"Even illusions, when layered well enough,
can become truths—at least long enough to survive."
—The Exile Begins—
Comedically, the skies that had rumbled just moments before had already cleared. The short thunderstorm—no more than ten seconds—was gone, as if embarrassed it ever showed up. The lightning had cracked as if to crown her exile, but even the heavens seemed to reconsider.
Mina blinked up at the retreating clouds, a single eyebrow raised.
"…Was that it?"
It was not the time for anger, she realized. Nor vengeance. The storm inside her, though righteous, was not yet ripe.
She sighed, her breath visible in the cooling wind.
It would take time. It would take patience.
Behind her, the great iron gates of the Meijer estate remained closed—silent, final. The crunch of gravel beneath her worn shoes was the only sound now as she stepped forward.
She was alone.
For the first time.
Beyond the estate's white stone walls, the world unfolded like the first page of a new chapter—unwritten, uncaring, and impossibly wide.
The hills were soft with spring, draped in grass and violet flowers that danced with the breeze. Wild trees stood at uneven intervals, unpruned and unconcerned with symmetry.
The air was different here. Less perfumed. More real.
It bit her cheeks. It tousled her hair. It smelled like soil and bark and coming rain. And she realized, suddenly, that she'd never truly felt the wind before.
Not like this.
Not free.
She walked in silence, winding down a road carved into the valley's side. Her satchel bounced lightly at her side. The last echoes of the manor faded behind her. It was such a long walk yet her legs didn't tire.
And then—
She saw it.
Down in the cradle of the valley, nestled between hills of green and stone, was the city of cities.
Elynthi.
The Capital of the Elynthian Monarchy.
White spires rose into the sky like spears of holy light, piercing clouds that burned pink with dawn. Blue-trimmed domes glittered in the morning sun, scattered like coins tossed by a divine hand. Blue rooftops shimmered with mana-infused glaze, and long silk banners flowed from balconies like rivers of color.
A massive outer wall, carved from marble and obsidian, curved around the city in a perfect crescent—ancient, immovable, immortal. Giant glowing runes hovered above its outer gate, shifting slowly like breathing constellations. She knew their name from the books:
The Crownwall.
The line that marked civilization.
Her knees felt weak. Her breath hitched.
"All this time…"
All this time, it had been just over the hill.
Just beyond her prison of privilege and rose-laced windows. She had read about Elynthi since she could remember—stories of crystal libraries, sky railways, and the Moonstage Theater where illusionists performed spells so beautiful they made people cry.
But she had never known she was so close.Never seen it with her own eyes.
She couldn't tell if the ache in her chest was awe, or betrayal.
"So that's the Capital," she whispered. "Not like I imagined. Not like this."
She continued down the path, her pace slower now. The closer she got to the city, the more overwhelming its presence became. The size of it. The weight of it. Like an idea too large to comprehend.
Midway down the hill, she found a bench.
It was oddly placed—under a wooden canopy, beside a small stone well, overlooking the valley from the perfect angle. It didn't feel like a resting point.
It felt like a threshold.
She sat.
The bench was carved from old cedar. Its grain had darkened from age, and vines wrapped lazily around one leg like they, too, had paused to rest. Mina sat with her back straight, her legs too short to touch the ground fully, so her feet dangled an inch above the grass.
She had only a satchel. A thin linen cloak. Her boots were caked in manor gravel. She still smelled faintly of rose oil and parchment.
She did not belong in the wild.
And yet the breeze that blew through this ridge—carrying the scents of rivers, dirt, and distant bread markets—welcomed her more kindly than any corridor in House Meijer ever had.
She sat there for what might have been an hour.
Thinking. She ate the small piece of bread she had.
She didn't cry. Not because the pain wasn't there. But because something inside her… had begun to harden.
She reached out into her satchel looking at its emblem, a brand called "Juzzi" an expensive clothes brand and a branch of the Tropico Guild. She pulled out , the small, mana-infused card, its a device that records voices, Noelle once gave her as a birthday present. Gold inlay around its rim, silver button at its center. A recording relic of older Elynthian make, now outdated, but still precious.
With a soft click, she pressed it.
"Good morning, Mina! It's Noelle! If you're listening to this, it means you're up late again reading too many books!"
"I've hidden a cookie in the bottom drawer. You better eat it before it's crumbs! Love you!"
The voice rang soft and warm. Mina almost smiled—but it didn't reach her eyes.
She whispered under her breath, "I hope you're okay, auntie."
It just… felt right.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the bench's creaking wood.
The silence pressed in. Heavy. Unforgiving.
"No name. No house. No plan."
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
"But not nothing."
The sky shifted above her—soft clouds breaking into the gentle gold of afternoon.
And in that moment, she decided.
She wouldn't return.
Not until she was more than a Null.
Not until they regretted discarding her.
Wilhelmina Meijer was gone.
But Mina, the girl with no magic and a fire that wouldn't die, would walk into the Capital on her own two feet—and become something they couldn't define.
She rose from the bench.
Step after step, she descended the grassy path into the greater road. The closer she came to Elynthi, the more crowded the road became. Carts of vegetables, wagons of lumber, horses dragging soldiers in silver and purple. She was small, plain, and unassuming—easy to ignore.
And that was her power, for now.
She reached the outer district by sundown. Stone houses grew from the hills like rooted towers. Flags bearing the sigil of the Monarchy—twin wings below an arched star within an orb—fluttered above gates and storefronts.
And then she reached the gate.
The Grand Eastern Arch of Elynthi.
Two soldiers stood before it, both in ceremonial armor with blue-gold shoulder capes, watching the passing crowd. One waved on a merchant. Another checked the identification of a robed woman holding a large instrument case.
Mina stood in line like the rest, clutching her satchel. Her heart pounded.
She was no longer a noble. She had no sigil. No name.
And yet—when her turn came, the soldier looked at her, paused, then crouched slightly.
"You traveling alone, little one?"
"…Yes," Mina replied, voice steady.
"Family in the city?"
"No," she said. Not exactly lying. Just… not explaining.
He squinted. Then shrugged. "City's swamped today. Don't get lost." He waved her through.
She passed under the arch.
And Elynthi opened like a book whose first chapter had never been meant for her.
The streets were chaos.
Carriages weaved around performers and food stalls. Market criers shouted daily deals. Spell vendors waved sparks in the air, advertising their wares. Children darted through alleys playing mana-tag.
Mina was overwhelmed—colors, sounds, smells. So many people. So many voices. It was too much. She turned down a quieter lane.
And kept walking.
Nightfall found her beneath the grand archways.
Ancient Elynthian runes shimmered with low-grade enchantments—blue lines pulsing faintly like veins across ivory-white stone. To an outsider, it may have seemed majestic. An empire carved by gods and crowned by light.
But for Mina, as her feet passed the threshold into the heart of Elynthi, the illusion fractured.
This was not the city from the books.
Not the sparkling sanctum of scholars and Arch-Magi.
Not the rose-gilded spires kissed by mana-born clouds.
This was the gutters.
The waste-ridden, magic-starved underbelly of a Kingdom built on the backs of those it refused to acknowledge.
The streets curved unnaturally, the cobbles uneven, some completely missing. Buildings leaned forward like beggars, their warped timber bones groaning under their own weight. Cracks ran through walls like scars on skin.
What little light came from gutterflames—cheap, flickering orbs suspended in rusted lanterns, trembling in defiance of the night.
Mina pulled her cloak tighter. Her satchel—Juzzi—glowed faintly with its internal seal-light, marking her like a torch in a graveyard. Too bright. Too clean. Too out of place.
Children without shoes scampered past her. One stopped and stared, not at her face, but at her boots.
Somewhere in the alleys, a woman screamed, followed by silence. Mina froze. No one responded. Not even the rats.
She pressed forward, pretending not to hear.
Her boots echoed too loudly.
A tavern sign creaked in the wind. Shaped like a bent spoon, its iron frame hung on a single nail. The Crooked Ladle. The sound of slurred singing leaked from within. Drunken magic sparked against the windows—weak illusions, ill-cast charms. Cheap tricks meant to entertain the broken.
As she passed, a shadow peeled off the wall.
He was gaunt, swaying slightly. Barefoot. His coat hung in tatters. Eyes red as spoiled wine. He blocked her path—not with force, but with entitlement.
"Yo, kid," he rasped, tongue thick from drink. "You look lost. Need a tour? Magos Guild's got openings for talented girls."
He smiled, revealing teeth like broken glass.
Before Mina could step away, others materialized behind him—three, no, four figures. Like roaches from the stone. They were already circling.
Mina stepped back.
"She's got a Juzzi, you see that?"
"Silver-core, probably. Bet that alone's worth a week of eating."
"What about her? She's not bad. Bit young, but nobles pay more for that."
They were circling.
Mina's heart began to beat like war drums. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.
She tried to push past.
They laughed. Not kindly. Not stupidly. Cruelly. Delighted at her fear. Their voices blurred into background static. Her blood pulsed hard in her ears.
She turned to walk faster.They followed.
"You don't belong here, pretty thing."
"How'd a rich girl like you end up in our stewpot?"
"Think she's got coin?"
"Think she cries when she breaks?"
Her fists clenched.
She could hear Noelle's voice whispering gently from memory—"When frightened, keep moving. The body is faster than fear."
So she did.
A hand caught her arm.
"Now-now, don't be rude, girlie. You walk into the gutters, you pay the toll."
Mina was many things.
A Null.
A cast-out noble.
A girl without a name.
But she was not going to be taken.
She ran.
The chase began.
She sprinted down narrow alleys, turning corners wildly. Her cloak snagged. She tore it off. One boot lace came undone. She tripped, nearly fell. Behind her, the men gave chase—not out of desperation, but sport. They knew the slums like breath.
"Left fork!"
"Cut her off by Rat Alley!"
"Don't let the prize get scuffed!"
Mina didn't think. She fled like instinct. She ducked low, slipped between crates, hurdled over an old broomstick. But she was a child of marble floors and courtly walls. Not gutters. Not labyrinths.
The air thickened. The alleys grew narrower. She could smell sweat—her own, and theirs.
And then—a dead end.
The wall stood tall and crumbling. The escape routes—behind her.
She spun around.
They had her.
One grabbed her ponytail. The other, her wrist. A third reached toward her chest with sick intent, grinning.
"Don't worry, darling. This'll won't hurt a lot."
And then—something inside her snapped.
Not her bones.
Her fear.
The spark that had flickered for years within the hollow of her chest—finally flared.
"No."
The word came out not as a scream, but as a statement.
A headbutt cracked one's nose. He shrieked. Blood splattered on stone. Her elbow slammed into the gut of the second man, winding him. The third tried to grip her shoulders—she bit his hand so hard he screamed.
She moved with the grace of someone trained in a world where she was told she had no right to exist.
"She bit me!"
"Little bitch bit me!"
"Hold her down!"
One of them raised a rusted knife.
She didn't flinch.
She struck first.
Not because she thought she could win. But because surrender meant something worse than pain.
Her elbow drove hard into one man's ribs—crack—a satisfying sound dulled only by fear. Another lunged. She twisted on reflex—a soldier's daughter, not a pampered noble—and slammed her knee straight into his crotch. He crumpled like wet parchment.
Another came from her side. She pivoted, raw and reckless. Her fist connected with a jaw, her nails raking down another's cheek, carving a red trail that screamed don't touch me.
There was power in her.
Not refined. Not trained.
But real.
Survival-born.
One of them hit the dirt hard, stunned. A Null did that.
A girl born with nothing. Yet here she was—defying what nobles wrote in books.Defying what her own House had branded into her name.
But then—real magic.
She felt it first before she even saw it. Like static crawling across her spine.
The air thickened. The cobblestones beneath her feet hummed with pressure.Mana—real, unfiltered mana—coiled like a serpent in the alley.
She turned—too slow.
A fist crackling with mana light slammed into her ribs.
CRACK!
Pain like fire tore through her chest. The breath left her lungs in a single soundless gasp. The cobblestones punched the air from her body again as she collapsed.
She coughed. Blood painted the corner of her lip.
Their laughter rang sharp in her ears.
"Feisty little thing."
"You had your turn. Now it's ours."
"Bet she squeals when she bleeds."
They moved in.
Her body begged her to stop. Her ribs howled.
Her head spun. But her eyes still burned.
She would not go silent. She would not disappear like they wanted her to.
Not like this.
Her hand found something sharp—a glass shard, jagged from a broken bottle near the trash.Not a weapon, but it would do.
When one of them reached for her—
She drove the shard into his thigh. Deep.
He screamed. Collapsed sideways. Blood spilled in hot ribbons down his leg.
The others recoiled instinctively.
And that was all she needed.
She rolled, her ribs flaring with white-hot agony, and forced herself upright.
Her legs wobbled. Her breaths wheezed.
But she stood.
Not as a noble.
Not as a Null.
But as a girl who refused to die.
The men circled again—but this time, they hesitated.
the wind shifted.
A strange hush fell across the alley. Not silence—but suppression. The noise of the gutters—shouts, tavern songs, the flap of laundry—dulled. Muted. As though the world were holding its breath.
Then came a sound.
Not a voice. Not footsteps.
But a whistle.
Long. Low. Hollow. Like the echo of something old and forgotten.
Mina froze.The men turned their heads toward the sound instinctively.
From the far end of the alley, a figure approached.Tall. Cloaked. Slow.
No footsteps echoed. No breath was heard.
The only sound was the dragging of cloth—thick and coarse—as it scraped across stone.
A silhouette. A shadow. A shape carved from ink.
Its black cloak shimmered at the edges like liquid, swallowing the meager light. Its hood drooped low, face obscured. But even without features, it commanded presence.
The temperature dropped.
The rats vanished. The wind halted. Even the flickering street-lamp beside them hissed and dimmed.
And the mongrels, moments ago brimming with bravado and bloodlust, now stood stiff. Fearful.
"Who the hell…?""Back off. This ain't your damn business.""Hey! I said BACK—!"
Darkness.
Not unconsciousness.
Not sleep.
Illusion.
Suddenly the alley twisted.
Reality flickered.
Walls pulsed and expanded. Shadows coiled. The lights above cracked into a hundred mirrors, and every shard reflected nothing at all.
To the men, the alley contorted—became too long, then too short, then missing altogether. Sounds echoed from wrong directions. Their limbs grew heavy. Their stomachs turned.
And their prey—the girl—was gone.
Just gone.
"Where'd she—?"
"She was just here!"
"Dammit! It's that illusionist brat again!"
They whirled in circles, eyes wide, breathing hard.
One of them, desperate, reached for the satchel that had been discarded in the scuffle.
He tore it open—only to freeze.
No coin. No jewelry. Just books. A sealed inkpot. A cracked pen. A bent fork for some reason. And the Juzzi seal… flickering faintly—tampered.
"…Fake? This thing's a fake?" he snarled, shaking the bag. "The Juzzi seal's peeling. She was just a scholar. A worthless damn rat with a glowstick."
Then came a grunt of pain.
One of the men stumbled backward, blood dripping from Mina's stab.
"Leo…" he gasped, wheezing. "Leo, I'm… stabbed."
He collapsed, groaning. Panic erupted among them.
"Shit. Shit—get him to a doctor!"
"Screw the girl. Screw the bag!"
"This alley's cursed! Move!"
Grumbling, cursing, and dragging the bleeding man, the would-be predators limped away, disappearing into the fog of the slums. Their laughter was gone. Replaced by moans. And fear.
The alley quieted.
And from the crumbling rooftop above, nestled behind a sheet of broken tin, Mina remained motionless, breath held, heart pounding in her throat.
She hadn't escaped on her own.
She hadn't cast any spell.
But someone—something—had intervened.
Mina blinked.
Smoke from the chimney coiled past her cheeks as warmth pushed against her battered ribs. Her hands slowly reappeared, as if drawn back into the fabric of the world. Fingers. Arms. Then her legs. Her visibility returned piece by piece—an unravelling enchantment.
She coughed softly. Her back was propped against a clay chimney vent that hummed faintly with residual heat. Her satchel lay beside her, scuffed and intact. She had survived.
A soft hand lifted from her brow. Gentle. Unexpected.
She looked up—
And found not the shadowed figure from the alley…
But a boy beside her. Sitting cross-legged like a cat with nowhere else to be. The illusionist himself.
His cloak was now thrown back. He looked her age, maybe a little younger. Short, disheveled white hair spilled over his forehead, and his eyes—gentle, dark, but bright—held a playful gleam like melted amber.
He wiped a bit of soot from her forehead with his thumb and grinned wide.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice warm, boyish, with just enough theatrical flair to seem like he was always one wink away from a joke. "A girl like you shouldn't be wandering in alleyways like that. You a noble? Or a second-class? Either way—congratulations! You've been saved by the incredible magic of yours truly."
He flourished his hand with a snap of his fingers. A puff of smoke erupted from his sleeve—purely for effect.
"Ta-daa~!"He posed like a stage actor who just finished the final act of a grand play. "Now go on. Praise me. Shower me in thank-you's. Worship my genius! C'mon, just a little kneeling won't hurt."
Mina blinked at him.
A moment passed—and then her lips parted.
"Wha… what are you…?" she murmured, her voice caught between a sigh and a laugh. "You're… serious?"
"Of course I'm serious!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms up. "You almost ended up in a potato sack, and I gave you a full invisibility shroud for free. That spell's worth at least a full pouch of silver, and I even carried you up a ladder! You know how rude roofs can be?"
"…Thanks," Mina muttered, her laugh now genuine, though her voice was still shaky. "I didn't expect people like that. Back there."
Ashe's grin faltered just slightly.
"They're not people," he said flatly. "They're maggot-skins with fingers. Nothing worth remembering."
Mina looked at him. Surprised by the shift in tone. His voice didn't rise with anger—but it carried weight. It was the sound of someone who knew.
"You… speak like you've seen worse."
"I have." Ashe looked at his hands. "Been here most my life. Down in the lower Elynth slums. Grew up between scams and spell-books. Learned fast: magic isn't just status here—it's how you don't die."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was filled with understanding.
Mina finally asked, softly, "What's your name?"
He brightened again, the shadows in his voice vanishing like smoke.
"Ashe!" he declared proudly, thumping a hand against his chest. "Ashe Vaxille. Illusionist. Escape-artist. Incredibly handsome."
Mina blinked once. "Vaxille?"
"Vaxille," he repeated with a little flick of his finger, conjuring a puff of confetti that instantly scattered off the roof. "Formerly of House Nobody. Currently from the Glorious Rooftop Kingdom of Nowhere."
She chuckled.
"Mina," she replied, resting her head back against the chimney. "Just Mina."
Ashe raised a brow.
"…No surname? You sure you're not a noble? You talk like you studied with gold ink."
Mina looked away. Her voice barely audible.
"Not anymore."
Ashe didn't pry. His smirk softened. "Well, Mina Not-Any-More… welcome to the real Elynthi."
There was another pause before she tilted her head and asked—completely straight-faced:
"…Ashe? That's kind of a girl's name."
His face froze.
"Gweh?! I knew that was coming!"
She laughed aloud, the pain in her side momentarily forgotten. "S-sorry! It just—it sounds like something out of a fairy tale. Like a flower. Princess Ashe of Mistvale."
"Oi! It's a warrior name!" Ashe protested. "There are… totally famous swordsmen named Ashe! Probably. Somewhere."
Mina wiped her eye, still smiling. "Maybe they all carried baskets of lilies into battle."
He crossed his arms. "I rescued you. Is this how you treat your savior?"
But his smile betrayed him.
So did hers.
For the first time since the gates of House Meijer had shut behind her… Mina laughed. Not out of mockery. Not in fear. But as herself. Her shoulders relaxed. Her fingers stopped trembling.
Something in Ashe's presence—bold, reckless, oddly sincere—cut through the fog of pain she'd been carrying. He wasn't like the nobles she'd grown up around. He wasn't polished, or refined. He didn't ask for permission to exist.
He just… did.
And Mina—this strange, exiled girl with crimson sparks behind golden eyes—felt, for a fleeting moment, normal.
They sat together in silence, the city below glowing faintly through the veil of smoke.
Then Ashe stretched, groaning dramatically. "Welp. Since you're now my official rooftop apprentice-slash-trauma survivor, we gotta get you some food."
Mina raised an eyebrow. "You have food?"
"I said we gotta get food," Ashe clarified. "I didn't say I had any."
She blinked. "Then why did you—?"
"Details, Mina. Details."
She shook her head, biting back a grin.
Maybe this boy was ridiculous.
But right now, ridiculous felt better than alone.
—Pact above the rooftops—
above the rooftops—The underbelly of the Central Capital never slept—
But it did forget.
It forgot names.
It forgot kindness.
It forgot the line between cruelty and survival.
Mina stood still on a rust-bitten rooftop, her breath catching as she stared at the giant letters etched into the soot-stained marble wall that loomed across the narrow skyline:
"Sector V9"
The numerals were jagged, carved by hands long since dead—branding iron on white stone. The wall ran endlessly across her view, dividing one part of the Capital from another. It wasn't just a barrier—it was a scar. A line between lives worth preserving, and lives worth overlooking.
The slums.
This sector—V9—was just one of many. One of the forgotten lungs that allowed Elynthi to breathe without ever acknowledging it did.
Ashe noticed her staring.
"Oh, that?" he said casually, bouncing on his heels as his cloak flapped with the night wind.
"Yeah, Capital's carved up like a library archive. A1 to Z10. Rich folk live in A through G. You get further down the alphabet, the more the law forgets you exist. Q1 to Y6? That's the Gutterbelt. Welcome to the dream."
He smiled like it was a joke. It wasn't.
Mina nodded slowly, and for the first time, the scale of the world truly sank in. The manor she had once called home—the House Meijer estate with its fountains and libraries—had been just a pebble in a sea this wide.
How small she truly was. How far she had yet to go.
The wind howled between chimneys. Watchlights from the towers above combed across rooftops like divine fingers searching for dust.
They moved quickly—Ashe guiding, Mina following. Two shadows learning to survive in tandem. The boy moved like the rooftops belonged to him. Like wind was just another surface to balance on. And Mina, though slower, learned quickly. Her training as a noble hadn't been for nothing: every leap reminded her that her body could respond, even if her magic never would.
Their footsteps barely made a sound as they darted between vent shafts and rickety wooden planks that connected buildings like makeshift bridges.
Ashe glanced back with a grin. "You're braver than most kids your age."
Mina didn't reply. Not because she didn't want to—She just didn't know how to say thank you yet.
They settled on a high roof overlooking the edge of a shanty square where distant fires flickered, and voices below chattered over bowls of thin soup and cracked mugs.
Here, above it all, the city was just colors.
Orange-glow windows. Blue-shingled roofs. Black towers outlined by silver moonlight. And in that quiet moment, for the first time since her exile, Mina spoke.
Not out of fear. But out of need.
At first, it was a murmur. A slow release.
She told him everything.
The echoing halls of her childhood. The drills in etiquette. The way the maids curtsied like wind-up toys, always smiling—but never meaning it. She told him about her mother's distant warmth, her uncle's rough but honest kindness, and the biting word that never left her shadow:
Null.
She told him about the day the High Priest read her core at 1%, and how the whole room fell silent.
About how her name was scratched from the noble registry, and how the gates closed behind her with no one left to call family.
She didn't know why she kept speaking.Only that, once it started, it felt like something had been unlocked inside her chest.
Ashe said nothing for a long while. He sat cross-legged, arms tucked into his too-big coat, eyes narrow—but listening.
Really listening.
When she finally trailed off, unsure what else remained inside her to say, he exhaled.
"So… you were a noble. But now you're not."
Mina half-laughed. "Yeah. That's kinda my whole thing now."
There was a beat. Then Ashe grinned awkwardly. "That's gotta be the biggest embarrassment for House Meijer—"
He froze. His eyes widened. "Wait—I didn't mean you! I meant them! Like—like it's their loss! Not yours!"
Mina raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You've met them?"
"…Yeah," Ashe muttered. "When I was six. Meijer soldiers raided our apartment. Said my dad owed some illegal spell-taxes. He argued. They said it was 'hostile resistance.' Then they…"
He looked away. The grin vanished. His fists clenched in his sleeves.
"They shot him. Right in front of me. Just like that."
Mina's heart ached. Not because she pitied him—but because in his voice, she recognized herself.
Ashe continued, softer now. "My mom sold me. Said it would cover what was left. She cried, but still did it. I ran before they came to take me."
Mina didn't interrupt.
She didn't offer platitudes. Didn't say sorry. She just sat beside him, their backs against the same chimney, two different lives folded into a single shared silence.
A silence that understood.
And then—Mina spoke again.
"…Do you ever wonder," she began, her voice slow, "if… the world made a mistake? Putting people like us here?"
Ashe tilted his head. "You mean… trashing us?"
"No. I mean…" she closed her eyes, "…If we're mistakes. Like… I don't have a core. Not a real one. And you—your whole life has been survival. And yet we're here. In a city built on magic and names and rules… but we don't belong to any of them."
Ashe thought for a long time.
Then leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.
"…I don't think we're mistakes," he said. "But I think the world's a bit too obsessed with perfection to see what survival really looks like."
Mina stared at him. "That sounded too wise for you."
He grinned. "Right? I'm evolving."
She rolled her eyes. But the faintest smile tugged at her lips.
That night, they didn't sleep.
Instead, they watched the city lights flicker. And at some point, when the rooftop grew cold, Mina laid her head against Ashe's shoulder.
He blinked.
"…Do I look like a pillow to you?"
"You sound like one," she whispered, already drifting off.
"…I have no idea what that means," Ashe muttered.
But he didn't move.
Somewhere far below, the city went on. The gutter-drains poured out filth. The nobles drank fine wine behind crystalline windows. The soldiers patrolled walls built to keep people like them out.
But above all of it—on a roof no map would mark—two exiles dreamed.
Not of revenge. Not of rebellion.
Just of tomorrow.
—The Blur of Petty Crime & Perfect Coordination—
Weeks bled into months like ink in gutter water.
What began with a runaway and an illusionist quickly transformed into a rhythm—one only
two desperate souls could learn to dance to.
Mina Meijer, now just Mina, trained her body to move with precision, breath, and silence. Ashe Vaxille sharpened his magic like a pickpocket's blade—fast, quiet, clever. Together, they formed a team the Capital's slums would whisper about for years.
They didn't steal like villains. They acquired like artists.
Slip of silver here. Misdirection there.
A coin changed hands—so did a lie.
Polished river stones flashed like royal currency for mere seconds, long enough for bread to be passed over and questions to be lost in busy market chatter.
By night they hid supplies in rat holes and forgotten cisterns.
By day, they claimed their holy ground.
A cracked, crooked booth in the Shacken Clam Tavern, where the walls stank of seaweed and iron but the food was hot and forgotten often enough to eat. Two minor nobles always left early, bellies half-full, and bowls half-untouched.
That was the feast.
That was theirs.
And on their seventh visit, everything was just a little warmer.
"Ashe," Mina said between bites of a surprisingly tender chicken thigh. "If we ever write a book about this, I'm calling it 'Stealing Soup with Style.'"
Ashe snorted. "More like 'Two Idiots and One Spoon.'"
She smirked. "Who's the spoon?"
He looked up with a solemn nod. "Me. Obviously."
Mina stifled a laugh, wiping broth from her lip with a sleeve already stained from yesterday's stew. It was strange—how the sting of exile, the ache of betrayal, all of it dulled with each shared bowl. How life carved new meaning in cracked porcelain and whispered jokes.
"You know," Ashe added, slouching comfortably in the booth, "we're kinda like storybook heroes. Outlaws with tragic pasts. Magic tricks. Shadow moves. All that stuff."
"No one's writing our names in scrolls, Ashe," Mina said, deadpan. "No bards are composing ballads about two sewer gremlins stealing fish bones."
"Not yet." Ashe grinned, jabbing a thumb toward himself. "But give it time. We're building our legend one stolen soup at a time."
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth curled up.
A moment passed. A lull, like the space between thunderclaps.
Then—
"…Hey," Mina mumbled, stirring her spoon idly in the broth. "Your magic… it's illusion, right?"
Ashe nodded. "Yeah. Why?"
"I read something in a Tropico compendium—Volume 39, I think? Said illusion magic was considered… obsolete. Since, uh… mana-something."
"Mana-Perception," Ashe replied without missing a beat, voice quieter now.
"Yeah, that. It's supposed to cut through illusions. Sense real auras and shapes. Basically makes illusion spells useless, right?"
"Pretty much," he said, taking a long sip from his bowl. "To most people, that was the death of my entire school of magic. Just like that—poof. Outdated."
Mina tilted her head, studying him. "Then… how come yours still works? You fooled those patrols last week. Even the pickpockets who've been on the street longer than we've been alive."
Ashe gave a sly smile, one that tugged at the corner of his lip like he was holding a secret under his tongue. "Because I cheat."
She blinked.
"Not really cheating," he added quickly, leaning in, "but I don't just use illusions—I layer them. Stack 'em up like blankets. One on top of another. See, a regular spell makes you see something fake. But if you make five fakes over each other, the brain starts choking on what's real."
Mina leaned in, interested despite herself.
"Guards can barely see through two," Ashe continued. "People with good mana-perception? Maybe three, max. But I figured out a way to do ten. One spell. No extra mana. I call it…"
He raised his hand with dramatic flair.
"The Ten Layers Technique."
Mina stared. "...That's the dumbest name I've ever heard."
"I know, right? It's great."
They laughed.
For a moment, the tension of the city faded. Just two kids, just soup, just stupid names for clever magic.
But then the laughter faded, and Mina leaned back, quiet again.
"I wish I had magic like that."
Ashe looked over.
"I mean… even if it's old. Even if it's weak. It's still something." Her fingers tightened around her spoon. "Me? I've got… nothing."
She looked down. "No core. No pathways. Just empty space where something should've been."
Ashe paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then said, softly—
"You've got discipline. You've got guts. You've got aim like a knight and feet like a shadow. You think that came from nowhere?"
She said nothing, but her eyes flicked toward him.
"You were trained by nobles, Mina. Drilled by soldiers. You're faster than me, smarter than me, and if you had magic, I'd probably be dead already."
She blinked. "Was that a compliment or a confession?"
"Both," he replied.
A moment later, the waitress returned—silent as ever, face unreadable.
This time, she brought another bowl. Hot. Fresh.
She placed it between them without a word.
Ashe and Mina exchanged a look.
"Is this…?" Mina whispered.
"Don't ask," The waitress said. "Just eat."
So they did.
No words. No questions. Just warmth between them, broth and steam between bites, and a rare moment where the world didn't press against their ribs.
Maybe not everyone in this world is an enemy.
Maybe—just maybe—there are more out there like her.
And maybe, some of them will walk alongside Ashe and Mina on the road ahead...
Mina looked up.
"You think we'll ever leave this place?"
Ashe didn't answer right away. He tilted his head back, eyes watching the crooked ceiling like it held the future in its cracks.
"Yeah," he said eventually. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day."
He glanced at her.
"When we do—what name are they gonna write in the storybooks?"
Mina smirked.
"Not 'Two Idiots and One Spoon.'"
He laughed.
And beneath the broken rafters of a forgotten tavern in the slums of Sector V9, two nobodies planned their legacy.