Alaric woke to pain.
Not the sharp kind—that had dulled overnight—but the deep, grinding ache that settled into bone and refused to move. His shoulder burned where the blade had cut him. Each breath tugged at the wound, reminding him how close he had come to tearing it open again in his sleep.
The room was still dim. Early morning. The kind of hour where the world hadn't yet decided whether it wanted to notice you.
He lay still, listening.
Footsteps below. A pot clattering. Voices low, indistinct. Normal sounds.
No pursuit.
His hand twitched as he pushed himself upright. Dizziness washed over him, brief but dangerous. He waited it out, counting breaths until the room stopped tilting.
Still too weak.
The copper he had left was folded into cloth at his waist. Light. Too light. Enough for food, maybe medicine—never both if he wasn't careful.
He tightened the cloth and stood.
Downstairs, the inn smelled worse in the morning. Old grain, boiled roots, damp wood. The innkeeper glanced up as Alaric descended the stairs, eyes flicking immediately to his shoulder.
"You bled," the man said.
"I didn't," Alaric replied.
A pause. Then a grunt. The innkeeper turned away.
Alaric ate standing. Thin porridge, barely warm. It steadied his hands enough that he didn't spill. When he finished, he left without a word.
The healer's stall sat near the edge of the settlement, close enough to the ruins that the stones beneath it were cracked and uneven. A deliberate choice. People like this didn't want foot traffic—they wanted those who had no other option.
Inside, the air was thick with bitter herbs.
The healer was old, or at least looked it. Bent spine. Clouded eye. Fingers stained dark from salves and powders. He glanced at Alaric once and nodded toward a stool.
"Sit."
Alaric did.
The healer pulled the cloth away without asking. His fingers were cold as they pressed around the wound, prodding with professional indifference.
"You're lucky," he said.
"I know," Alaric replied.
The healer snorted. "No. You don't. If that blade had gone another finger-width deeper, you wouldn't be sitting."
He reached for a small knife and cleaned the wound with a cloth soaked in something that burned worse than fire.
Alaric didn't flinch. His jaw tightened, nothing more.
"Circulated recently," the healer muttered. "Bad idea."
"I'm aware."
The healer glanced up, studying him more closely now. "Foundation's unstable."
Alaric said nothing.
The old man hummed to himself, then pressed a thick paste into the cut. The pain spiked, white-hot, sharp enough to steal his breath. His vision darkened at the edges, but he forced himself to stay upright.
When it passed, his hands were shaking.
Aftershock.
"That'll close it," the healer said. "Slowly."
He wiped his hands and extended them, palm up.
Alaric reached into the cloth at his waist.
Cold copper pressed against his palm—two thin coins, worn smooth by hands that had come before his. He placed them carefully onto the table.
The healer's fingers closed around them immediately.
"Don't circulate again for three days," the old man said. "Four if you value keeping that arm."
"And if I have to?"
The healer met his gaze. "Then bleed quieter next time."
Alaric stood.
Outside, the sun had climbed higher. The settlement was awake now. Traders shouting. Children running barefoot across dirt roads. A patrol passed at the far end of the street—three men, leather armor, sect markings stitched crude but visible.
Alaric turned away before they noticed him.
Information came second.
He spent the morning listening. Not asking questions—just existing near conversations long enough for people to forget he was there. By midday, patterns emerged.
The settlement answered to a minor sect. Registration was required for anyone staying longer than a week. Patrols doubled after dusk. The ruins were avoided, officially ignored.
Unofficially, people disappeared there.
By afternoon, his shoulder throbbed again. The paste held, but the ache crept deeper, dragging at his concentration. Hunger returned sharper than before.
He didn't go back to the inn.
Instead, he moved.
Through narrow streets. Past shuttered shops. Toward the market square where noise was thick enough to hide intention.
A merchant's stall caught his eye—not for what it sold, but for who was watching it. A young cultivator, bored, leaning against a post. Poor posture. Worse awareness.
Alaric brushed past him, close enough to feel the faint hum of circulating qi.
Weak.
He kept walking.
Enough information for now. Enough exposure.
By the time the sun dipped low, he had one copper left.
One night's margin.
He returned to the inn as the lamps were being lit. The innkeeper tossed him a look but said nothing. Alaric climbed the stairs slowly, each step measured, deliberate.
Inside his room, he closed the door and leaned against it.
Only then did his knees soften.
Only then did his breath hitch.
He slid down to the floor, pressing his back against the wood, eyes closed.
Still alive.
Still unregistered.
Still seen.
Outside, somewhere beyond the settlement, the ruins waited.
And something within them shifted—subtle, distant, wrong.
Alaric opened his eyes.
Not yet, he thought.
But soon.