Elden's lungs burned as he finally slowed his pace on the southeast outskirts of Mnemosyne. Whispervale—the once-quiet farming community, had transformed into a chaotic haven for refugees fleeing the aftermath of The Shattering. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, mingling with the sharp tang of desperation that hung over the town like a shroud.

Catching his breath, Elden slipped into the shadow of an alley, the cool darkness offering a momentary reprieve. He closed his eyes, reaching deep into his of memories. With a practiced mental tug, he recalled the face of a merchant he'd once met – a man with unremarkable features, the kind that blended into any crowd. Elden wove the image over his own appearance, his magic layering the memory like a second skin.

Stepping back onto the bustling street, Elden – now disguised as a nondescript traveler – marveled at the changes wrought by The Shattering on Aethoria’s smaller settlements. The streets were a haphazard mix of old and new, with makeshift stalls crammed into every available space.

Mages of various disciplines haggled with merchants, their colorful robes standing out against the drab attire of the refugees. The whispers of the willows had been drowned out by the cacophony of voices, each one a testament to the fractured world they now inhabited.

As he moved through the crowd, Elden’s stomach growled, a reminder of the pressing need for coin. He eyed a nearby tavern, its wooden sign swaying precariously in the breeze.

Before he could make his way there, a commotion drew his attention. Two burly men, dressed in black with a crossed-out ear symbol emblazoned on their jackets, loomed over a slender woman at a small stall. The men radiated an air of menace, their presence a blight on the already troubled town.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice strained with desperation. "Take anything else, but not this. It's all I have left of them!"

Elden slowed his pace, observing from a distance. One of the men, his face twisted into a cruel sneer, snatched a small, glimmering object from the woman's grasp. "Taxes are taxes, Bell," the man growled. "The boss doesn’t make exceptions."

Elden remained in the shadows, his expression unreadable, a silent observer to the chaos unfolding before him. He watched as the thugs pushed the woman to the ground, their greedy hands snatching up every valuable item they could find. Instead of intervening directly, Elden let his magic work quietly, his focus sharp and intent.

With a subtle flick of his wrist, he wove a memory projection, recalling a tracking spell he had once seen at a school of air magic. The memory came to life in his mind, its intricate weaves of power forming with practiced ease. The spell’s essence was delicate, almost ethereal, like the faintest breath of wind. It shimmered for a brief moment before becoming nearly invisible, just a slight ripple in the air that only a trained mage could perceive.

The projection drifted toward the men, gliding through the space between them like a whisper carried on a breeze. It wound its way around the stolen trinket, embedding itself within the item. Elden watched, his eyes narrowing slightly as the spell took hold, its presence undetectable to the thieves as they continued their looting.

The woman glared as they rifled through her belongings, their rough hands scattering her wares across the ground. Her eyes, wide with injustice, darted around the bustling street, but no one came to her aid. The thugs, satisfied with their haul, shoved her aside one last time before disappearing into the crowd, their laughter trailing behind them like a dark cloud.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Elden remained calm, his gaze following the men until they vanished completely. Only when the street began to settle did he step out from the shadows, his movements calm and deliberate.

He approached the woman, who was still on the ground, her hands trembling as she tried to gather the scattered remnants of her stall. Her fingers fumbled over the cracked pottery and bruised fruit, the once vibrant colors now dulled by dirt and despair.

Elden crouched beside the woman, his eyes scanning her disheveled appearance. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, his tone carrying a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the situation.

The woman looked up, her eyes weary yet defiant. "I’ve been better," she replied, her voice strained but steady. Her hands clutched at the remnants of her wares, as if trying to hold onto what little she had left.

Elden nodded in understanding, glancing at the faint pulse of magic that flickered around her like a dying ember. "What happened to your Wellspring?" he asked gently, sensing the story behind her condition.

The woman, Bell, hesitated for a moment, her gaze dropping to the ground. "The Shattering," she said finally, her voice tinged with bitterness. "It didn’t just break the world, it broke some of us too. Some of us were left with Wellsprings that could barely put out a candle."

Elden’s expression hardened at her words. He had heard of such cases—mages who had once been powerful, reduced to shadows of their former selves. It was a cruel fate, especially in a world where magic power often meant the difference between life and death.

Bell’s hands trembled as she gathered the last of her belongings, her frustration evident. "I’m not completely powerless," she muttered, more to herself than to Elden. "I can still fight back."

Without warning, she raised her hand, summoning what little magic remained within her. A faint glow surrounded her fingers as she attempted to cast a spell—a simple gust of wind meant to scatter the dust at her feet. But the magic sputtered and faltered, the energy dissipating before it could take form.

Bell cursed under her breath, her frustration boiling over. She tried again, this time with more force, but the result was the same—a flicker of light, followed by nothing. Her Wellspring, already weakened, could not sustain the spell, and the effort left her visibly drained.

Elden's heart ached with sympathy. "I'm so sorry," he said softly. "Is there no one who can help? The local authorities?"

Bell let out a bitter laugh as Elden helped her to her feet. "The Silent Ears are the authorities around here, stranger. Their leader, he's got everyone under his thumb. Rumor has it he's a powerful shadow mage."

As they began to clean up the scattered trinkets and books, Bell studied Elden curiously. "You're new here, aren't you? I don't recognize you."

Elden nodded, careful not to reveal too much. "Just arrived," he said. "Looking for work, actually."

"Well," Bell said, a hint of a smile finally crossing her face, "If you're looking for honest work, you should talk to Talia. She keeps us as organized as anyone can in these times. You'll find her at The Whispering Willow Tavern most evenings."

Elden smiled gratefully, filing away the information. "Thank you, Bell. And don't lose hope."

Elden wound his way through the narrow streets of Whispervale, the city living up to its name with every hushed conversation and furtive glance exchanged between its wary inhabitants.

Unlike the bustling, vibrant cities of his past, Whispervale was a place where people moved quickly and spoke in low tones, their eyes always scanning for danger.

As Elden neared his destination, he felt the streets constrict, funneling him towards a weathered building that seemed to huddle against the encroaching darkness.