The next day dawned brighter than the last.
Golden sunlight spilled lazily over the city, glinting off shallow puddles left behind by the night's passing rain. The air carried a softness, as though some unseen weight had been momentarily lifted. In the streets, men worked shoulder to shoulder repairing cracks in the worn cobblestones, while women bustled about with steaming pots and baskets of bread, their laughter weaving warmth through the cool morning breeze.
Children tore through the square in a blur of energy, their laughter chiming like bells, their imaginations sculpting worlds invisible to grown eyes.
They had no idea what was coming.
Deep in a narrow alley—so narrow the sky seemed reluctant to cast its gaze—lay a single, weather-stained letter. Its edges curled and torn, damp with age, its ink gouged into the paper in jagged strokes, as if written with fury rather than a pen:
> "You are all so hypocritical… Oh, you… mortal beings."
No one noticed. No one stooped to pick it up. The letter was just another forgotten thing in a city full of distractions. Yet beneath the surface, the city trembled—softly, imperceptibly.
In the west, a middle-aged man recounted a dream: a swirling mist, the blare of distant trumpets, faces stripped of eyes. His voice was hushed and anxious, but the people around him only laughed, clapping him on the back, dismissing his story as the babble of a drunkard nursing one too many nightmares.
Somewhere else, Xal'vor had returned.
The familiar grin was gone, replaced by an unreadable calm. He strolled through backstreets and crooked lanes, moving like a shadow that refused to be noticed, his gaze sweeping each narrow corridor as if he were hunting for something invisible.
When he reached that forgotten alley, his eyes landed on the letter.
He bent down, picked it up, and read.
A soft chuckle slipped past his lips.
"Someone's got too much time on their hands," he murmured. With casual grace, he folded the fragile parchment and slipped it into his cloak.
He emerged from the alley and melted back into the city's rhythm. His face was ordinary. His footsteps unhurried. His manners polite. To the bustling crowd, he was just another stranger, another traveler passing through.
In the heart of the city, he stopped.
A towering statue loomed before him—the supposed image of a god of mercy. Yet its face was absent, nothing but smooth stone, as if the deity had been forgotten by those meant to worship it.
"Huh… seems I'm the only one who sees this," Xal'vor whispered, his voice no louder than a sigh. "Your god will soon fade away, dear one…"
He turned and walked away, his cloak brushing against the cobblestones as he headed to the same coffeehouse from the day before. He took his usual corner seat and wordlessly ordered a cup of black coffee. From within his cloak, he drew a battered deck of cards, shuffling them slowly, deliberately, as though each motion carried weight.
One card lifted itself from the deck, landing softly on the table.
The Nameless.
No one else understood what it meant.
But at that very moment, far in the city's northern district, a guard disappeared. No sound, no struggle. No prints in the dirt, no trace of blood. Not a single person remembered his name, nor did anyone seek him. It was as if the world itself had erased him—refusing to acknowledge he had ever existed.
Xal'vor sipped his coffee in silence. His expression remained still, unreadable.
As if the card had chosen all along.
---
Later that Day…
The sun descended, staining the city in molten hues of gold and crimson. Lanterns flickered to life as the square brimmed with excitement. Merchants packed away their wares, families gathered, and musicians tuned their instruments. The soft plucking of strings and the steady beat of hand drums mingled with the shrill laughter of children and the chatter of neighbors.
Xal'vor sat at the fountain's edge, watching quietly. The rippling water mirrored the sky's fiery glow. He neither joined nor intruded, merely observed—a still figure in a world bursting with life.
A child bounded toward him, breathless from running, hair in disarray, cheeks rosy from play.
"Mister, why don't you watch closer?" the little one asked, curiosity untainted by fear.
Xal'vor's smile was soft, almost human.
"I'm fine right here," he replied, voice low and warm. "I wouldn't want to disturb anyone."
The child thought for a moment, then plucked a single wildflower from a nearby planter, holding it out with unrestrained sincerity.
"Then… this is for you."
Xal'vor accepted the tiny gift as though it were glass. "Thank you," he whispered, his expression softening in a way no one else would see.
The sky deepened into shades of twilight. Lanternlight painted warm halos across the streets. After a while, Xal'vor stood, carefully tucking the little flower into his cloak before vanishing into the winding alleys.
He entered an old tavern where the scent of charred wood lingered in the dim air. With few words, he ordered ale and sat by a grimy window, the lanternlight outside glinting faintly on his pale features.
From a distant corner, raucous laughter filled the room. Coins clinked on a table as a group of men gambled with reckless energy. One of them slammed his fist down, bellowing, "Two gold coins! And I still haven't lost!"
Xal'vor glanced their way, eyes flickering with some buried memory. A name drifted through his thoughts, belonging to a man who had once been consumed by the same hunger for chance.
"Gambling… just like him," he murmured under his breath.
When his cup was empty, he rose, leaving no trace but the faint scent of ale in the air.
Night had fully claimed the city now. Streets glimmered under rows of lanterns, music and laughter filling every corner.
And somewhere amid the warmth and celebration, Xal'vor simply… disappeared.
Not into solitude.
But into the very heart of the crowd itself.