Arin woke to the sound of someone pounding on his door. His head ached, his hand still burned from the runes etched into his skin, and the shard on the table glowed faintly, as if mocking his disorientation.


    “Oi, Greaves! You in there?” a voice called, muffled but gruff. It was Jory, one of the less pleasant scavengers in the slums. “I know you’ve got something good. Word travels fast, you know!”


    Arin groaned, dragging himself off the floor. Jory didn’t just sniff around for scraps—he worked for the Crestborne guards sometimes, passing along tips for a few silver coins. If Jory had heard about the shard, trouble was already knocking. Literally.


    He glanced at the glowing fragment, still sitting on his makeshift table. It hummed faintly, almost like it was aware of his dilemma.


    “You’re not helping,” Arin muttered to it before grabbing his satchel and shoving the shard inside. He paused, pulling his hand back. The shard might have been magic, but its edges were sharp, and he wasn’t keen on losing any fingers today.


    “Greaves! Open up, or I’m coming in!” Jory’s pounding grew louder. Arin sighed and slung the satchel over his shoulder. Time to make an exit.


    <hr>


    The back alleys of the slums were a labyrinth only someone like Arin could navigate. He’d spent years learning every crooked corner, every hidden passage, every rooftop he could scramble onto when things got dicey. And they often did.


    By the time Jory kicked in the door to his hideout, Arin was already a block away, slipping through a narrow gap between two buildings. The shard pressed against his side, its warmth a constant reminder of the chaos it had already caused.


    “You’re going to get me killed, you know that?” he grumbled under his breath.


    The shard didn’t answer, of course. But the faint pulse it gave in response felt suspiciously like amusement.


    <hr>


    Half an hour later, Arin found himself perched on a rooftop overlooking one of the slum’s busier markets. The early morning crowd bustled below, vendors shouting over each other to hawk everything from stale bread to suspiciously sourced jewelry. It was the perfect place to disappear.


    But as Arin scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes caught sight of something that made his stomach drop: a group of Crestborne guards, their polished armor gleaming even in the dingy light of the slums. They moved in formation, their eyes scanning the crowd with purpose.


    “Great,” Arin muttered. “They’re already looking for me.”


    It wasn’t hard to guess why. Whatever the shard was, it clearly wasn’t something the Crestborne wanted floating around in the hands of a scavenger. The nobles’ iron grip on power depended on keeping relics like this firmly under their control.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Arin’s mind raced. He couldn’t stay here. But running would only draw attention, and he didn’t fancy his chances against a squad of armored guards. He needed a distraction.


    His gaze landed on a nearby fruit cart. The vendor, a portly man with a thick mustache, was arguing with a customer over the price of a bruised apple. Beside the cart, a pack of street urchins lingered, their hungry eyes fixed on the fruit.


    Arin’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. Perfect.


    He pulled a small slingshot from his pocket, loaded it with a pebble, and took aim. The pebble struck the cart with a loud thunk, knocking over a basket of oranges. The fruit spilled onto the ground, and the street urchins didn’t hesitate. They darted forward, grabbing as many oranges as they could carry before the vendor even realized what had happened.


    “Hey! Get back here, you little thieves!” the vendor roared, chasing after them. The commotion drew the crowd’s attention, creating the perfect cover for Arin to slip away unnoticed.


    <hr>


    By the time he reached the edge of the market, Arin was feeling pretty pleased with himself. The guards were still distracted, and he’d managed to snag an apple from the cart in the chaos. He bit into it, savoring the sweet-tart flavor. For a moment, things almost felt normal.


    Then someone grabbed his arm.


    Arin spun around, ready to fight, but stopped short when he saw who it was. The woman standing before him wasn’t a guard or a scavenger. She was tall and lean, with sharp features and a hood pulled low over her face. But it wasn’t her appearance that made Arin pause. It was the faint glow of the Crest etched into her hand, partially hidden by her sleeve.


    “You’ve been busy,” she said, her voice low and edged with amusement. “The Crestborne are tearing the slums apart looking for you. Care to tell me why?”


    Arin’s mind raced. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t just some bystander. And that Crest—a swirling design that seemed to shimmer with energy—meant she was dangerous.


    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his tone casual. “I’m just a guy trying to make a living.”


    The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Right. And I’m just a baker.”


    Arin opened his mouth to retort, but she cut him off. “Save it. Whatever you’ve got, the Crestborne want it bad. That makes you either very lucky or very stupid.”


    “Can’t I be both?” Arin said with a smirk.


    The woman sighed, releasing his arm. “Listen, kid. I don’t care what’s in your bag. But if you don’t want to end up dead, you’ll need help. Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous.”


    “Generous, huh?” Arin said, narrowing his eyes. “And what’s that gonna cost me?”


    The woman’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Oh, nothing much. Just a favor. One you’ll owe me later.”


    Arin hesitated. He didn’t trust her, not for a second. But the alternative—facing the Crestborne alone—was worse.


    “Fine,” he said finally. “But if this gets me killed, I’m haunting you.”


    The woman chuckled. “Fair enough. Name’s Kaelith, by the way. Try to keep up.”


    And with that, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Arin to wonder what, exactly, he’d just gotten himself into.