The city of Caldonia spoke differently under the radiance of the three moons. In daylight, it roared like a mighty lion. But as the sun wanes, it whispers—its fangs bared and dripping with venom.
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Enark moved along the rooftops, testing his balance, listening to the way stone shifted beneath his weight. The city unfolded in layers of sound and pressure, each street mapped by senses that can no longer be defined as 'human.'
He paused atop a narrow ledge, motionless.
Below him, the city spoke in fragments.
"—told you not to take that route."
"I don't care, just keep walking."
"Last call! Last call!"
"Oi—watch it!"
"Did you hear about the academy?"
"Prices went up again."
"Move."
Enark's head tilted slightly as the sounds sorted themselves, separating urgency from routine and fear from annoyance.
Then, beneath it all—
"ₚₗₑₐₛₑ, ₜₕᵢₛ ᵢₛ ₐₗₗ ᵢ ₕₐᵥₑ."
A voice trembled through the noise—something was wrong three streets over.
He slowed, focusing: three heartbeats. Two steady. One frantic, uneven, hitching.
"Someone's being robbed," Enark murmured.
"Come on," one of the muggers said, low and impatient. "Hand it over, and no one gets hurt."
"I already told you," the courier stammered, backing against the wall. "I—I don't have anything else!"
"That bag says otherwise," the first mugger replied, taking a step closer. "You expect us to believe that?"
"Please! I just want to go home!"
"Funny," the second mugger muttered, circling. "So do we."
"Hey, don't get smart with me," the first growled, shoving the courier roughly.
"I'm not trying to!" the boy cried. "I don't have anything else, I swear!"
"Then why resist?" "Just give it up, and maybe we'll let you walk away."
The courier scrambled back, hitting the wall. "I… I can't! It's not mine to give!"
"Don't make this worse," the first mugger said, brandishing a knife. "We don't have time to play."
The alley fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, a fourth voice sliced through the tension.
"Let him go."
A figure emerged from the shadows, as if the night itself had grown limbs.
The muggers froze, noticing him immediately. "Hey—who the—"
"Walk away, guys. None of this has to happen."
"Who the hell are you?" the first mugger barked, knife flashing in the dim light. "Mind your own business, kid."
"Not a chance. You two are far too loud down here," Enark said, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
The second mugger laughed nervously. "And what? You're gonna stop us? You think you're some hero?"
"I don't need to think," Enark said, stepping closer, voice steady. "I know I won't let this continue."
The first mugger hesitated, glancing between the blindfolded figure and his partner. "This guy's crazy."
The alley seemed to hold its breath.
The muggers shifted nervously, one hand on a weapon, the other twitching.
Enark's voice lowered under the tension. "Move."
Enark and the two muggers froze in a tense stare-down.
Then, almost simultaneously, they lunged, and he met them head-on.
He caught the first attacker's wrist mid-rise, twisting sharply. A sickening crack ran through the joint. The man screamed as the knife clattered to the ground.
The second mugger surged forward, swinging wildly without aim.
Enark reacted on instinct.
He pivoted, driving an elbow into the man's chest, then grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back—harder than he intended.
In the chaos, Enark's boot slipped on a wet stone. He stumbled—but the second attacker's knife caught his side before he could fully recover.
Pain flared as he felt warm blood against his skin, and for a moment, the alley spun around him.
He steadied himself. Chest heaving as he snapped with a backhand to the man's face.
The attackers were still in front of him, reeling from the strikes. For a heartbeat, he tasted panic—then shoved it aside, moving like shadow made flesh. Knocking the first man down with a grunt, following through with a right hook that sprawled the second man out on the floor.
The courier gasped behind them.
Enark knelt quickly, the stab wound sapping the strength from his legs.
His own pulse throbbed, drowning out everything else—the city, the streetlamp, even the courier's terrified murmurs.
The attackers struggled to their knees, "Y-you… who are you?—" one asked
"No one. I'm merely a shadow," Enark said sharply, voice steady despite the pain in his side. "And I suggest you guys' best move along now."
The men hesitated, eyes wide open.
Enark straightened, forcing the pain into the background, and stepped forward.
That was enough to have them bolting into the streets.
The alley fell silent again, thick with tension and the metallic tang of blood. Enark pressed a hand to his side, wincing, but stayed on his feet.
The courier's gaze was fixed on him, awe and fear mingling.
Enark turned slowly. "You're safe."
The boy's voice trembled. "You— you're hurt—"
"I know."
"Take your bag," Enark said. "Go home. Stay on busy streets."
The courier nodded too quickly, sprinting the moment his legs remembered how to move. "Thank you," he whispered under his breath.
Enark heard him as he scrambled away.
He lingered in the alley, listening as the sounds of retreat faded into the night. Then, slowly, he turned back to the darkness.
"Mistakes can kill you."
"You don't get a redo when you stumble into things unprepared."
The words of his grandfather flashed in his mind.
"I have to be careful," he murmured.
The blindfolded figure in black melted deeper into the city's entrails, for dawn was still hours away.
Despite the blood spilled, he did not retreat, nor did he cower back home. The echoes of fear, the cries of those in danger—they drew him ever more onward.
And so he moved, silent and relentless.
Venturing onward—into the shadows.