Sleep, for Elian, was not a sanctuary. It was an interrogation chamber run by his own mind.
The moment the fragile veneer of waking consciousness dissolved, the memories descended. They did not come as dreams, but as full-sensory re-enactments, stripped of the merciful filter of time. He was not remembering the executions; he was *enduring* them. Again.
The coarse, blood-soaked grain of the execution block pressed into his cheek. The shadow of Borin, vast and inevitable, eclipsed the sun. The whistle of the descending axe became the only sound in the universe, a split-second symphony of doom that ended in the wet, crunching *THUNK* that vibrated through his very teeth. Agony, white and absolute, blossomed in his neck—not as memory, but as present, screaming nerve-signal.
He died. He gasped awake in the dark storeroom, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, his hand flying to his unmarked throat.
Silence. The smell of stale ale and damp grain. The rough wool of the blanket.
He died again. A different death. The axe bit into his shoulder instead, and the pain was different—a deep, structural shattering followed by a hot, pulsing gush. He felt his life leak into the sawdust, second by terrible second.
He jolted upright on the pallet, a choked scream trapped behind his teeth, his fingers clawing at his intact tunic.
Five deaths. His mind, the relentless archivist, replayed each one in perfect, horrific detail. The *Pain Conversion* skill, still passively active, did not spare him the horror; it merely ensured he experienced it with crystalline, unbearable clarity. It was not a nightmare from which he could wake. It was a memory, etched into the substance of his soul by the glitched artifact that resided there. Each death was a fresh scar on his consciousness.
He sat in the profound dark, knees drawn to his chest, shivering despite the stuffy warmth of the storeroom. Dawn was still a distant rumor. The only light was a thin, grey line under the door to the main tavern, and the faint, ethereal glow he could now perceive around his own trembling hands.
**Aura Perception.**
The skill was not something he turned on or off. It was a new layer of reality, like sight or hearing, present from the moment he had awakened. He had simply been too traumatized to notice it. Now, in the quiet dark, he focused on it.
His own Aura was a pallid, silver-white nimbus, clinging to his skin like a sickly mist. It was thin, patchy in places, and flickered erratically—a visual representation of shock, exhaustion, and soul-deep trauma. When he focused on a part of his body—his injured shoulder where the phantom axe had landed—the Aura there grew even thinner, almost translucent, as if the memory of the wound had left a weak spot in his energetic fabric.
It was horrifying and fascinating. He was seeing a metaphysical X-ray of his own broken state.
He turned his attention outward. Through the wooden door, he could perceive the steady, deep amber glow of Mara's Aura. She was a still, potent ember in the sleeping tavern. Her Aura was dense, unwavering, and radiated a sense of grounded, immovable patience. It was the Aura of a fortress.
Further out, beyond the tavern walls, the world was a tapestry of faint, sleeping lights. Most were dull and muted, the soft blues and greys of slumber. But here and there, other colors pulsed. A sharp, anxious yellow from a nearby house where someone lay awake worrying. A flicker of sullen, bruised purple from an alley—someone nursing a secret hatred. And far off, near the river docks, a concentration of cold, hungry violet sparks moved in a slow, searching pattern. The Black Eels. Even at this distance, their collective intent—predatory, relentless—was a faint, unpleasant buzz at the edge of his new sense.
He could also see the non-living world, or rather, the absence in it. The stone walls, the wooden barrels, the sacks of grain were voids in the Aural landscape, dark shapes against the faint background glow of the sleeping city. But some objects held a resonance. The iron latch on the door had a faint, cool, grey shimmer. The largest ale barrel, the one Mara called "Old Reliable," had a warm, faint brownish glow, as if saturated with decades of celebration and comfort.
And then he saw *them*.
At first, he thought they were flaws in his perception, like floaters in his vision. Five faint, sinuous, transparent shapes, like heat haze given a malevolent, eel-like form. They drifted in the air of the storeroom, slow and aimless. They had no color of their own, but they seemed to *drink* the faint ambient light, leaving trailing smudges of deeper shadow. They were insubstantial, yet their presence made the air feel thinner, colder.
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: GHOST LEECH ENTITIES DETECTED WITHIN PERCEPTION RANGE.]**
**[DESIGNATIONS: LEECH-001 through LEECH-005.]**
**[STATUS: DORMANT/FEEDING. SATURATION: 0.05%.]**
**[EFFECT: PASSIVE, AMBIENT PROBABILITY DRAIN (LOCALIZED).]**
His Ghost Leeches. The children of his deaths. They were real. Not just a system note, but actual, parasitic things, leaching the "luck" from the very air around him. A cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. He had spawned these. They were part of his power, his curse.
As he watched, one of them—Leech-003—drifted lazily towards a shelf holding a row of ceramic mugs. It passed through the shelf, and as it did, the mug on the very end, perfectly stable a moment before, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver. A heartbeat later, it tipped over the edge.
Elian lunged, a stifled cry in his throat. His hand shot out, but he was too far, too slow. The mug hit the hard-packed earth floor with a dull, definitive ***thud-crack***. It didn't shatter, but a large, ugly chunk broke from its rim.
The sound was a cannon shot in the silent pre-dawn.
Footsteps, heavy and immediate, thudded outside the storeroom door. The bolt shot back with a violent clatter, and the door swung open, framing Mara's broad silhouette against the slightly lighter gloom of the tavern. She held a long, wicked-looking poker in one hand. Her grey eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the dark room before landing on him, crouched by his pallet, and then on the broken mug at his feet.
Her Aura, which had been a steady amber, flashed with a sudden, hot spike of orange-red annoyance. It was like watching a banked fire stirred to life.
"Explain," she said, her voice a low, dangerous rumble. No sleep thickened it. She was fully, intimidatingly awake.
"It… it fell," Elian stammered, the truth sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
"I have ears. I heard it fall. *Why* did it fall?" She stepped into the room, her gaze missing nothing. She looked from his guilty face to the shelf, to the mug. "Shelf's not warped. No draft. You knock it?"
"No! I was over here. It just… tipped."
Mara's eyes narrowed. She bent, picking up the mug and the broken piece. She examined the fracture, then looked at him again, her expression unreadable. The angry flare in her Aura subsided, replaced by a more calculating, wary grey. "Hmph. Third bit of bad luck in twelve hours. Ale cask spigot sheared clean when I went to tap it last night. Hinge on the cellar door gave way this morning, nearly took my finger off. Now this." She fixed him with that piercing stare. "You carry a curse, boy?"
The question was blunt, not superstitious, but practical. A curse was a tangible, troublesome thing in this world, like a disease.
Elian's mind raced. He couldn't explain the Ghost Leeches. "I… I don't know. Maybe. Since the execution block… things have felt… off."
It was the closest to truth he could safely venture. Mara studied him for a long moment, then sighed, the sound weary. The grey in her Aura softened back to amber. "Off," she repeated. "Aye. Well, 'off' or cursed, the work remains. And you owe me for that mug. It was a good one. Thick. Hard to break." She tossed the pieces into a corner bucket. "Dawn's in less than an hour. You're awake. So get up. The hearth won't clean itself."
She turned and left, leaving the door open. The implicit message was clear: his sanctuary was provisional, contingent on utility, and now carried a debt.
Elian rose, his body stiff and aching. The broken mug was a stark, physical reminder of the unseen cost of his power. The Ghost Leeches were not abstract. They were entropy given form, and they were hungry.
He stepped out into the main tavern. It was a long, low-ceilinged room, shrouded in deep shadow. Tables and benches were rough-hewn and scarred by decades of use. The large stone fireplace on the far wall was a dark mouth full of cold ashes. The air still held the ghost of last night's smoke, sweat, and spilled ale.
Mara was already at the bar, a massive structure of dark wood polished smooth by generations of sleeves. She was lighting a series of stubby tallow candles, their faint, greasy light pushing back the dark in hesitant pools. "Hearth first," she said without looking at him. "Shovel out the old ash into the bucket by the woodpile. Be careful, there might be live embers deep down. Then sweep it clean. After, fill the woodbox from the stack outside the back door. Then you scrub the tables. There's sand and vinegar and a bristle brush under the bar."
The instructions were clear, a lifeline of normalcy. Manual labor. Something Liam Carter's body had never done, but Elian's muscles, though weak, held the memory. This body knew how to work.
He found the iron shovel and the large, ash-stained bucket. Kneeling before the hearth, he began to dig into the great mound of grey powder. It was a fine, silken dust that plumed up with every motion, coating his arms, his face, getting in his mouth and nose. It tasted of carbon and endings. The *Pain Conversion* skill turned the dull ache in his back and shoulders into a sharper focus on the task, keeping his movements efficient.
As he worked, he kept his Aura Perception lightly engaged. He watched the five Ghost Leeches drift out from the storeroom. They seemed drawn to activity, to the potential for disorder. One hovered near his bucket. As he lifted a heavy shovelful, a muscle in his sore shoulder twitched. It was a minor thing, but the bucket handle, worn smooth, chose that exact moment to twist in his grip. The bucket lurched, and a cascade of hot ash spilled over the side, missing his foot but scattering across the freshly swept floor he hadn't yet swept.
"Eyes on the task, boy!" Mara called from behind the bar, where she was counting clay cups. Her Aura flickered with that orange-red spike again, brief but bright.
"Sorry," he coughed, ash in his throat. It wasn't his fault. It was the Leech. It had found the tiny possibility of mishap in a tired muscle and a smooth handle and *pulled* on it.
He righted the bucket, cleaned the spill, and continued, now hyper-aware of every potential point of failure. He finished clearing the hearth without further incident, the Leeches drifting away, seemingly bored. Hauling the wood was next. The back door opened onto a cramped, muddy yard heaped with split logs. The morning air was chill and damp, carrying the profound stink of the river. The sky was just beginning to bleed from black to a deep, bruised purple in the east.
He carried armload after armload, stacking the wood neatly in the box beside the hearth. It was grueling, repetitive work that burned through the meager energy his body possessed. But with each trip, he practiced his perception. He watched his own Aura. As he exerted himself, the silver-white glow grew slightly more defined, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The weak, translucent patch over his shoulder ached dully, and his Aura seemed to thin there with each load, like a worn spot in cloth threatening to tear.
He also saw the Aura of the city waking up. More lights kindled in the tapestry—the warm yellow of cooking fires, the brisk blue of people beginning their day. The cluster of violet sparks near the docks had dispersed, but he could still feel their malevolent intent humming at the edge of his awareness, a constant, low-grade threat.
When the woodbox was full, Mara handed him the bucket of sand, a jug of vinegar, and the stiff brush. "Tables. Every surface. Get the old ale and the grease out of the grain. And don't slop the vinegar everywhere. It costs."
Scrubbing the tables was a meditation in grime. The vinegar bit his nostrils and made his eyes water. The sand scraped his knuckles raw. But the physical rhythm—scrub, wipe, move to the next patch—allowed his mind to wander, to process.
He was a fugitive in a medieval hellhole, owned by a glitched system, hunted by criminals, resented by nobility, and leaking bad luck like a sieve. His only assets were a traumatized teenager's body, a guard with a grudge, a street urchin with a good arm, and a tavern-keeper who tolerated him as a form of debt repayment. And a new sense that let him see how utterly doomed he was.
As he scrubbed, a figure appeared at the front door, outlined against the growing light. It was Kael. He wasn't in his guard tabard, but in plain, worn trousers and a leather jerkin. He looked even more tired than yesterday, shadows like bruises under his eyes. His Aura, which Elian remembered as a steady, weary blue-grey, was now shot through with threads of anxious yellow and a sharp, vigilant green. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Mara nodded to him. "Early for a drink, guardsman."
"Not here to drink, Mara," Kael said, his voice gravelly. He looked at Elian, scrubbing at a table. "He causing trouble?"
"Broke a mug. Otherwise, he works." She paused. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Worse. I've seen the duty roster." Kael stepped fully inside, lowering his voice. "Captain Hadric's got a hard-on for 'cleaning up the Warrens.' Ordered a full patrol for a probe at first light. Wanted me to lead it."
Elian stopped scrubbing, his blood running cold. Wren.
Mara's lips thinned. "You go?"
"Pleadied a recurring gut-ache from bad sausage. He wasn't happy. Put Rikkard in charge."
"The spotter?" Elian asked, the words out before he could stop them.
Both adults looked at him sharply. "You know that name?" Kael asked, his vigilant green Aura spiking.
Elian swallowed. "The man who cornered me yesterday. With the spider tattoo. The brute called him Rikkard."
Kael and Mara exchanged a look heavy with unspoken understanding. "Aye," Kael said slowly. "Rikkard. He's not just a spotter. He's a lieutenant for the Eels. And he's also a guardsman. Part of the night watch, conveniently. Him leading a probe into the Warrens isn't about keeping order. It's about finding you."
The pieces clicked into a terrifying picture. The Eels had influence within the guard. They were using official channels to hunt him.
"The patrol went in an hour ago," Kael continued. "Haven't come out. But I heard… there was a disturbance. Rocks thrown from the roofs. A few minor injuries. They didn't catch anyone." He looked directly at Elian. "Your urchin friend is resourceful. And she's painted a bigger target on herself now."
Relief that Wren was alive warred with guilt that he'd brought this on her. The Ghost Leeches seemed to writhe a little faster in the corner of his vision, as if feeding on his spiraling anxiety.
Kael approached Elian and dropped the cloth bundle on the table he was scrubbing. "Here. Change of clothes. Less conspicuous than what you're wearing. And this." From his belt, he drew a short, sheathed knife. It wasn't a weapon of war; it was a utilitarian tool, about eight inches long total, with a worn bone handle. "It's for cutting rope, or bread, or whittling. Not for fighting men in leather. But it's better than nothing. Don't draw it unless you mean to use it. And if you have to use it, don't hesitate."
Elian stared at the knife, a lump in his throat. It was an object of profound trust and profound warning. He took it. The leather sheath was warm from Kael's body. "Thank you."
Kael ignored the thanks, as usual. "Mara, the ale delivery today?"
"Mid-morning. Harkon's wagon."
"Good. I'll be around. Unofficially." With a final, grim nod, he left, melting back into the dawn.
Elian hurried through the rest of his scrubbing, then took the bundle into the storeroom. The clothes were simple: a brown, homespun tunic a size too large, tougher canvas trousers patched at the knees, and a length of rope for a belt. They were clean, and they didn't smell of dungeon or execution square. Putting them on felt like shedding a skin of pure misfortune. He belted the knife at his side, its weight both comforting and alien.
When he emerged, the tavern was lighter. Mara had opened the shutters, and grey morning light streamed in, illuminating the motes of dust he'd stirred up. She placed a wooden bowl and a spoon in front of him on a freshly scrubbed table. The bowl contained a thick, greyish porridge, with a small, hard piece of dark bread on the side.
"Breakfast," she stated. "Eat. The wagon will be here soon, and I need you strong enough to lift a barrel."
The porridge was bland, lumpy, and salted. The bread was tough enough to hurt his teeth. It was the most magnificent meal he had ever eaten. The calories hit his system like a drug, and he could almost feel his faint Aura pulsing a little stronger, the silver glow gaining a faint, warm undertone.
As he ate, the first patrons of the day began to trickle in—early workers from the docks and the tanneries, men with permanently stooped shoulders and hands stained with their trades. They nodded wearily to Mara, who slid them small cups of weak, watered ale without a word. They paid in chipped copper bits.
Elian watched their Auras. Most were a dull, exhausted blue or a resigned grey. A few had the sharp, anxious yellow he was beginning to associate with debt or danger. They spoke in grunts and monosyllables, conserving energy for the day ahead. They completely ignored him, the new scullery boy. He was part of the furniture.
Then, a new Aura entered. This one was different. It was a swirling, chaotic mix of bright, almost feverish orange, deep worry-blue, and patches of a sickly, greedy green. The man himself was small and rat-like, with quick, blinking eyes and fingers that seemed to twitch even when they were still. He wore clothes that were just a shade too fine for the clientele, and they were just a little too clean.
"Mara! My darling fortress of liquidity!" the man chirped, his voice too loud for the quiet room. He slid onto a stool at the bar. "A cup of your finest, to wash the river mist from my throat!"
Mara's Aura flashed a brief, hard red. She placed a cup before him with a thud that spoke volumes. "Harkon. You're early."
"Efficiency, my dear! The watchword of commerce!" Harkon, the ale merchant, sipped and made a face. "Ah, robust as ever. It'll put hair on a stone." His darting eyes landed on Elian. "New help? You finally run off the last one? What was his name… fell down the cellar stairs?"
"He moved on," Mara said, her voice flat. "This one's Elian. He'll help unload."
"Splendid! Youthful vigor!" Harkon's gaze swept over Elian, and his Aura's greedy green patch pulsed. He was assessing, calculating. To Elian's perception, the man felt… slippery. Unctuous. "Strong lad. You look hungry. Mara feeding you enough? A growing boy needs meat on his bones!"
"He's fed," Mara said, cutting off any reply. "Is the wagon outside?"
"Just so! Two barrels of the standard, one of the 'reserve' for your more discerning patrons." He winked, a grotesque gesture. "Shall we?"
The unloading was Elian's next trial. Harkon's wagon was a rickety thing pulled by a dispirited-looking donkey. The barrels were massive, heavier than anything Elian had ever attempted to move. They had to be rolled down planks from the wagon bed, across the muddy yard, and into the cool cellar beneath the tavern.
Harkon 'supervised,' which meant he stood clear and offered unhelpful advice. "Mind the rim, lad! That's oak from the Whispering Woods, that is! Costs more than you're worth! Heave from the legs, not the back! You'll rupture something and then where will Mara be?"
Mara worked in silence opposite Elian, her strength formidable. She maneuvered her end of the barrel with practiced, economical movements, her Aura a steady beacon of focused amber.
The first barrel, the 'standard,' made it into the cellar without incident, though Elian's back screamed in protest and his Aura flickered wildly with the strain. The second barrel was the other standard. As they positioned it on the planks, Elian's foot, numb and cold, slipped on a patch of mud.
It was a minor misstep. He recovered instantly. But a Ghost Leech—Leech-002—was drifting nearby. As Elian regained his balance, the Leech seemed to coil and pull on the thread of probability.
The plank, which had been perfectly secure under Mara's end, developed a sudden, invisible warp. As the weight of the barrel rolled onto it, the wood groaned, then splintered with a sharp crack!
The barrel lurched. Mara, with incredible reflexes, dropped her shoulder and shoved, redirecting its momentum away from the cellar stairs and into the muddy yard. It landed on its side with a thunderous boom, rolling a few feet before coming to rest against the woodpile.
For a moment, there was silence broken only by their ragged breathing.
Harkon scurried over, his face pale, his Aura a riot of shocked white and furious red. "My barrel! My beautiful barrel! You clumsy oaf!" He rounded on Elian, spittle flying. "Do you have any idea what that costs? The drayage? The coopering?"
Mara stepped between them, a wall of solid woman. Her Aura was a controlled inferno of orange-red. "The plank broke, Harkon. Rotted through. Your man should check his equipment."
"Rotted? That plank was sound! It was his foot slipping! I saw it!"
"You saw a boy working hard for his keep," Mara growled, her voice low and dangerous. "The plank broke. The barrel is intact. Roll it into the cellar and stop your screeching, or you can take your whole wagon and your 'reserve' and sell it to the fish."
The threat hung in the air. Harkon's mouth opened and closed, his Aura churning with conflict—greed warring with fear of losing a steady customer. The greedy green won. He deflated, his bluster vanishing. "Well… perhaps it was a weakness in the wood. A shame. But no harm done, eh? The barrel seems sound. Let's… let's get it inside."
The rest of the unloading passed in tense silence. The 'reserve' barrel,smaller and presumably more valuable, was handled with extreme care. When it was done, Harkon collected his payment from Mara—a clinking pouch of coin—and scurried back to his wagon without another word, his Aura a bruised purple of resentment.
Mara waited until the wagon rattled away before turning to Elian. She wasn't looking at him with anger, but with a deep, speculative intensity. "That plank wasn't rotten."
Elian stared at the mud. "My foot slipped."
"Aye. It did. And a hundred things could have happened. You could have fallen. The barrel could have crushed your leg. It could have rolled into the cellar and shattered. But it didn't. It went the way that caused the most noise, the most fuss, the most trouble, but the least real damage." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "You said things felt 'off.' That's not a feeling, boy. That's a fact. Something's leaning on the scales around you. Tweaking things. Making sure small missteps become big annoyances." She paused. "Is it a curse you can control?"
The question was so perceptive it stole his breath. She wasn't asking if he was cursed; she'd accepted that. She was asking if he was its master or its victim.
"I don't know," he whispered, the honest truth. "I don't think I can control it. But… I'm starting to see it."
Mara held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. "Seeing it is the first step. Now, get inside. There's a mountain of turnips that need peeling for the stew. And try not to peel your thumb off. I can't afford the blood in the broth."
The afternoon settled into a rhythm of mundane chores. Peeling turnips. Fetching water from the communal pump down the street—a task that made him feel exposed, his eyes constantly scanning for violet Auras. Sweeping the floor again. Each task was performed under the silent, drifting observation of the Ghost Leeches. A turnip slipped from his grip, rolling into a dark corner. The pump handle pinched his palm. The broom handle cracked, not enough to break, but enough to be annoying.
It was a relentless, low-grade siege of misfortune, each event minor, each amplifying his sense of paranoid helplessness. His Aura Perception showed him the Leeches' paths, their subtle gravitation towards points of potential failure. He began to anticipate them. When he saw Leech-004 hovering near the water bucket, he lifted it with exaggerated care, bracing for a slip that didn't come—the Leech drifted away, unsatisfied.
He was learning. Not how to control them, but how to predict their influence. It was a defensive skill, born of sheer necessity.
As dusk approached, the tavern's character changed. The weary workers left, replaced by a noisier, more varied crowd. Dockhands with a few coins to spare after pay. Traveling peddlers. A pair of off-duty guards who weren't Kael, their Auras a bored, arrogant yellow. The noise level rose, a cacophony of laughter, argument, and the clatter of cups.
Elian was put to work washing those cups in a large tub of lukewarm, greasy water, constantly replenished from a cauldron by the fire. It was mind-numbing, arm-aching work, but it placed him in a shadowy corner, observing.
He saw a man win three dice throws in a row, his Aura flaring a triumphant gold,only to have his purse cut from his belt by an unnoticed pickpocket with a murky, grey-brown Aura on the way out.
He saw a whispered argument between two merchants in a booth, their Auras entwined in spikes of red aggression and sly green deception.
He saw a young woman with a tired blue Aura sing a haunting ballad for a few coppers, her voice cutting through the tavern din like a knife of pure, clean sorrow.
And he saw the moment the atmosphere shifted.
The door opened, and three men walked in. They didn't have to shove or shout for space; it simply formed around them. They wore good, serviceable leathers,not the rags of dockworkers. They moved with a relaxed, confident menace. Their Auras were the cold, hungry violet he had seen from a distance.
Black Eels.
The leader was Rikkard. The spider tattoo was just visible above his collar. His Aura was a focused, intent violet, sharp as a needle. His eyes, those pale, restless eyes, swept the room. They passed over Elian in his shadowy corner, lingered for a heartbeat on Mara behind the bar, then continued their scan. They hadn't recognized him in the new clothes, in the dim light, changed by a day of hard labor and terror.
But they were looking.
The other two were enforcers. One had a face like a fist, his Aura a dull, brutal violet. The other was lean and wiry, his Aura flickering with a quicker, more cunning light.
They took a table near the door, a tactical position. Mara walked over, her face a mask of neutral hospitality, her Aura a controlled, hard amber. "Gentlemen. What's your pleasure?"
"Ale. Three. And information." Rikkard's voice was pleasant, which made it worse. He placed a silver coin on the table, a significant overpayment. "We're looking for a boy. Name of Elian. Skinny, dun-colored hair, looks like he hasn't eaten in a week. He might be seeking work. Or shelter. He's a friend of the family, you see. Worried about him."The lie was smooth, professional. Mara didn't blink. "Lots of boys come through here. Don't know the name. I'll keep an eye out."
Rikkard smiled, a thin, cold curve of the lips. His Aura didn't change. He didn't believe her. "Do that. It would be… appreciated." He took a sip of his ale, his eyes continuing their slow circuit of the room.
Elian kept his head down, scrubbing the same cup over and over, his heart a wild drum in his chest. He could feel the weight of their attention like a physical pressure. The Ghost Leeches, as if drawn to the tension, began to congregate near the Eels' table.
One of the enforcers, the brutish one,shifted on his bench. The bench leg was solid. But Leech-005 coiled around it. As the man leaned back, satisfied and heavy, the joint where the leg met the seat gave a tiny, almost inaudible creak.
No one noticed.
The man took a deep swig of his ale. Leech-001 drifted past his cup.
He set the cup down a little too hard. It was a perfectly normal motion. But the cup, which had survived a thousand such landings, chose that moment to have a hairline fracture, invisible to the eye, finally give way.
CRACK.
The bottom of the clay cup sheared off cleanly. A flood of cheap, sour ale gushed across the table, soaking the front of the enforcer's leathers and splashing onto Rikkard's arm.
The man cursed, jumping up. Rikkard looked down at his wet sleeve, his pleasant mask slipping for a microsecond, revealing a flash of pure, icy annoyance. His Aura spiked a hot, dangerous red before settling back to controlled violet.
"Clumsy oaf," he hissed at his subordinate.
"The cup broke!" the man protested, wiping at his front.
"Then get another. And sit still." Rikkard's gaze returned to the room, but the spell of quiet intimidation was broken. A few suppressed snickers came from other tables. The Eels had been made to look foolish.
Mara brought a new cup, her expression still neutral, but Elian saw a tiny, grim flicker of satisfaction in the set of her jaw. She had seen the Leeches, of course not, but she had seen the 'bad luck' strike his enemies.
The incident was minor, but it changed the energy. The Eels finished their drinks quickly, no longer comfortable. Rikkard's eyes made one final, sweeping pass. This time, they lingered on Elian in the corner. Not with recognition, but with a predator's generic assessment of potential prey. A scullery boy. Unimportant.
He looked away. A moment later, the three men left, melting into the deepening twilight.
The tension in the tavern eased. The noise level rose again. But Elian couldn't relax. They had been so close. And his own power, his cursed Ghost Leeches, had inadvertently helped drive them away by amplifying a trivial accident. It was a dizzying, horrifying thought. His suffering spawned parasites that caused suffering, which had, in this instance, indirectly protected him.
The paradox of it made his head ache.
Later, as he was hauling the last bucket of dirty water out to the yard to dump, he saw Kael again, a shadow against the back wall.
"They were here," Elian said, his voice barely a whisper."I know. I was across the street." Kael's Aura was all vigilant green and grim blue. "They're methodical. They'll check every public house, every flop, every bolt-hole. Mara's is just one stop."
"They didn't recognize me."
"This time. They will. You can't stay here forever." Kael looked at him. "The probe in the Warrens… they flushed out a few kids, beat them for information. None gave you up. But the Eels know you had help from there. The net is tightening, Elian. On you, and on anyone near you."
The weight of it was crushing. "What do I do?"
Kael was silent for a long time, watching the first stars appear in the strip of sky above the yard. "There's a place," he said finally. "Outside the city. A ruined keep, a day's walk to the north, in the Crawling Wood. It's haunted, they say, or cursed. No one goes there. It could be a hiding place. For a time."
A ruined keep. A haunted wood. It sounded like a leap from a pot into a fire. "How do I get out of the city? The gates are watched."
"There are ways. But not yet. You need to be stronger. You need to understand what's happening to you." Kael's eyes held his. "Mara says you see the 'bad luck.'"
Elian nodded, helpless to explain further.
"Then watch. Learn. And when you're ready, we run." He pushed off the wall. "I'll check in tomorrow. Keep your head down and your knife close."
He vanished into the gloom.
Elian stood in the yard, the empty bucket in his hand, the stink of the river in his nose, the cold weight of the knife at his hip. The Survive 24 Hours objective in his vision had a progressing counter. He had survived the day. But the quest felt like a grim joke. Survival wasn't a milestone; it was a continuous, desperate act of evasion, paid for in bad luck and borrowed time.
He looked up at the emerging stars, points of cold light in an uncaring sky. Somewhere up there, or beyond there, was the answer to how he got here. To what the Heart of Chronos was. To who the First Walker had been.
But down here, in the muck and the fear, there were only immediate truths: the ache in his muscles, the hunger in his belly, the violet-eyed hunters in the streets, and the five transparent, hungry shapes that followed him everywhere, drinking the luck from the world, one broken mug, one slipped foot, one cracked cup at a time.
He had unlocked the perception of Aura. Now he had to learn its language. He had to learn the grammar of misfortune. He had to learn how to run, how to hide, and eventually, how to fight.
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him deeper than the night air, that before he could do any of that, he would have to die again. Many times. The loops were not over. They were his only true advantage.
He went back inside, bolted the door, and began extinguishing the candles. In the growing dark, his own silver Aura and the five drifting voids of the Ghost Leeches were the only things he could see.
The first day of his new, stolen life was over.
The first of five thousand had begun.