His eyes flew open in panic, but there was no pain — only darkness. He sat up slowly, breath unsteady, and realized he could move again. The strange numbness that had wrapped around his body before was gone. He flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders. Everything responded normally.
He blinked, trying to focus. Pale dawn light filtered through thin blinds. A crooked oil lamp stood in the corner. Familiar shapes. Familiar shadows.
His apartment.
No restraints. No concrete walls. No sign he had ever been taken. Was it real, or was it all just a dream?
His hand rose to his jaw. That punch had felt real. He could still remember the sound, the impact, the taste of blood. But as he rubbed the spot where that monster of a man had hit him, there was nothing. No bruise. No tenderness.
His gaze drifted downward.
He was still wearing yesterday's clothes.
His shirt was wrinkled and stiff in places, like it had dried after getting damp. Faint smudges of dirt streaked across the sleeves. One knee of his trousers was darkened with grime, like he had been forced down onto rough ground.
He froze.
He didn't remember coming home. Didn't remember going to bed. He always changed before sleeping.
A chill slid down his spine.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned toward the nightstand. A small brass clock ticked steadily in the dim room.
5:05 a.m.
That was early. He almost never woke up before his usual time. And he definitely didn't wake up like this.
As he pushed himself to stand, the cold wood floor met his bare feet, and he realized he was still unsteady. That wasn't normal. He had never had problems with his balance — if anything, it had always been the opposite.
His hand instinctively rose to the necklace resting against his chest, fingers closing around the ring that hung from it — the only thing he had to remember his parents. At least, that was what he believed.
He tightened his grip, took a slow breath, and tried again.
This time, he stood steady and solid.
He looked around more carefully now. The place looked the same as always. A narrow bookshelf leaned against one wall, crammed tight with worn paperbacks and thick hardcovers. Fantasy novels filled one shelf — worlds of swords, kingdoms, and impossible destinies he could disappear into when reality felt too small. The others were lined with history books — wars, fallen empires, battles long finished. He liked reading about how people endured impossible odds. It made his own struggles feel quieter somehow.
A small futon doubled as both his bed and couch, a scratched coffee table in front of it. The walls carried a faint, permanent damp smell no amount of cleaning could erase, and the paint peeled in thin curls near the ceiling. It wasn't a place anyone dreamed of living, but he had done his best to make it feel like home.
He moved toward the washroom and lit the small wall lamp before looking into the mirror above the basin. His short-cropped hair looked messy and unkempt. His reflection stared back at him, completely normal. No swelling. No bruising. No sign of the blow he could still feel in his memory.
He stared at himself for a long moment.
Then he dipped his hands into the basin and splashed cold water onto his face. The shock helped, grounding him slightly, though it did nothing to quiet the unease sitting heavy in his chest.
How had she known about his memory? He couldn't remember anything from before he had been found and brought to the orphanage — but how could she possibly know that?
Back in the main room, he took a slow breath and rolled his shoulders again. Mornings were usually quiet, predictable. He used the time to stretch — something he had learned the hard way after pushing his body too far one too many times.
Ever since he had been found and adopted, he had been more athletic than most other kids. As he grew, that difference only became more noticeable. He stood just over six feet tall and weighed around one hundred eighty pounds — a light one-eighty, not especially muscular, just average.
That was the strange part.
He should never have been stronger than boys twice his size, or that much faster. But he was.
Growing up meant surviving. There had been no time for extra activities — just doing whatever he had to in order to get by.
Now he was twenty-one and finally living in a place of his own, with steady work. For the first time, things felt like they might actually be getting better. He couldn't afford to mess this up.
He finished stretching and washed up, changing into a clean blue tunic and worn leather shoes. He tossed the grimy clothes aside with a frown. For the first time, he considered buying a short sword — just in case something like last night happened again. It wasn't uncommon for people in the lower or middle districts to carry a weapon. Nighttime in the lower district wasn't safe.
Still, he had always relied on speed and agility to avoid trouble.
The city outside was waking up, the sounds of early morning life filtering through the thin walls.
He stepped into the narrow hallway. Paint peeled from the walls, and the air carried a musty scent that never quite went away. Across the hall, Mrs. Harper was watering a pot of herbs beside her door, a colorful scarf wrapped around her shoulders.
"Morning, Soren," she said with a warm smile. "Up early today?"
"Yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Couldn't sleep much."
She studied him for a moment, her gaze sharper than he expected. "You should take care of yourself. The city can be rough on young folks."
"I will. Thanks."
"Oh, one more thing," she added. "My niece just moved in from out of town. She doesn't know anyone here yet. If you get the chance, maybe you could show her around?"
Soren hesitated only briefly. "Sure. Tomorrow's the weekend — I can take her into the middle district, show her the shops."
"Thank you, dear."
He headed toward the back exit and leapt over the railing into the alley below. With practiced ease, he caught a fire escape railing, swung himself across to the next building, and slid down to the ground.
The lower district was a maze of narrow streets and stacked buildings. He moved through it like it was second nature.
As Soren ran through the bustling streets, he was surrounded by shops and people, many wearing rough tunics stained with dirt from the hardships of the lower district. The street he followed was the main thoroughfare — the one where vendors gathered each morning and crowds naturally flowed, whether they meant to or not. Makeshift stalls lined both sides, built from scrap wood and old doors, their owners already calling out prices to early customers. The occasional guard wandered through the market, armor scuffed and mismatched. Any guard posted here was rarely the kind who had earned a better assignment. The world wasn't just black and white — and neither were the people meant to keep order.
He moved through it without slowing, slipping between carts and pedestrians with the ease of someone who had grown up learning how not to get in the way. Vendors were still setting up for the morning rush, wooden shutters creaking open as crates of vegetables and sacks of grain were hauled into view. A woman cursed at a stubborn stove while smoke from a nearby cook-fire curled into the cool air. The smells hit in layers — bread, oil, damp stone, leather, sweat. It was loud, cramped, imperfect.
It was home.
Soren barely had to think about where his feet landed. He knew which alleyways stayed muddy after rain, which stair rails were loose, which shopkeepers didn't mind if you cut across their steps as long as you didn't knock anything over. Growing up here meant learning the city like a living thing — its shortcuts, its moods, its dangers.
The middle district was nothing like this.
He'd only gone there a handful of times, usually for work deliveries or rare errands that paid a little extra. The streets there were wider, cleaner, built with space to breathe. Buildings stood straight instead of leaning into each other like tired old friends. Guards walked in pairs, armor polished, eyes sharp. People carried themselves differently, too — not hunched or hurried, but measured, like they expected the day to go their way.
In the lower district, you watched everyone.
In the middle district, people watched you.
Soren preferred the noise and clutter. Here, no one expected much from him. Here, he blended in. Over there, every glance felt like a question he didn't know how to answer.
A fruit vendor waved as he passed. "Morning, Soren! Thanks again for helping fix my cart the other day, don't know what I would'a done stuck out past dawn."
He caught the apple tossed his way without breaking stride, flashing a quick grin. "Thanks!"
The lower district might grind people down, but it also remembered who showed up when help was needed. And for now, that was enough.
He arrived at the weapon shop at the very edge of the Middle District. Its location was deliberate — close enough to serve both the Lower and Middle Districts without fully belonging to either.
Ellric's shop had earned its reputation the hard way. The weapons crafted here were considered the finest to be found outside the High District, sought after by guards, merchants, and the occasional adventurer who could afford the price.
The building itself stood apart from its surroundings. Solid gray stone walls enclosed all four sides, clean and well maintained — a quiet statement of permanence amid rougher architecture nearby. A modest two-bedroom apartment was built onto the rear of the structure, its small windows set high for security rather than comfort.
Above the heavy wooden doors, a thick timber sign hung from iron brackets. The letters were carved deep and precise, darkened by years of oil and smoke.
ELLRIC'S WEAPON SHOP.
From outside, Soren heard the familiar clang of hammer against metal — sharp, rhythmic, steady. Master Ellric was already at work. The sound eased something in his chest before he even realized it. No matter how bad the night had been, the forge always sounded the same. Reliable. Unmoving.
Soren pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped inside, heat rolling over him in a wave.
"Mornin', old man!" he called, a wide grin spreading across his face as his voice cut through the ringing strikes.
The shop smelled the way it always did — sweat, iron, burning coal. The scent clung to his clothes the longer he stood there, and he didn't mind. It meant he was where he was supposed to be.
Weapons lined the stone walls: swords sized for guards, spears meant for patrols, shorter blades for travelers — or those who couldn't afford mistakes in the Lower District. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Everything here had a purpose.
That mattered to Soren.
A long counter stretched across the room, its glass top polished smooth. Inside, older pieces were carefully displayed — custom work, heirloom blades, weapons people trusted Ellric with because trust was hard-earned here. It was still early. Aside from the forge in the back, the shop was quiet.
The hammering stopped.
A curtain near the forge shifted, and Master Ellric stepped out, heavy black leather boots thudding against the wooden floor. He was broad through the shoulders, his beard dark and flecked with gray. His hands were bare and scarred, thick with callouses earned over decades — hands that had shaped more steel than Soren could imagine.
Ellric's stern expression softened the moment he saw him.
"Soren," he said, his voice deep and rough like gravel worn smooth by time. "You're here early. That's not like you."
Soren shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd be useful instead of pacing holes in my floor."
Ellric studied him a moment longer than necessary. Soren felt it — the quiet assessment, the kind that didn't pry but didn't miss much either. He resisted the urge to look away.
"You eat yet?" Ellric asked.
Soren hesitated. "Not really."
Ellric snorted. "Of course you didn't." He jerked his chin toward the back. "Go grab something. You can't run deliveries on an empty stomach. I don't need you showing up late — looks bad on my business."
The words landed heavier than they sounded. Not an order. Concern, disguised as routine.
"Yeah, yeah, old man," Soren said. "I will."
Before either of them could say more, the door behind the counter creaked open.
Two small figures burst out laughing.
"Papa!" the younger one shouted, hair tied back in a crooked ribbon as she barreled toward Soren's legs. He laughed, catching her before she tripped.
"Careful, Ellie," he said, steadying her like it was second nature.
The older girl followed more carefully, clutching a bundle of rags nearly as big as she was. "Mama says don't trip this time," she announced solemnly.
Ellric sighed. "Inside voices," he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
Soren knelt to Ellie's level. "You helping out today?"
She nodded proudly. "I'm strong now."
From behind her, Myla huffed. "Is that why you cried all morning?"
Ellie glared and stuck her tongue out.
Soren smiled — a real one. Moments like this grounded him. Reminded him that strength didn't always mean fighting.
Ellric hadn't always been like this. Soren remembered when Alena first came into his life — ten years ago now. She'd softened him in ways nothing else ever had. Well… almost nothing. Ellie and Myla had finished the job.
"She likes you more than me," Ellric muttered.
"That's because I don't make her scrub forge tools," Soren shot back. Ellric huffed a quiet laugh and gave Soren a light shove toward the counter, pressing a loaf of still-warm bread into his hands. "Get moving. Deliveries first," he said. "You have three today — two in the lower district and one in the middle. We'll talk after."
Soren nodded, already reaching for the satchel.
He didn't say it out loud, but places like this were rare. People like Ellric even rarer.
And for the first time in a long while, Soren felt the faint, uneasy fear of losing something he cared about.