The mountains howled all night. By dawn, Syran Vellore was awake, shivering in the ashes of his campfire, staring at the tiny glass jar in his palm.
Inside the jar pulsed a pale-blue glow — a fragment of a Moonflame Wisp, worth enough to feed him for a year. Or enough to buy medicine for the plague village downriver.
Syran closed his eyes. He could almost feel the villagers' fevered breaths against his skin.
He slipped the jar into his robes and rose.
Somewhere deep in the pine forest below, leaves rustled. A low voice cursed, followed by the sharp clang of steel. Syran padded closer, staying low, moving with the deliberate silence of a trained hunter.
Through a gap in the trees, he saw a man pinned against a boulder. Four other men circled him, blades drawn. The one in the center, a grizzled bandit in iron-thread armor, held a bone dagger glowing faintly green. Poison-tipped. Expensive.
"Hand it over, old man," growled the bandit. "Or we'll carve your guts and take it anyway."
The "old man" wore scholar's robes, dusty and ragged. His left eye was swollen shut, blood trickling down his cheek. Yet he kept one hand hidden inside his sleeve, clutching something tight.
Syran exhaled slowly. He didn't have time for this. He needed to get to the city before the Guild closed its monthly auction. The Moonflame Wisp was his ticket to survival.
But he couldn't leave an innocent to die.
Syran stepped out of the trees.
"Gentlemen," he said lightly. "How about we settle this without blood?"
The bandits spun. The leader squinted. "Who the hell are you?"
Syran smiled. "A simple traveler. But I'd think twice before stabbing that scholar. He's carrying a Blindsilk Hex. If he dies, it triggers. Turns your eyes to jelly."
The bandits hesitated. The leader licked his lips. "You lying, boy?"
Syran tilted his head. "You want to gamble?"
Silence crackled like dry leaves. Finally, the leader spat on the ground. "Tch. Not worth it. Let's go."
They melted into the forest.
The old man slumped, trembling. Syran caught him before he fell.
"Easy," Syran murmured. "You're safe."
The old man pressed a wooden token into Syran's hand, voice hoarse.
"They were after… this. Take it. You saved my life."
Syran frowned. The token was etched with a nine-headed serpent, coiling around a sigil he didn't recognize. Power rippled off it, subtle but dangerous.
"I can't accept"
But the old man was already staggering away, disappearing into the trees.
Syran stood alone, rain dripping off his hair, the mysterious token heavy in his palm.
He tucked it inside his robes, eyes narrowing. He had the Moonflame Wisp. Now he had a token tied to some hidden power struggle.
And all he'd wanted was to help.