The streets of Sethrae's Lower District smelled of wet stone, smoke, and iron. Aerin Kael had learned to ignore it—like he ignored most things—but tonight it pressed against him with a weight that made his lungs ache. Lanterns swayed in the wind, flickering over cobblestones warped and cracked by centuries of neglect.
A child screamed somewhere in the distance, then laughed. The sound carried no danger, only familiarity—the kind of familiarity that should have been comforting, but wasn't.
Aerin moved quietly, keeping his hood low.
Most of the district's people had already gone inside, knowing curfew was near, but a crowd had gathered near the central square.
He did not want to look. Death was not his concern. Not tonight. But the thread tugging at his attention was too strong.
A man was being executed.
The crowd's whispers were soft, anxious, reverent. Soldiers in black uniforms sharpened their swords with meticulous precision.
The condemned stood at the edge of the platform, wrists raw from ropes, face pale as bone.
His eyes burned with clarity. Most onlookers avoided them, but Aerin felt the gaze reach him, a subtle acknowledgment that he was watching.
The executioner stepped forward. Shadows stretched unnaturally long behind him. Aerin noticed the distortion, a subtle lag in the shadow, and frowned.
That was… impossible. But this wasn't the first impossible thing he had noticed tonight.
Reality had begun to feel wrong, fragile.
Aerin's heart thumped. The crowd gasped as the blade fell. The man's body jerked violently, then went limp. Gasps filled the air.
Children clutched their mothers' hands; some turned away. Others whispered hurried prayers they did not believe.
Aerin's eyes narrowed. Every instinct screamed the execution was complete, irrevocable.
Minutes later, the man was alive again.
Standing silently in the alley where Aerin had fled instinctively. Pale, breathing, smiling faintly.
"I didn't expect anyone to notice," the man said, calm, amused. "Most people watch, turn away, forget."
Aerin blinked. Twice. His mind scrambled to find an explanation—hallucination, trick, dream—but the evidence refused. The sword, the limp body, the crowd. All had happened. And now, impossibly, here he was. Alive.
"How…?" Aerin's voice came out hoarse.
"Don't ask," the man said. His smile widened, but there was no warmth. "The answer will kill you faster than the sword."
Aerin swallowed, trying to steady himself.
The crowd had dissolved. The streets seemed… wrong, quieter than they should be, stretched thin, shadows bending where they shouldn't. He realized, with a cold pang in his chest, that the city itself was holding its breath.
That night, Aerin learned something simple:
The world could be wrong.
The first power did not announce itself with fire or light. It whispered. A blade could strike and not strike.
A door could lock and unlock simultaneously. Consequences lagged. Small fractures appeared. He did not choose this power. It chose him. And it demanded attention, patience, and pain.
He tested it.
A stone tripped him; he fell slower than he should have. A puddle reflected a street behind him, but when he looked, the reflection remained still,
unmoving. He touched it.
Nothing changed—but everything had changed. The air, the gravity, the small heartbeat between thought and action: it was all askew, bending around him, accommodating him.
Aerin's thoughts raced. Power in Caereth was never free. He could already feel the cost.
Small fractures, minor contradictions—they drained him, subtly, imperceptibly, like a shadow siphoning blood.
Sleep became heavier; memories blurred.
Every use, even the smallest, seemed to bend his perception of the world ever so slightly.
Above, the sky was dim, the moon too close, a silver blade slicing darkness.
Stars flickered irregularly. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled twice though it should have tolled once.
He clenched his fists, tasting the iron tang of a scratch along his knuckle. Pain was real. Fear was real. Everything else was negotiable.
He walked the empty streets for hours, careful, observing. Every corner could be a trap, every shadow a contradiction waiting to snap. He found it fascinating, terrifying, intoxicating. For the first time, Aerin felt the world's weight—its beauty, fragility, and terror—without the comfort of ignorance.
By the time he returned to his small room on the third floor of a leaning building, he understood a new rule: nothing could be trusted, except what he could hold in his mind. Reality bent around him, hesitated for him, but it was not a tool—yet.
Every movement, every thought, every decision carried weight. Every moment of doubt could kill him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, staring at the darkened window. Outside, the streets sprawled, crooked and wrong.
Somewhere, history was bending.
Somewhere, gods were noticing.
Somewhere, the world waited.
He whispered into the silence:
"Tomorrow… I will push it further."
The next morning, the first real test came almost immediately. A minor dispute in the market—a vendor cheating a customer—should have ended in a fistfight, or worse.
Aerin intervened silently. He focused, and for a heartbeat, reality hesitated. Coins flew backward into the vendor's hands. No one noticed.
He exhaled. Small victories were dangerous. Small fractures, if unnoticed, were lethal.
By midday, a stray dog lunged at him, teeth bared. Normally, it would have bitten clean through his arm. He thought of it both biting and not biting.
The animal froze, confused, then ran off. His hands shook. He did not smile. The city was his classroom. And this power was his teacher.
By evening, word of a stranger noticing "impossible things" had begun circulating through whispers. Nothing official. Nothing certain. Just enough for someone—or something—to watch.
Aerin did not care.
Or perhaps he did.
A world that bends is dangerous. A world that bends for you is more dangerous still.