Arin crouched low behind the crumbling wall, his sharp gray eyes scanning the piles of discarded junk that littered the outskirts of the noble district. The faint glow of the capital’s golden towers loomed in the distance, a constant reminder of what he couldn’t have. A cold wind bit at his ragged clothes, but Arin ignored it, focusing instead on the faint glint of metal buried beneath a mound of broken artifacts.


    "Finally," he muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a smug grin. "Something worthwhile."


    He darted forward, his movements silent and practiced. Years of scavenging had made him quick, careful, and—most importantly—invisible to the Crestborne guards who patrolled these streets. Nobles were too busy preening in their lavish homes to care about the refuse they threw out, but their trash often held treasures for someone like Arin.


    Arin reached the pile and began digging, his hands deftly brushing aside shattered trinkets and cracked glass. What he uncovered made his heart skip a beat: a shard of something ornate, faintly pulsing with an otherworldly light. It was jagged as if torn from a larger object, and its surface shimmered with an iridescent glow that seemed to shift and dance in the dim light.


    "Well, aren’t you pretty?" Arin whispered, picking it up. The shard felt warm in his hand, almost alive. Most relics from the noble district were dull and lifeless, their magic drained or too faint to be useful. But this—this was something else entirely.


    For a moment, he just stared at it, a mix of curiosity and greed bubbling in his chest. Then his instincts kicked in, and he slipped the shard into his satchel. Something this strange was bound to be valuable—if he could figure out how to use it. Or sell it. Either worked.


    "Hey! Who’s there?"


    Arin froze. The sharp voice of a guard cut through the quiet night, followed by the heavy clink of armor. Of course they had to ruin his moment. He glanced around, spotting two Crestborne guards walking down the alley, their torches casting flickering shadows against the walls.


    He could run. He could hide. But where was the fun in that?


    Instead, Arin pressed himself against the wall and waited. As the guards passed, their heavy boots crunching on the cobblestones, he slipped behind them with practiced ease. His fingers brushed against the coin purse dangling from one guard’s belt, and with a quick flick of his wrist, it was his.


    "Idiots," Arin muttered under his breath as he melted back into the shadows. The guards continued their patrol, none the wiser. He smirked, the weight of the purse a satisfying reassurance. Whatever was in the bag would keep him fed for a week, maybe more.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Back in his hideout, a ramshackle loft tucked into the upper floors of an abandoned warehouse, Arin pulled out the shard. The faint glow illuminated the small space, casting eerie shadows on the walls. He set it on a rickety table and stared at it, his mind racing.


    "Alright, shiny," he said, leaning closer. "What’s your deal?"


    The shard didn’t answer. Obviously. But as Arin reached out to touch it again, the glow brightened. He yanked his hand back, startled, but the light only grew stronger, filling the room with a warm, golden radiance. Then, without warning, a searing pain shot through his palm.


    "Ow! What the—" Arin hissed, clutching his hand. But when he looked, he saw runes—glowing, intricate symbols—etching themselves into his skin. The pain was unbearable, like molten fire spreading through his veins. He staggered back, knocking over a chair, but the shard stayed firmly in place, pulsing in time with his racing heart.


    "Resonance activated," a voice whispered in his mind. It wasn’t his voice, nor anyone he recognized. It was calm, almost clinical, but it made his blood run cold. "Bonding complete."


    "Bonding? What the hell does that mean?" Arin shouted, glaring at the shard as if it could answer him. But before he could say anything else, a flood of images and sensations overwhelmed him—visions of ancient battles, towering figures wielding unimaginable power, and a crown, shattered into countless pieces, scattering across the world.


    When the visions finally faded, Arin collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. His hand still burned, the glowing runes now etched permanently into his skin. He stared at them, a mix of fear and awe swirling in his chest.


    "Okay," he muttered, his voice shaky but tinged with defiance. "What the actual hell just happened?"


    By the time the sun began to rise, Arin had pieced together enough of the shard’s story to feel both terrified and giddy. This wasn’t just some trinket. It was a piece of the Crown of Origin—the legendary artifact that had once united the world—and it had chosen him. Him, the Crestless nobody from the slums.


    Arin’s lips curled into a smirk. The Crestborne nobility had spent centuries looking down on people like him, calling them worthless. But now, he held something they’d kill to possess.


    He stood on the roof of his hideout, the shard glowing faintly in his hand. The grand capital stretched out before him, its glittering towers a stark contrast to the slums below. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the nobles who ruled over the city, their arrogance and opulence making his blood boil.


    "They call me nothing," Arin murmured, his voice low but laced with venom. "Fine. I’ll make them regret underestimating me."


    The shard pulsed in his hand, as if in agreement. Arin’s smirk widened. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do yet, but one thing was certain: this was the start of something big. And he’d make damn sure the Crestborne knew it.