The capital of Terravon buzzed with life as Hayden, Lyra, and the rest of the assassins made their way deeper into the city. It was a strange contrast to the towering grandeur of the city—on the surface, everything seemed orderly and magnificent, but as they moved through the lower districts, a different reality began to reveal itself.
Hayden, still adjusting to his newly developed ability to sense mana, became acutely aware of the power radiating from the people around him. At first, it was overhwleming—like a sea of swirling currents pulling at him from all sides. But as he focused, narrowing his senses and taking in the details, he began to notice something disturbing.
Not everyone’s mana signature was the same.
The poorest people, the ones dressed in tattered clothes and huddled in the shadows of alleyways or begging on the streets, barely registered to his senses at all. Their mana was thin, almost nonexistent, as if life itself had drained the magic from their bodies. They moved slowly, their heads down, their shoulders hunched, avoiding the gaze of the better-off citizens who passed by without a second thought. These were the lowest of the low, people forgotten by the city, discarded like broken tools.
Hayden felt a tightness in his chest as he watched them—people so downtrodden that they didn’t even seem to exist to those around them. They didn’t even register in Hayden’s attention unless he actively took notice. The magical beasts on the road had more presence.
Then there were those with substantial mana signatures—people who stood straighter, moved with purpose, and held themselves with a quiet air of power. These weren’t the nobles Hayden had grown up with, but commoners who had clearly risen above the masses, their mana much denser, more refined.
They reminded him of Lyra, of people who walked with a kind of confidence and command that came from knowing their own power. Some of them were traders, others craftsmen, but they moved through the streets like lords and ladies in their own right, heads held high, unchallenged by those around them.
Hayden was taken aback. Growing up in Crystalspire, he had always been treated with deference because of his noble lineage. People bowed and curtsied, their eyes filled with respect and fear whenever he passed. But here in the capital, power wasn’t just about birthright—it was about magical potential. Those who had power, whether noble or common-born, held sway over the rest.
And those without it? They were forgotten, invisible.
He watched as a merchant with a strong mana signature walked past a beggar without a second glance, his finely woven robes trailing behind him as the beggar extended a shaking hand, hoping for charity that would never come. The beggars in the capital seemed far more numerous, their faces gaunt, their bodies thin with hunger. It was a stark contrast to how things had been in House Harstan’s lands.
In Crystalspire, Hayden realized the common folk were better taken care of. His mother Lady Elira, made sure that even the lowliest peasant had food and shelter, and though the people of his fief weren’t rich, they were protected. If anyone had fallen into the same state of poverty as the beggars here, they would have been noticed—helped. Or at least not allowed to linger in public spaces like this.
The capital seemed different. Here, those with weak mana signatures were left to fend for themselves, pushed aside and ignored. In some cases, Hayden witnessed beatings, as if those fellow humans were no better than mangy animals.
The strong ruled the weak without a second thought. And it wasn’t just the nobles who enforced this heriarchy—it was anyone with enough magical ability to wield power.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Lyra’s voice broke through his thoughts. She was walking just ahead of him, eagle eyes scanning the crowd as she spoke. “Power shapes everything in this city. Those further up the path of ascendance rule, and those at the bottom… well, you’ve seen it. They don’t matter.”
Hayden nodded slowly, still absorbing the enormity of what he was witnessing. “I never realized it was like this,” he murmured. “Where I grew up…it’s different. My mother and father would never allow people to live like this.”
Lyra chuckled softly, though there was no real humor in her voice. “Your father’s lands are an exception. They have a stranglehold on gem-related goods that give them enough wealth to care for their citizens, but here? This is the heart of the kingdom, and the only thing that matters here is power. If you have it, you rise. If you don’t…you sink. Simple as that.”
They walked a little further before Lyra spoke again. “Not to mention the effect of time. The higher you ascend, the longer you live. You have more time to accumulate wealth. Meanwhile the weakest stay poor, working whatever menial jobs the powerful leave to them. The path to ascendancy is equal, but it’s never fair.”
As they walked deeper into the lower district, Hayden’s senses sharpened further. There were those who radiated danger—people with mana signatures that pulsed with aggression and darkness. They lurked in alleys, watching with beast-like eyes, waiting for opportunities to pounce on the weak and unwary. In Crystalspire, such people would never have been allowed to roam free. The Harstan guards would have seen to that.
But here, they thrived, feeding off the chaos and fear.
The sense of danger grew heavier as they entered a more secluded part of the city. The wide bustling streets narrowed into winding alleyways, the noise of the crowds fading into the background as the air grew cooler.
The buildings were older here, their stone facades worn from years of neglect, and the smell of the city—a mix of sweat, dirt, and the faint metallic tang of blood—lingered in the air.
They stopped in front of a tavern, its entrance tucked into a shadowy corner. The wooden sign above the door creaked in the wind, the paint faded and chipped, though the faint glow of candlelight suggested it was still in use. This wasn’t a place for nobles or the powerful. This was a place for those who lived in the gray spaces of the city.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“We’ll rest here for the night,” Lyra said, gesturing toward the tavern. “The king's men will meet us here, either tonight or tomorrow morning.” She sighed before continuing, “and then my contract will be fulfilled and we’ll go our separate ways.
Hayden nodded, not trusting himself to speak, as they stepped inside. The interior of the tavern was dimly lit, the light from the sputtering candles casting long shadows across the room. A few patrons sat hunched over their drinks, their conversations low and muttered, but no one looked up as they entered.
They found a table near the back, Hayden was lost in thought while the assassins ordered food and drink for the table. He tried to relax, wishing he could emulate the example set by Lyra and her squad as they chatted, laughed freely, and consumed the tavern fare as if nothing weighed on them.
He barely touched his food, his stomach too knotted with anxiety to even consider eating. The pressure of the future hung like a storm cloud, and the flickering candlelight did little to brighten his mood.
As the minutes ticked by, Hayden noticed something odd—the barkeep was subtly moving from table to table, speaking in hushed tones to the other patrons. It was quiet enough that it would have gone unnoticed by someone not paying attention, but Hayden’s anxious observation combined with his mana sense noted as each person shifted, rose from their seats, and left the tavern one by one. No one made a fuss. They just finished their drinks, gathered their things, and slipped out into the city without a word.
Soon, the only people left in the tavern were Hayden, Lyra, her squad, and the barkeep, who was now polishing the glasses behind the counter with a forced air of nonchalance.
Hayden’s pulse quicked and his heart shot into his throat as the door creaked open, and the sound of heavy footsteps filled the room. He turned, his breath catching, as a group of fighting men entered the tavern.
They moved with the quiet confidence of soldiers, their cloaks concealing the weapons undoubtedly hidden beneath. Their posture, their body language—it reminded Hayden of his father’s knights, men who knew battle, who had seen conflict and carried that weight with them wherever they went. But these men weren’t garbed in the comforting hues of brown and silver. They were something else, and the way they scanned the room made Hayden’s skin prickle.
Upon entering the room, they stepped aside to make space for a tall, gaunt man who moved with an air of authority, his dark robes sweeping the floor as he approached the table where Lyra and the assassins sat. His snake-sharp eyes were cold, his face devoid of any emotion as he pinned Hayden to his seat like a viper sizing up a mouse. The soldiers behind him spread out, positioning themselves strategically around the room, their cloaks shifting to reveal flashes of the steel beneath.
Lyra didn’t stand as the figure approached. She leaned back in her chair, her hand loosely resting on the table, her expression cool but with a faint edge of derision. There was no love lost between her and the inquisitor—that much was clear.
“Inquisitor Morrick,” the lead assassin greeted him, her tone flat, though there was a shade of something black beneath it. “I see you’ve arrived more promptly than usual.”
Morrick’s lips curled into a viperish smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Assassin,” he responded, his voice smooth as an oil slick. “You’ve done well. The king will be pleased.”
Hayden shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could sense a subtle tension between them, something unspoken but palpable. There was a flicker of something in Lyra’s expression like a sliver of the moon in a cloudy night sky—regret, maybe. For all her cold confidence, Hayden senses that handing him over wasn’t something she relished. Though angry, the youth couldn’t help but wonder if she had started to care, in her own strange way.
Morrick returned his attention to Hayden, his eyes narrowing as he sized him up. “So, this is the boy. The one who’s caused our master so much angst.”
“Your master,” Lyra corrected darkly.
The inquisitor ignored her while Hayden met his gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, waiting for Morrick to make the first move.
“I assume you understand the gravity of your situation,” Morrick said, his voice cutting the air like a knife. “The king has great plans for you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make things difficult for yourself. Do you intend to resist?”
The words hung in the air like thistledown, seemingly harmless but the seed of something greater.
Hayden felt his muscles tense. He could resist, he could try to fight and scream at the injustice of it all. But he knew it would be futile, and more than that, he realized something important—he had left Crystalspire of his own volition. It was something he thought about over the course of weeks on the road. His decisions, however rash, had brought him here.
He swallowed hard, his voice calm when he finally spoke. “No, I won’t resist,” Hayden said, his tone bearing the noble training he’d received. “For better or worse, I left my House. My actions in many ways have caused this, and I know there are consequences. The best thing I can do is face them.”
Lyra, still lounging in her chair, nodded subtly, her expression neutral but approving. Hayden noticed the slightest hint of respect in her sapphire eyes—perhaps she hadn’t expected him to face his situation with such acceptance.
Morrick, however, was less impressed. He gave a dismissive shrug, as though Hayden’s words were nothing but the gratuitous lines on a gravestone for a person long dead.
“How noble of you,” the inquisitor said dryly. “But don’t think for a moment that your acquiescence was necessary. There are still trials to come and the king’s interest in you is not without its own…difficulties.”
Hayden felt a chill run down his spine, but he didn’t break eye contact. He couldn’t show weakness now, not in front of Morrick, not in front of Lyra. Whatever came next, he would face it head on. He was tired of being scared.
Morrick’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned to his men, giving a curt nod. The soldiers moved forward, surrounding Hayden with quiet efficiency. Their presence was intimidating, but Hayden remained still, forcing a calm he didn’t feel.
“Come, boy,” Morrick ordered, his voice taking on a mocking edge. “It’s time to face the fate chosen for you.”
Hayden stood, feeling the significance of the moment pressing on him. He glanced at Lyra one last time, and for a brief second their eyes met. There was no farewell, no words exchanged, but in that moment, Hayden senses that this was the end of whatever strange bond had formed between them. Lyra had done her part, and now Hayden was yet another contract complete in a long list.
Without another word, the soldiers escorted him from the tavern, their footsteps echoing in the silent street outside. As the door closed behind them, Hayden felt the walls of the capital closing around him, the city’s towering spires silently bearing witness as he was led toward the palace—and whatever fate awaited him.