Date: March 27, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra was waking up under a heavy blanket of gray, prickly fog. Moisture settled on the cobblestones, making them slippery and gleaming, like the scales of a giant serpent. Maël, usually cheerful and sharp-tongued, was unusually glum today. He fussed for a long time with the fastenings of his caftan, occasionally glancing at Dur, who was methodically checking the tension on his bowstring.
"Today we'll go where Ligra isn't dolled up for a parade," Maël finally said, pulling up his hood. "I'll show you 'Grumbler's Street.' It's a place where people remember the price of peace, but still curse those who brought it."
They passed the wide avenues where street sweepers were already busily sweeping away the night dust, and began to delve into a labyrinth of narrow alleys at the junction of the artisans' and residential quarters. Here, houses stood so close that neighbors could shake hands without leaving their windows. The walls were made of rough stone, and the air smelled of sour ale, rosin, and old leather.
"Listen to them, Dur," Maël whispered as they stopped near the tavern "The Worn Cauldron."
By the entrance, three old men sat on overturned barrels. One of them, with a crippled hand, angrily poked a finger at a fresh decree glued to the wall. "Again they've raised the levy for the 'Common Shield'!" he grumbled, spitting into the gutter. "Another two coppers a month! The Agrim family will squeeze us dry soon."
His neighbor, a stocky man in a blacksmith's apron, sighed heavily. "Stop it, Hans. You remember what it was like before them, don't you? My father was fourteen when the raiders from the Mountain Peaks came. They burned half the city, and those who survived were dragged into slavery. My grandfather didn't live to twenty-five—he was knifed for a loaf of bread in his own home."
"Yes," Hans agreed reluctantly. "Safety… They know how to do that. My granddaughter goes to school and isn't afraid of being kidnapped on the way. And the Agrim patrols really do catch thieves, not just shake us down for money. But the taxes, Hans! The taxes are strangling us. To live in this 'paradise,' you have to slave away like a damned soul, giving up half your earnings."
Dur listened, leaning against the wall. In his forest-bred mind, it was simple. The Agrim family was the pack leader. They protected the territory, guaranteed that no outsider would touch the young, but for that, they took the best part of the kill. Fair? In the forest—yes. Here, people wanted both safety and the freedom to dispose of every copper.
"They're not tyrants," Maël said quietly, as if reading Dur's thoughts. "Agrim Ma Rat believes in Order. He thinks chaos is the only true death. Under him, people started living to forty, to fifty years old. Diseases retreated, the walls became strong. Most citizens genuinely respect the family, even if they grumble in taverns. It's a kind of game: Agrim gives us life, and we pay them with gold and the right to complain about life."
At that moment, the alley's silence was shattered by a sharp sound—the crash of breaking glass and the clatter of an overturned table inside the tavern. The door flew open, and a young lad tumbled out, rolling head over heels down the steps. Two men followed him out.
They weren't city guards. They wore leather armor with the emblem of the Collectors' Guild—an official organization to which the Agrim family delegated the right to collect tax arrears. "Listen here, kid," snarled one of them, a broad-shouldered bruiser with a bull neck. "Your workshop has been in arrears for three months. We're not here to listen to fairy tales about a sick mother. Either the silver, or we seal your tools."
"I don't have any silver!" the boy shouted, getting up and wiping blood from his split lip. "The tools are all I have! If you take them, I can't work, and I'll never pay off the debt!"
"That's not our problem," the second "collector," a lean and wiry man, replied coldly. "Either you're useful and you pay, or you're ballast."
Dur noticed the air around the lean collector begin to tremble strangely, taking on a murky yellow hue. It wasn't just tension—it was the awakening of a Spirit. "Look," Maël whispered, his face instantly becoming serious. "That guy has an Ars-type spirit. See how his fingers are getting longer and thinner?"
The lean man made a slight movement with his hand, and three thin, ghostly threads, like steel wire, slipped from his palm. They weren't material in the usual sense, but when they touched the doorframe of the workshop, the wood split with a crack, as if squeezed by giant vises. This was the "Spirit of the Measuring Thread"—a simple but effective spirit, allowing manipulation of small objects and binding them by force of will.
"I said—step back," the lean man hissed, directing the threads towards the boy.
Dur felt that very feeling which Torm called "cold flame" boiling inside him. He didn't know this craftsman boy, but he saw injustice. The Agrim system might be as efficient as it wanted, but these two were clearly enjoying their power.
"Leave him," Dur's voice was quiet, but it held that forest silence that precedes a predator's leap.
The collectors turned. The ox-like brute laughed upon seeing the thin youth with a bow. "Another defender from out of town? Do you even know who you're mouthing off to, pup? We're acting under the Estate's mandate!"
"A mandate doesn't give the right to break people's bones without cause," Dur took a step forward, his hand slowly resting on his knife hilt.
The lean collector narrowed his eyes. His threads, which had just been tormenting the door, now slithered like snakes towards Dur. "You're making a mistake, vagrant. My Spirit sees the tension in your muscles. I'll bind you before you can blink."
Maël suddenly stepped out of the shadows, his posture relaxed, but Dur noticed his fingers beginning to vibrate minutely. "Listen, gentlemen," Maël began ingratiatingly. "My friend just isn't used to city ways. Why spill blood? We can settle this…"
"Too late to settle!" the bruiser roared. "He insulted a Guild representative."
The air around the bruiser suddenly became heavy and stifling. Dur felt his own legs grow heavy as lead. This was the work of a Terra Spirit. The bruiser's body began to increase in volume, his skin taking on an earthy hue, and the muscles on his shoulders bulged, tearing the seams of his leather jacket. His Spirit—"Heavy Tread"—created a zone of increased pressure around him, slowing opponents.
"Dur, careful!" Maël shouted. "They both have spirits!"
The lean man raised his hand, and his ghostly threads whistled through the air, aiming for Dur's throat. At the same time, the bruiser, ignoring his own weight, lunged forward, intending simply to crush the youth with his mass.
Dur didn't reach for his bow—in the cramped alley, it would have been a hindrance. Instead, he ducked under the first thread, feeling its cold burn his ear. His forest training paid off: he moved not like a man, but like a shadow, instinctively finding gaps in the bruiser's pressure zone.
The battle on Grumbler's Street was just beginning. Curious faces began to appear in the windows of nearby houses. For Ligra, this was a familiar sight—a clash between old will and new order. But for Dur, it was his first real fight against those who wielded the power of Spirits.
The bruiser swung his huge fist, now resembling a stone hammer. The blow struck the house wall, chipping out fragments and leaving a deep dent. Dur managed to roll away, but the lean man had already caught his movement with his threads, tightening a loop around his ankle.
"Gotcha!" the measurer shrieked triumphantly.
Dur felt the ghostly thread biting into his skin, draining his energy. But he only grinned wolfishly, remembering how Torm made him escape from snares blindfolded. His own physical strength, accumulated over months of hard labor in the forest, was immense. He sharply yanked his leg, putting all his body weight into the movement. The lean man, not expecting such a powerful tug from a "runt," lost his footing and flew forward, straight into his partner.
"You bastard!" the bruiser roared, trying to catch his comrade and strike Dur simultaneously.
Maël, watching from the edge of the scene, realized it was time to intervene. His Spirit wasn't fully active yet, but he could already feel his body beginning to adapt to the rhythm of the fight, making his movements more fluid and fast.
"Hey, mountain of meat!" Maël shouted, grabbing an empty barrel and hurling it at the bruiser. "Try catching that!"
The fight in the foggy alley promised to be long. Dur didn't yet know that from the shadows, very different eyes were watching this skirmish—eyes for whom this fight was merely a test of the "new material" that had appeared in the city.