. Enough to claim a corner in the apprentices' dormitory for a fortnight. Enough to buy a ledger—blank pages to tally my debts, my bargains, my fragile new beginning.
*This isn't yours,* a voice whispered from the hollows of my mind. *This name. This body.*
But the memory of the woman's face—her grudging nod when the sigil flared—anchored me. It was a spark of proof, however faint, that I could wield something real. If the Empyrean Realm offered no peace, I would forge purpose from its ashes.
Above the counting house eaves, the sky stretched pale and brittle, a vast expanse that seemed to watch, to wait. I closed my fist around the silver, its cold weight a promise I could feel in my bones. The ache in my ribs was a testament to the cost—and the power—simmering within me.
*You were here,* I thought, speaking to the ghost of the boy whose name I bore. *And now, so am I.*
With each step toward the counting houses, I shed a fragment of the past I couldn't claim, embracing the uncertainty ahead. Orison's labyrinthine streets and watchful eyes were a crucible, and I would be forged within it—name or no name. I would carve my place, or break trying.