The capital never truly slept.
It shifted—restless, pulsing—slipping into new masks with each passing hour.
Now, as the sun bled into the horizon and shadows slithered between buildings like thieves, the streets buzzed with a kind of hungry tension. Merchants barked over one another from behind leaning wooden stalls, their voices rough, their deals rougher. Horses clattered across cracked cobblestones, riders numb with fatigue or too hollowed out to care. Gilded carriages rolled by behind tinted glass, their noble passengers gazing at nothing.
And the rest—the ones without names—moved like floodwater through alleys and marketplaces. Fast. Nameless. Meant to vanish.
Above it all, the city loomed. A jagged sprawl of towers, rusting bridges, and soot-streaked rooftops. Smoke curled from chimneys in lazy spirals, grey ribbons twisting skyward like fading prayers.
And somewhere inside that vast machine of stone and fire, a boy walked.
Small. Fifteen, perhaps. Maybe less. Hard to tell.
His frame was narrow, clothes clinging to him like old grief—frayed linen, seams threatening to give, and a travel cloak faded by too many winters. Not quite rags. But close.
Only one thing made him impossible to forget.
His hair.
Crimson. Wild. Spiked like fire lashing upward from his skull. A flare of defiance in a city that didn't bother looking down.
But still—no one stared.
In a place like this, red hair was just another blur. Poverty was its own kind of invisibility.
Kresos moved like someone who knew how not to be noticed. Head down. Shoulders in. Steps light. In his arms, he carried a wooden crate bound in rough rope—held it tight, like it carried something fragile.
He slipped through the chaos with practiced ease—dodging swinging baskets, sliding past shouting vendors, weaving between carts and curses.
No one stopped him. No one cared.
Just another shadow in the belly of the beast.
Eventually, the streets changed.
Stone became polished brick. Smoke gave way to perfumed air. The noise thinned to a hush.
The upper district.
Here, the city wore its mask well—clean windows, carved hedges, lanterns flickering with soft blue fire. But it was all surface. Pretty lies painted over rotting truth.
Kresos reached a gate.
Black iron. Polished to a mirror gleam. Designed not just to keep people out—but to make them feel small for even approaching.
Beyond it stood a mansion built more like a monument. Towering walls draped in ivy. Balconies sharp as verdicts. Rooftops tiled in slate-blue glass that caught the last of the sun like teeth.
Two guards waited out front.
Tall. Armored in dark leather. Lean, predatory. The crest stamped across their chests was elaborate, needlessly ornate. Kresos didn't recognize it. He didn't need to.
The message was clear enough.
You don't belong here.
Their spears stayed lowered, but their eyes didn't.
"Stop," one of them barked, already annoyed. "State your business."
Kresos adjusted the crate in his arms. Lifted his chin.
"My name is Kresos," he said. "I'm a candle-maker. I've come to speak with the master of the house. About a trade."
The guard squinted.
"Candles?" he echoed, dry as stone. "You came all the way here… for that?"
"Yes."
His voice didn't shake. It was steady. Certain.
"I believe he'll want to see what I've brought."
The guards exchanged a look.
Then the first one's mouth twisted—not into a smile, but something colder.
"We don't care what you believe." The second leaned his spear against the gate. "This isn't the bazaar. Turn around."
Kresos hesitated.
Then straightened.
"Do you even know who I am?"
The guard raised an eyebrow.
"I am Kresos Dragonbane."
The name hit the air like steel on stone. Clear. Sharp. Final.
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
The first guard snorted. The second chuckled low, shaking his head like he'd heard an old joke return from the grave.
"Dragonbane?" he repeated. "Haven't heard that name since I was a kid."
"Used to mean something," said the other, voice bored.
Their eyes narrowed.
"But that was a long time ago."
Heat bloomed behind Kresos' eyes. His breath caught. His fingers tightened on the rope binding the crate.
He opened his mouth—but the words caught. Stuck like splinters.
Then he forced them out.
"Mock me if you want," he said, voice low and shaking with fury. "But leave my family out of it. The Dragonbanes served this realm for generations. What have your families ever done—besides polish someone else's boots?"
That got their attention.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Then—
A boot slammed into his gut.
Kresos didn't see it coming.
His breath vanished. The crate tumbled from his arms. He doubled over, staggered back—
—and the crate fell on the cold, hard stone.
Wood cracked. Candles spilled across the pavement. Some shattered. Some rolled into the gutter. One was crushed beneath a guard's heel without a glance.
Kresos quickly dropped to his knees.
Hands shaking, he scrambled forward, stuffing what he could back into the broken box. His ribs ached. His vision blurred. Wax smeared across his fingers. The guards didn't speak.
They just laughed.
Not cruelly. Not even maliciously.
Dismissively.
Like they weren't kicking a person.
Just dirt in the wrong place.
Tears stung his eyes. He blinked them back.
Then something broke.
A sound tore from his throat—half-growl, half-sob—and he lunged.
The first guard flinched, surprised. Tried to punch the boy. Too slow.
Kresos ducked, turned his weight, and drove a fist into the man's jaw.
It wasn't clean. Wasn't strong.
But it landed.
The guard stumbled.
For a single heartbeat, Kresos stood tall. Breathing hard. Hands clenched.
Then the second guard moved.
Faster than he could follow.
Pain came in waves. A blow to the ribs. A knee to the chest. A sharp crack across the jaw. Kresos collapsed, arms up, trying to shield himself.
It didn't matter.
He was still just a boy.
Eventually, it ended.
They dragged him to the edge of the street and threw him into the gutter like trash.
His cloak torn. His lip bleeding. Wax clung to his skin, smeared with dirt and blood.
He didn't scream.
Didn't curse.
He just lay there, broken and still, as the guards returned to their post—
—as if he'd never been there at all.