The Grand Castle in the city of Valune rises as a stronghold atop an ancient mountain in the Northern Empire of Ashmir. Its onyx walls absorb light like a void, standing in stark contrast to the brilliance of the beaming tri-stars above. Just beyond the stone perimeter lies the Seat of the Golden Garden, its greenery painted by the incoming light.
Barracks are placed around it, with patrols of armored guards marching routinely in and out. They are stationed throughout the city too, with volunteers enlisting for a decent sum—even if the job becomes tedious from time to time.
Surrounding the castle and its defenses on all sides lies the very city they are sworn to protect—so vast it seems to stretch from one horizon to the other, with buildings and streets of every kind spread across its expanse like a net, lifting the city above the forests that encircle it.
Cutting right through, a crystal-clear river flows calmly through the city's heart, dividing the metropolis with effortless symmetry and instilling a sense of balance and grandeur. Across its surface glide ships of every shape and purpose. Some follow tours around the city's proud landmarks, while others set out toward far-off coasts, carrying cargo or people wherever they desire.
From the outer walls to the castle gates, the main avenue cuts straight through the city like a spine—crossing the river and pulsing with life.
Merchants and mercenaries line the path, offering wares and services in exchange for any coin they deem to be acceptable. The sounds of their shops ring through the air with the cadence of commerce: the practiced nagging of negotiation, sudden bursts of outrage, and the ever-present murmur of people passing by the stands, discussing whether they can waste money or not.
It's an active, yet peaceful scene—the very picture of a booming capital.
In the heart of the capital's restless streets, a young boy darted through the crowd, hood drawn low over his brow, clutching a small pouch like it held his very soul.
Behind him, a cluster of guards gave chase, boots pounding against the stone, batons clenched like promises of a not-so-good time.
"Stop, you little brat!" one of them shouted, voice ragged from the weight of his armor and the chase.
The boy glanced back with a crooked grin, then slipped into a narrow alley branching off the main road. The guards followed, close—but not close enough.
The alley was tight, cluttered with crates, hanging cloths, and the scent of spice and sweat. Still, the boy moved with practiced grace, weaving through the chaos like smoke through cracks.
The guards didn't share his success. There had been four. Now only one remained.
Two had smashed into a vendor's cart stacked with barrels of rich amber wine—now shattered and seeping into the dirt. The third had vanished, swallowed by the tide of the crowd.
The last one—a lanky man in light armor, too pale and too thin for this line of work—was on the brink of collapse. His face, slick with sweat and ghostly white, startled pedestrians as he stumbled past.
A few paces ahead, the boy's grin widened.
"You look like you run!" he shouted, laughing, just before disappearing into a thinner passage, where the sun barely reached and shadows hung like curtains.
He caught a fleeting glimpse of the guard's flushed, furious face before bounding down a narrow flight of steps. His landing was clumsy, but he didn't stop. He dashed toward a small hole in the foundation of an old building he had scouted out before, nestled on the market district's edge.
No time left.
He dove toward the opening, yanked a heavy trash container across it, and squeezed through the gap just as a shout echoed behind him.
Hidden beneath the refuse and stone, he crouched low, heart thudding in his chest. The air was thick with dust and the sour tang of rot. He didn't breathe. He listened.
Footsteps approached—uneven, dragging. A man gasping for breath came to a halt just outside his hiding place.
The boy winced, sweat stinging his eyes, his body trembling now that the adrenaline was thinning.
Shit... did he see me?
He stayed frozen. If the man had caught even a glimpse, it was over. The public dungeon wasn't just punishment—it was ruin. He couldn't afford that.
He bit down hard, jaw clenched, listening to the guard's labored breaths echo off the narrow stone walls.
And still, he waited.
His grip on the pouch tightened, a sharp reminder of why he was doing this to begin with. He needed the coin. Without it, he might as well pack up and vanish—this city didn't forgive the empty-handed.
And just as doubts began to nibble at the edges of his thoughts, a sharp, high-pitched groan broke through the alley's stillness.
Then came a heavy sigh.
"Ah, screw this… Old man's gonna skin me anyway. Might as well call it."
For a while, the guard didn't move. The boy could feel him standing there, breathing hard, frustration pulsing in each exhale.
Then came the soft crackle of an enchanted pearl being activated—barely audible unless one knew to listen.
"This is Laren. Lost the target. Market District, south alleyways. No visual, no trace."
A brief pause.
"Yeah. I know. Save it. Heading to fallback point—West Fountain."
With another hiss of magic, the connection cut. The officer let out one last grunt of frustration, kicked a stray bottle aside, and began trudging back the way he came, armor clinking softly with every tired step.
The boy didn't move.
He stayed buried behind the container, muscles tight, heart still a drumbeat in his ears.
Only once the echo of boots had faded completely into the maze of the city did he let out a slow, quiet breath.
He waited another full minute, just in case.
Patience, Corbin. You've waited this long. What's a little more?
Only after the quiet grew thick and familiar again did he push the container aside and crawl from the crevice. The alley's breath had cooled, the sun climbing past its zenith, and life beyond the narrow walls resumed with muted rhythm.
But Corbin barely noticed.
A grin spread across his face—exhausted, crooked, disbelieving. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. Pain pulsed through his legs and side, each movement a reminder of the chase.
I did it.
He glanced around—twice, then a third time for good measure—before slipping out into the tangle of alleyways. His hood drawn low, one arm curled around the pouch, the other resting near the knife hidden at his belt.
The city was no longer hunting him. For now.
He moved through side streets, past cracked walls and shuttered stalls, where prosperity thinned and the city's polish wore off. Eyes wary, ears tuned. The weight of pursuit was gone, replaced by the giddy rush of near-freedom. But he knew better than to let that feeling bloom too brightly. Valune was watching. It always was.
Eventually, he reached the edge of the market district—where ruins and refuse grew thick and the city's shine gave way to its bones. A hidden hatch waited beneath a mound of stone and discarded crates.
After one last glance over his shoulder, he cleared the mess and opened the hatch.
A shaft yawned beneath it, narrow and lined with rotting wood. A ladder descended into shadow, barely lit by the thin glow filtering down from above.
He climbed quickly, boots thudding softly on the worn rungs, until he landed in the tight, half-forgotten maintenance tunnel that had become his home.
It was barely wider than a cart's wheelbase, stretching maybe ten paces in either direction before vanishing into sealed stone. He'd decorated it with scraps and salvaged bits—a mattress, a barrel for food, makeshift shelves. The air was stale and damp, but it was his.
He let himself fall back onto the mattress, exhaling deeply.
Only then did he reach into his pouch and draw out the contents.
Five rectangular tags clinked softly into his palm—etched with the insignia of the Ashmirian Banking Guild. Each worth five golden crests.
Twenty-five crests.
He stared at them, lips parting slowly. With this, he could rent a room in the outer areas for nearly a year. A door that locked. A window. A floor that didn't bring cold through his spine at night.
He was almost seventeen too—old enough to apply for a worker's permit. To take an apprenticeship. Learn something real. Get papers. Live.
His fingers curled around the tags.
It's real. It's actually happening.
His gaze drifted around the tunnel—his eyes landing on the old barrel where he kept food. His stomach gave a low growl, and he chuckled.
Real food…
His gaze moved to the shelves, cluttered with little toys and trinkets he had made when he was younger. Bits of innocence, born from boredom and lonely days.
He smiled sadly at what was left.
I did well after all.
For a long while, he just sat there and stared, taking in everything that made him. But then he just sighed and relaxed.
Finally, he picked up the old shard of mirror leaning against the wall.
He studied himself.
Dark brown hair, unruly and matted. Fair skin dulled by grime. Eyes like burnt bark, rimmed in fatigue. And a smirk on his face.
The moment I've got some real coin, Imma go take a thorough bath.
Then the smirk turned more sentimental, almost longing.
Man would I kill for some warm, clean water. Literally. As long as the victim's a criminal. And of course only a nasty one, not just some petty thief like me. Maybe a murderer?
"Meh. Who cares."
Ending his string of thoughts, he just returned his reflection's gaze, staring himself in the eyes.
Damn, do I look ugly.
He continued staring until his eyes grew heavy.
Then he curled onto the mattress, the weight of the dark pressing at his back like a ghost.
And drifted into sleep.