The Aegis port was a festering ruin, and the air Kaelen Nox inhaled tasted like rusted iron and rotten fish—a heavy, magical smog that made his already weak lungs burn. The air itself seemed to vibrate with unstable magic, sending familiar, sickening tremors through his damaged core. He stood stiffly in the deep shadow of a derelict crane, his thin scholar's cloak clinging to his cold sweat. He needed to look pathetic, vulnerable—the perfect mark for the men approaching him.
Grol, a man built like a pile of dirty bricks, stepped forward, flanked by two huge, silent thugs. Grol blocked the only way out.
"The payment for the map, scholar," Grol growled, his voice a grinding stone. "You promised silver. I see only copper in your eyes, and you're shaking."
Kaelen forced his breathing to stay shallow, trying to conserve the volatile magic in his chest. His mind, however, was icy cold. Grol is a brute. The thugs are predictable. A fight is certain. I must use a trick. Time: three seconds.
"The map you sold me, Grol," Kaelen replied, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline. "It was a fake. It led to a pile of garbage, not the cache. We had a deal based on value. Since you provided none, I owe you nothing."
Grol's face twisted in pure, animal fury. "You skinny little rat, I'll take your teeth for the trouble!" He charged, a fast, wide blur of violence.
Kaelen didn't try to fight. He couldn't. Instead, he darted his hand out, not to cast a spell, but to slap a loose, rusted lever on the crane assembly. The lever controlled the massive cargo hook above.
The iron hook—half a ton of dead weight—screamed as the cable ripped loose and the hook plummeted. Kaelen had aimed, not for Grol, but for the man behind him. The thug yelled and instinctively lunged back, colliding with Grol mid-charge.
In that microsecond of chaotic collision, Kaelen struck. He grabbed the small pouch of powdered, toxic trawler salt he kept hidden and flung it straight into Grol's wide-open eyes.
Grol howled, clutching his face in blinding pain. Kaelen, dizzy and shaking from the sudden physical exertion, didn't look back. He took three desperate, perfectly aimed steps and squeezed between two crates, disappearing into the dark, wet alley.
He ran until his lungs felt like they were ripping. When he finally stopped, leaning heavily against a stone wall, the horrible, familiar nausea of mana instability crashed over him. He coughed until he tasted copper, every breath a stab of exhaustion.
My mind wins, but my body is a traitor. The brilliant trick had saved his life, but he was physically spent. To truly survive in Aethelgard, he needed the Sunstone Shard. He needed stability.