The temple did not feel sacred in the morning.
At night, when the lamps were lit and the incense smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, it almost felt like a place that listened. In the early hours, before the city truly woke, it was nothing more than stone and dust and the quiet breathing of bodies pressed too close together.
Kael opened his eyes before the bell rang.
The dream was already fading, but the pressure in his chest remained. That was how it always went. The images dissolved, first the fence, the man's back, and then the warmth of a hand he could no longer remember, clearly leaving only the tightness behind.
He lay still for a while, staring at a crack in the ceiling.
Someone coughed nearby. Another man muttered in his sleep, voice thick with sickness or drink. The smell of old sweat and extinguished incense hung in the air, heavy and stale but no one took mind of any of it.
Kael sat up slowly.
He had learned not to move too fast after waking. His body did not always agree with sudden decisions. When he rushed, things broke... wood, stone, sometimes himself. He often had to be careful, as his dreams were becoming increasingly deeper and the fragmented memories where becoming more pronounced.
He placed his left hand on the ground and pushed himself up, careful to distribute his weight evenly. The empty space where his right arm should have been tugged at his balance, as it always did. He adjusted without thinking, shifting his hips, grounding himself through his legs.
Only when he was standing did he breathe properly.
In through his nose.
Hold.
Out through his mouth, he remembered his father teaching him that breathing exercise. kael always makes sure to at least do it when no one is around or when it seems "normal" to do it.
The pressure in his chest eased, folding inward instead of spreading outward. He stayed there for a few breaths longer than necessary, just to be sure.
The bell rang.
People began to stir.
Kael stepped outside before the monk could look at him again.
The city greeted him with indifference.
Mist clung low to the streets, dampening the sound of footsteps and muffling voices. The stones beneath his feet were slick, worn smooth by generations of people who had walked them without ever leaving a mark.
A woman dumped a bucket of dirty water into the gutter without looking. Two men argued over a handcart, their voices sharp but tired. Somewhere farther down the street, metal struck metal in a steady rhythm that echoed faintly between buildings.
Kael walked.
He did not hurry. He did not stop.
This was his third day in the city, and already he had learned something important: attention was dangerous. People who moved too fast, spoke too loudly, or lingered too long drew eyes. Eyes led to questions. Questions led to trouble.
So he moved like the city moved—forward, without urgency.
His stomach growled as he passed the bakery. The smell of bread was stronger in the morning, when the ovens were first opened and the heat spilled out onto the street. He slowed despite himself, watching the baker's apprentice sweep ash from the threshold.
The boy glanced up, recognized him, and rolled his eyes.
"You again," the apprentice said. "Do you sleep at the temple or something?" The boy said impatiently, frowning his eyesbrows and ever so slightly scrunching his nose.
Kael nodded.
"Figures." The boy leaned on his broom. "If you're hoping for leftovers, come back later. Master hates beggars before noon."
Kael did not argue. He simply nodded again and continued on his way.
Behind him, the apprentice muttered, "At least you don't smell as bad as the others."
Kael almost smiled. He took that as a genuine compliment.
He found work by "accident" again.
This was his routine; he always circled around the markets. He was familiar with everyone, and it was like clockwork.
A porter stumbled near the spice market, his foot catching on an uneven stone. The crate in his arms tilted, then fell, bursting open as it hit the ground. Red powder spilled everywhere, staining the street and sending a dozen people coughing and swearing.
The porter froze, face pale.
Kael stepped forward before he thought about it.
He bent, slipped his hand beneath the crate, and lifted. He tried using his stump on the other arm to balance the crate and carried it.
The wood creaked loudly.
Kael froze.
Too much.
He loosened his grip immediately, letting the weight settle instead of forcing it upward. His legs bent slightly, his back straightening as he adjusted his center. Slowly, carefully, he lifted again. Making sure to use his stump to adjust the weight when needed.
This time, the crate rose without protest.
The porter stared at him and immediately jumped into action and picked up whatever he could salvage from the mess he had just made.
"You," the man said, voice rough. "Carry that."
Kael hesitated only a moment before nodding.
He followed the porter through the market, the crate balanced against his shoulder and chest. Sweat beaded on his skin almost immediately. The smell of spice burned his nose, but he kept his breathing slow and controlled.
When they reached the stall, the porter waved him off and pressed two copper coins into his palm.
"That's it," the man said. He actually realized the kid had only one hand "Thanks for assisting."
Kael closed his fingers around the coins and stepped back, giving a thankful smile.
His hand trembled once the porter turned away.
He waited until it stopped before moving again.
He spent the first coin on bread. The second he hid carefully, pushing it into the lining of his sleeve where it would not fall out easily.
He did not spend it. He could not.
Money disappeared quickly in the city. So did people.
By afternoon, his muscles burned with a deep, dull ache. He carried sacks, dragged crates, and hauled bundles for anyone who would pay. He said little and listened more, filing away scraps of conversation without trying to understand them fully.
The city spoke in fragments.
"…sect recruiters—"
"…another fight by the south gate—"
"…Red—no, I heard—"
Names meant nothing to him yet.
He let them pass.
When evening came, Kael returned to the temple.
The old monk sat in the same place as before, staff across his knees.
"You came back," the monk said. He knew it was Kael, which did not surprise him, as the monk always knew who it was.
Kael nodded. "It's quiet."
The monk's mouth twitched. "Quiet is relative."
Kael sat near the wall, back against cold stone. His body sagged with exhaustion the moment he stopped moving. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing again, forcing his muscles to relax one by one.
The monk watched him for a while.
"You hold yourself like someone carrying something heavy," the old man said at last.
Kael did not answer.
"Some things cannot be put down," the monk continued. "But they can be balanced."
Kael opened his eyes.
"How?" he asked.
The monk smiled faintly. "By learning where the weight truly is."
Kael thought of the crate. And assumed it was that reason the monk mentioned it, because of the way it had nearly broken when he lifted it wrong.
He nodded slowly.
That night, he slept without dreaming.
The city breathed outside the temple walls.
And it did not care whether he listened or not.