Chapter 20– Nightfall and the Prism
Two weeks have passed. Lysander sits alone at a corner table in The Broken Hearth tavern, the glow of lanterns casting flickering light across the worn wood. He rests his right hand, clad in the crimson gauntlet, on the table. He's waiting—hoping for something.
The tavern's packed with low laughter and clinking mugs, the air thick with ale and sweat. He listens to every tip and rumor as if they were clues on a map.
A bard brags about bandits on the Silverroad.
"Pay off their toll? No," Lysander mutters. "Fight four of them with no plan? Even better."
Nearby, two merchants argue about a missing shipment.
"Lost goods equal lost coin," he thinks. "Find the goods, you get paid. Pay to fight armed thugs? Pass."
A mercenary table bursts into cheers over a recently completed contract.
"These guys chew bandits for breakfast," Lysander notes dryly. "No thanks."
For hours, he listens. Nothing worth a single silver coin. Nothing bigger than an annoyance. Nothing that promises he'll become stronger.
He stands, throwing a few copper coins on the table. "#NoQuestFound", he quips to himself.
---
Outside, the night is cool. Lantern light spills onto the street, but the sky is dark, scattered with stars. Lysander stops and looks up.
The clouds part just enough to reveal a crescent moon. He watches it for a moment.
"You lot above do anything useful?" he asks the sky. "Or you just hang around shining at folks who actually work?"
Moonlight bathes his pale face. His black hair flutters in the breeze. His grey eyes reflect distant lights from closing shop windows and silent alleyways. The silver palette matches his mood—half-lit, mostly waiting.
He walks. Feet on cobblestones echo softly. Every footstep edged with purpose.
The wind tugs at his loose coat. Hair lifts, black threads against the dim light. Moonbeams glide over his sharp cheekbones, cut through his eyes. He looks like he stepped out of some hero story—but he's not fooling anyone. His lips curl in a half-smirk.
---
A scream breaks the quiet.
It's sharp. Definite. Human.
No hesitation.
Lysander's heart pounds. He doesn't stop to question. He runs.
He leaps onto the nearest cart, then from roof ledge to roof ledge. The wind whips around him. Snow-dusted shingles cut into his palms. Every landing rattles his bones. Urgency carves through air.
Closer. The scream makes his spine stiff.
He comes to a stop on a tile that cracks beneath his boots. He peers down into a narrow alley.
---
Below, a figure stumbles between shadows and dim lantern glow. Two men with cloaked hoods chase them, fists ready.
No words. Only the scuttle of feet and ragged breathing.
The victim is small—likely a woman or boy. They carry a satchel, clutching it to their chest.
Lysander's chest tightens. Even without poetic purpose, he feels it.
They round a corner. The victim stumbles and drops the satchel. One robber stops, picks it up. The other drives a fist into their ribs.
Lysander takes a breath. Ready to leap.
---
He notices something on the ground: a small glass prism—simple shape, slightly dusty.
He hesitates. That thing might not matter. But his gut says it does.
He ducks into shadow, drops to the ground, stays quiet. The robbers get the satchel. They run off and disappear into the misty streets.
Silence follows.
Lysander steps out. He moves to the victim, who's gasping with pain against the wall.
He kneels, picks up the prism—clean, refracting the lantern light into soft reds and blues. It's ordinary, but something about it isn't.
He looks up. The alley is still empty.
---
He pockets the prism gently and helps the victim stand.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The victim nods, too shaken to speak. He guides them to the street.
---
As they move away, Lysander slips back into the shadows. His voice is soft, almost to himself: "A cube of glass and light. Bet there's ancient ruin writers somewhere preaching about destiny. Or maybe it's just a dropped trinket."
He smirks, then looks back at the empty alley.
"Heard a scream. Saw two asshats run off. Found this." He taps the prism in his pocket. "My night just got weird."
---
His steps take him away. He doesn't chase the robbers. Not yet. He walks, thinking fast.
If I'm doing this adventure thing right, I find out what this prism is. Maybe someone will pay for it. Or maybe it leads somewhere. Or maybe it's garbage. Doesn't matter—something happens now.
He glances at the sky. The moon's still high.
"And you," he says quietly to the sky. "Keep shining. Maybe you can light the path this time."
---
Lysander carries glass justice in his pocket and no plan. But that crack in the night might be his first step into something real.