Something interfered.

Before there was even light, before there was even dark, there was Fate.

It was already decided when the first flicker of existence would spark into being.

From Fate, Time was born. Seconds passed for the first time ever, and from Fate, Magic came into existence. Mana flowed and ebbed everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, and the first universal rules began enforcing themselves. Space came next, but there was nothing to fill it.

Things would attract each other, nothing could be truly created or destroyed, only transformed. Space would unfold in infinite dimensions, and so would Time flow in unlimited directions. In some universes, Time would flow backwards. In some, Space would only be two-dimensional.

The rules were set.

Seconds passed, then...

Fate decided there was to be a great event, which would mark the beginning of Her Grand Scheme, and so, Time, Space, and Magic condensed into an infinitely dense, single point, and exploded with a force nothing would or could ever match.

It was already expressed, definite, and certain that the first star would be born, it would live, and would eventually die with the passion few know as a supernova.

Fate is considered by many as a fickle thing, a cheap excuse, a convenient scapegoat for those things out of the common man's control. Yet, it does not take kindly to being underestimated.

If Fate decided that the inhabitants of Existence were to enjoy free will, then they would do so.

If Fate decided that all that ever was, is and will be would whittle out and die in a year, then it would do so.

If Fate decided to doom all that underestimated Her importance, then it would do so.

Destiny is inevitable, true free will a convenient, comforting illusion that only the truly enlightened recognise as such. Death, a mere comma in the Grand Scheme of Her design.

Everything was kept into account. Every breath, every step, every action, every little thought. Anything that is, is written into the Grand Scheme; its golden thread a definite length, a specific thickness and a particular texture.

Everything, except for a select few.

***

Krilas' wet brush slid on the smooth wall, leaving a turquoise streak of thick paint in its path. The surrounding colors flowed beautifully into each other, transitioning seamlessly from dark to light, each shade complementing the one next to it in a harmonious, beautifully chaotic mixture of tinges and shades.

As he painted, invisible to the commotions of the world around him, rivers of people from all walks of life hurried down the street. It was peak hour; ships were docking in the local port, soldiers came back from patrols, vendors were trying to outclass their competitors by screaming louder than them, and nobles in carriages hurried down the wide, pavemented street.

A muffled roar came from the port, making everyone flinch, but not many actually turned to look.

Krilas was one of the people who looked towards it, his paintbrush suddenly halting. In the distance, barely visible through the crowd of people and the numerous, well-constructed buildings ornamented with white marble and gold-colored railings, there were three mages casting a barrier spell around a very large crate, as people scurried away from it, apparently to safety.

The spell solidified just in time, as the crate burst into flames, and a vibrant-green drake burst from it, its scales bursting with youthful strength and vigorous flames. The older-looking mage raised a hand, uttered a few inaudible words, and crushed something in his other hand.

A wisp of black-purple smoke zipped from the old mage's palm and went through the barrier, hitting the drake's head. Within seconds, the great creature closed its eyes and passed out into a deep sleep.

Everyone who was caught up in the commotion sighed in collective relief and quickly returned to their usual routines, while the other two mages sternly ordered the sailors to fetch them another large crate, with emphasis on 'not wood this time.'

It wasn't that uncommon to see drakes coming through Uryset. After all, this was the largest port in Arthrion, and one of the few that could safely receive such exotic and dangerous shipments. It was less common for those drakes to wake up before they arrived at their destination, but those things still happened.

The artist shrugged and returned to his work, chuckling audibly. His brush skimmed wherever color was needed, wherever a line required definition. The image started coming together; the winged bear was already recognisable as such. If one were to squint, or see the drawing while reasonably not sober, they might actually mistake it for a real one and run in the opposite direction.

Not that winged bears were hostile creatures - despite bears being omnivorous with a favor for meat, winged bears were herbivorous. They took more after their avian ancestors.

After several more minutes of art-making, a high-pitched, congested voice reached Krilas' ear, making his heart skip a beat.

"Nice!" a young boy said, looking in the direction of him and the artwork.

Krilas smiled brightly, a mixture of incredulity and genuine happiness flowing through him. Turning towards the kid, the joy that had swelled in him instantly died down.

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The boy was looking through him, as if Krilas wasn't even there. The child hadn't really noticed him, and it was abundantly clear that he was looking straight at the bear.

Krilas put down his brush and sighed, getting out of the way so that the boy could see the mural better, without him obstructing the view. An apologetic smile came to his face, as he leaned on the blank wall opposite of the painted one.

He thought, for one moment, that someone had been able to notice him. How often did that happen? How frequently did people speak up around him, making him hope for just a second that someone would be able to notice him, only for his hopes to be crushed by the realization that, of course, people won't be able to notice him unless spoken to.

Krilas spent a year experimenting. He could get away with all sorts of stuff scot-free. Something as little as stealing apples right in front of the salesman, to something as outrageous as sweeping the legs of several guards, making them fall over in a ridiculous way, and they'd all think it was a protruding rock, or they just lost balance at the same time.

He knew there were other people like him, somewhere in the world, but thus far he had found none. None that shared his burden of invisibility, none that he could relate to, none that has bothered with trying to remember him.

He knew it was possible, because that one old lady he helped with her crates and spent time with managed to remember vague details of him, for a couple of days. Then, like everyone else, she forgot.

Having finished the mural, Krilas packed all of his supplies into his bag and raised his hand. The artist focused, cleared his mind, allowing the juice of magic, mana, to flow freely through him and into his mind, where thoughts were forming.

The image, the concept of safeguard, applied to his artwork. Krilas let his mind deploy ideas through the spell; rain could fall down, people could accidentally touch the wall and smudge the drawing. All of those mental images, condensed into the incantation.

"Protect," he uttered, and a feeling of brief emptiness attacked his chest as mana flowed outward.

The spell was finalized. A sliver of light-green light shone from his palm and reached out with glowing tendrils, attaching to the wall and extending over the mural. As the protective effect took hold, the colors saturated, and a semi-permanent, telekinetic film manifested millimeters away from the wall.

"Swell," Krilas told himself with a measure of slight satisfaction, placing both hands akimbo as he stopped, to finally take in all of his work. It was one of his best yet, which he drew to repay the city for his… less-than-legal actions he took to survive.

Not being noticeable doesn't make you prime material for any job - most people would forget to pay him, and he'd work for nothing. He had to resort to petty theft and breaking and entering, things he wasn't really proud of, but his belly didn't feel itself, and the streets weren't a good place to sleep at night.

With that done and after a moment to get everything in order, Krilas remembered that, despite appearances, magic could malfunction. Especially after the Calamity. He needed to make sure the spell worked properly; he'd be overwhelmingly devastated if what he spent so much time on were to be ruined by something as stupid as a rainy day.

Deliberately and carefully, he took out his canteen and knelt next to the wall, unscrewing the cap and pouring a trickle of water down the wall, in a spot where the mural wasn't as complex; if the spell was somehow defective, it wouldn't take long to repair that particular spot.

Fortunately, it wasn't necessary: the water slid on the invisible forcefield as if on glass with very minor distortion to the colors, while the water passed. That was proof enough, and so he stood up.

He picked up his leather bag and slung it over his shoulder, put the canteen back where it belonged, and headed for the main street. He accidentally bumped into a couple of people along the way, but as always, they didn't really notice him in the slightest.

"Obei-Rok is just two days away from Uryset," Krilas spoke cheerfully, mainly for his own benefit, the people around him too focused on their own lives to care and or notice what he said. He fixed the oversized purple hat on his head, adjusted the aquamarine cloak around his shoulders, and walked towards the city gate.

Obei-Rok was the elves' homeland. A gigantic forest divided in woodland-cities, a place of great spirituality, powerful magics and home to arcane and hidden knowledge, and most importantly, 'love' was the favorite word of the day, every day.

Of course, like all good places, there's downsides. The feral Elves, a chaotic mixture of elf, nature and beast, would promptly attack Krilas on sight to feast on his tasty, half-elf flesh. That was obviously assuming they could see him, which he hoped they could.

Krilas hadn't been to Obei-Rok yet, despite his origins.

He was born to an elf mother and a human father, promptly forgotten by his parents when he was three. He was found by an old man and brought to an orphanage, where no one tended and cared for him, save for the janitor who could notice him, but is unfortunately dead. One person who could've had answers who slipped right out of Krilas' grasp.

The other side of the medal, of course, was Obei-Rok. Maybe there could find the answers he so desperately needed? Maybe it was only humans who couldn't see him - that still wouldn't explain why his mother had forgotten about him, but he couldn't ignore the possibility they just didn't want him.

A wave of sadness swept over Krilas as he walked, but he shook his head and pushed it away. He didn't want to be sad, he couldn't. He promised himself that despite his condition, he would strive to live a happy life no matter what.

Thus far, he had managed to do so. He'd enjoy good food at expensive restaurants, and would repay the owner with a portrait of his wife. He'd sit down at birthday parties and revel in their conversations, take in their stories and find out new, interesting facets of the people around him.

Despite his good-natured soul, Krilas' favorite thing was going around public libraries and screaming at the top of his lungs, and then laughing his ass off at seeing the distraught readers trying to figure out why they couldn't focus, without being able to pinpoint the culprit.

It wasn't like they didn't hear him, it was just that their brains didn't register the fact that he was screaming as relevant to their life in any way whatsoever. That was Krilas' running theory, at least.

He'd spent years of his life in libraries, learning about people, their minds and the way they thought, to figure out a solution to his problem. He thought he could find some psychological trick to fix the situation, but nothing seemed to work yet.

The very clothes he wore - which, by all accounts, were a punch in the eye - were an attempt at being more noticeable. Vibrant colors, an eccentric style and dozens of accessories that jingled with every step. Yet, he was invisible.

Obei-Rok was one of the few places on Asterius where an answer could reasonably lie. The Great Wastelands would be an option, but… Krilas refrained from thinking too much about it. It was said that just visualizing the place would drive you a tiny bit crazy.

"Destination: Elf Land," Krilas said, tapping the pointy edges of his ears gleefully, as he picked up his step and hopped like an excitable schoolgirl, making all of the items on him jingle and crash into each other.

Obviously, no one stared at the skipping man or loudly pointed out how stupid he looked.