The city was louder than usual that morning. Merchants shouted over each other, trying to sell things that no one needed, while children chased each other through puddles that reflected the gray sky. The river lapped lazily against the docks, carrying the scent of fish and mud, a constant reminder that the world kept flowing whether you noticed it or not.
I was stacking crates, counting each one in my head, ignoring everything else. Routine is comforting. Predictable. Safe. And yet, the world has a habit of being inconvenient.
It started with a procession. Not the usual parade of merchants or festival rehearsals, but knights and soldiers, armor polished, banners fluttering. The heroes had arrived. I could tell immediately—not because of any divine aura or shining light, but because of the way they moved. Every step measured. Every glance deliberate. Confidence so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I didn't flinch. Observation is cheaper than action, and most of the time, that's enough.
Children ran ahead, laughing and pointing. Adults stopped, hands over hearts, murmuring prayers or praises, their voices trembling with hope. The heroes smiled, waving, acknowledging the adoration with the ease of people who had practiced humility like a costume. I watched them.
Not because I admired them. Because I wanted to see how ordinary people bend for legends.
The first hero in the procession noticed me. Not my face—everyone ignored me—but my posture. Calm. Patient. Detached. The kind of presence that doesn't excite anyone but is noticed when it's absent. He frowned slightly, perhaps curious, perhaps disapproving. I didn't care.
The others moved past, ignoring me completely. They were more concerned with ceremony than observation. That's what heroes do. Performance matters more than consequence.
I continued stacking crates, counting the cracks in the wood. Observation is better than interference. Always.
Then it happened.
A commotion near the bridge—a clatter of metal, shouted orders, and the unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel. I looked up, as I always do when chaos appears close enough to matter. Three of the heroes had broken from the procession, responding to a minor theft or altercation. Ordinary, manageable, predictable.
I didn't intervene. I watched.
The fight was messy. The hero in the lead moved with precision, dispatching opponents efficiently. The others followed, slightly slower, slightly clumsier, but effective nonetheless. Civilians screamed, scattered, ducked behind barrels or doors. The leader glanced at me once, eyes sharp, calculating. I didn't flinch. Not yet. Observation is always cheaper than involvement.
By midday, the streets settled. Heroes had restored order, and the city returned to its rehearsed normalcy. I went about my work, moving crates, counting steps, ignoring the occasional glare from soldiers who apparently noticed my detached demeanor.
The head throb returned. Not pain. Not weakness. Just… insistence. A low pressure behind my eyes that demanded attention.
"…kill."
I froze. My cheap sword hung at my side, quiet, unremarkable. The word brushed against my mind, patient, waiting. I ignored it. Always ignore it.
The heroes moved through the city like a breeze through leaves, leaving admiration in their wake. I watched them from a corner, thinking about how fragile their carefully constructed image is. One misstep, one mistake, and all of it collapses. People worship the idea, not the reality.
I continued stacking crates. The voice didn't return. Not yet. Patience is part of its nature.
That evening, the city grew quiet again, the usual mix of smoke and bread filling the air. Merchants closed stalls, children retreated indoors, and the river reflected the dim light of lanterns. I walked home slowly, savoring the mundane. Ordinary life has a rhythm, and I've grown fond of its predictability.
The whisper returned. "…kill." Faint, soft, patient. The cheap sword on my belt seemed to vibrate slightly, a reminder of what waits. I ignored it. Observation has always been enough.
At my room, I cleaned the sword absentmindedly, following the ritual I've established over the past weeks. Ordinary tasks keep the mind steady. They provide structure. They prevent panic. The world outside believes in heroes, in virtue, in narratives that rarely exist. I believe in things that don't demand attention: bread, crates, coins.
The whisper didn't return again that night. Fine. Patience suits it. Patience suits me.
Days passed. Heroes remained in the city, performing inspections, granting favors, shaking hands, smiling. Ordinary people admired them. I watched, noting patterns: who hesitates, who overcompensates, who performs for appearances rather than effect. Observation, always.
Then one afternoon, the unexpected arrived. A rumor, whispered in the taverns: a shipment bound for the old Villain Lord's palace had been discovered outside the city. A minor skirmish might occur. Heroes were expected to intervene. Civilians whispered about danger. Merchants fretted over lost profits. Soldiers sharpened blades unnecessarily.
I felt no excitement. I felt no fear. Only curiosity. Observation, always.
That evening, while returning from the docks, I saw them again. The heroes, gathered near the gates, preparing to leave the city. Their movements were confident, practiced, polished. I could almost see the performance rehearsed in their minds before it appeared in the world. I followed at a distance, unnoticed.
I didn't need to intervene. I simply wanted to see.
The road to the palace stretched ahead, winding and long. Beyond it, danger, blood, and what most would call destiny waited. For me, it was just another route. Observation, always.
Somewhere in the distance, I felt the faintest tug at the edge of awareness. A reminder, soft and patient.
"…kill."
I didn't respond. I walked on.
And I knew, when the real moment comes, I would not hesitate.