"Not all strength is loud. Some of it simply endures. Quietly. Without applause."
The sun hung lazily in the sky above the Lower Tier, pouring dusty gold over the cracked streets and crooked alleys of Caelumaris. The shouts of merchants and magicians mixed in the air like overlapping songs—some sung with pride, others with desperation.
Artha stood quietly behind a weathered stone pillar near the edge of the training square, his fingers gripping the rough surface as he watched a group of young mages.
One boy summoned fire into his palm, the flames dancing like a loyal pet. Another girl lifted a wooden staff into the air, guiding it to twirl above her with ease, her laughter echoing. Their uniforms were clean. Their shoes had soles. Their eyes—sparked with confidence.
"Every day… they grow stronger."
He didn't say it aloud, but the words burned inside.
He had watched them train every afternoon for weeks. No one ever noticed the boy in ragged clothes who stood just out of sight—never joining, never invited.
A merchant nearby caught sight of him and snapped.
"Oi! Stop loitering, you rat! This isn't a place for strays."
Artha didn't react. He just smiled softly, bowed his head slightly, and walked away.
Down a narrow alley where the stone walls trapped the heat, Artha spotted a little girl sitting by herself. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and in her tiny hands, she clutched a scrap of blue fabric.
"My kitten… I lost my kitten," she sobbed.
Artha crouched beside her and, without a word, tore his last piece of stale bread in two. It wasn't much—hard and dry—but he handed half to her with both hands.
"T-Thank you…" she sniffled.
He gave her head a gentle pat and said softly, "Smiles weigh less than tears. Let's carry the lighter one, okay?"
She looked up, confused at first, then wiped her eyes. The corner of her lips curved up. Artha smiled faintly in return and stood, his own hunger forgotten.
Later that day, outside the city's edge, beyond the cobbled alleys and past the crooked watchtowers, was a small grassy field that few bothered to visit. It was quiet here—just wind, rustling leaves, and the occasional chirp of birds. Artha stood alone in the open field.
He spread his feet awkwardly, bent his knees, and held his arms out like he'd seen the mage students do.
"Bend the knees… channel mana… steady the breath…" he whispered to himself.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Nothing happened.
A moment later, he lost balance and fell backward with a soft thud onto the grass. A squirrel watched from a nearby tree, its tiny face tilted with curiosity.
Artha stared at it, sighed. "You make it look easier, huh?"
He sat back up. Tried again.
This time, something stirred.
A flicker. Not of heat. Not of light.
But of something else.
The air around him shimmered. Not visibly—but in the bones. In the feeling.
Suddenly, time cracked.
The world twitched.
Colors dulled. The breeze slowed. A boy nearby, playing with a worn leather ball, stumbled—and just as Artha's arm twitched forward, the boy fell into the space Artha had just moved through.
Time froze. Then warped. Then snapped back like a stretched thread.
The boy landed on the grass, blinking, dazed but unharmed.
Artha collapsed, gasping, the world spinning.
Far above, in the upper rings of Caelumaris, within one of Aetherion's slender silver towers, a woman opened her eyes.
Her robes shimmered black and silver. Her expression, usually calm, was pinched with sudden alertness.
Sariya Velantra had sensed something.
"That ripple… no. That wasn't natural time magic," she thought, rising to her feet. "And it wasn't Kala-Vritti either… but close. Too close."
Back on the ground, the sun had begun to dip.
Artha sat beneath a tree, hugging his knees tightly. His breathing was shallow, his thoughts racing.
"I… hurt someone. What was that? What did I do?"
He didn't understand it. No magic should have felt like that. It wasn't a spell. It wasn't willpower.
It was panic.
It was fear—moving faster than the body could.
The grass rustled, and he looked up.
Sariya stood there, tall and quiet, bathed in the orange hue of sunset. Her eyes were soft, but cautious. She said nothing for a moment.
Then, gently, she said, "That wasn't your fault."
Artha blinked. "What?"
"It stirred because you felt afraid. Because you wanted to protect," she said, stepping closer.
She looked around the air itself, her gaze narrowed. The residue of the distortion still clung faintly—unseen to most, but not to her. In her mind, a memory flashed:
A cloaked figure—young, frightened—consumed by spiraling time energy. Their screams twisted as the world around them folded.
It wasn't Kala-Vritti. But it had once looked so similar.
Sariya's breath caught in her throat.
"Not again… not another one…"
They sat together later beside a small fire crackling behind an abandoned hut. Sariya tore warm bread into pieces and offered one to Artha.
He hesitated, but took it.
"You're not like them," she said. "But you're not alone."
He stayed quiet.
"I'm not here to force anything," she continued. "But if you ever want to understand what's inside you… Aetherion's gates are open."
She stood up slowly. Before walking away, she turned and said with a strange sadness in her eyes, "You remind me of someone who smiled even when the world didn't."
Artha didn't ask who.
He just watched her disappear into the falling dusk.
The next morning, Artha sat cross-legged on a stone behind the bakery ruins, staring at a squirrel.
The squirrel sat atop a pile of nuts, perfectly balanced, its tiny hands held together like a meditating monk.
Artha furrowed his brows.
"Okay… maybe it's about inner balance."
He copied the squirrel's posture, inhaled deeply… and promptly slipped off the stone with a loud thunk.
He lay there, groaning.
The squirrel didn't move. It just stared.
"…You win today, sensei," Artha muttered.
As the morning light warmed the edge of the Lower Tier, Artha climbed back onto the stone and sat again—calmly this time.
Far above him, high in the sky, the floating city of Caelumaris shimmered like a mirage, its towers glittering gold and silver.
The world still felt impossible.
He still didn't belong in it.
But he'd keep walking.
"The path wasn't clear. But he'd keep walking."