The rain had stopped, leaving Gravemire slick and glimmering under the lantern light.Nox moved through the marketplace, hood low, a dark cloth tied over his eyes. Both eyes were gone, but the cloth gave him some cover and kept people from staring too closely at the scars. He carried his cane lightly, tapping it against the wet cobblestones with quiet precision.
A wiry man waited near a crumbling building, shifting nervously. "You're late," he muttered. "Name's Corvin. We don't have time for wandering."
Nox nodded and followed. He said nothing, his focus entirely on the ground, the sounds, the air around him.
The task was simple: deliver a package across the district and collect the payment. Nothing dangerous—or so it seemed.
The streets were quieter than usual. Nox moved slowly, deliberately, his steps measured. He didn't need sight. The rhythm of the city—the shift of weight on the cobblestones, the movement of carts, the distant voices—told him everything he needed to know.
Halfway through the district, a group of brutes blocked the alley. One had a scar across his cheek and a crude dagger tucked into his belt. The others leaned lazily, watching anyone who passed.
Corvin muttered, "We might have trouble."
One of the brutes, the scarred man, stepped forward. "Well, well… what do we have here? Delivering packages in our territory?"
Corvin froze. Nox didn't flinch. He stayed calm, listening. He felt the shift in weight, the subtle changes in breathing, the intent behind their movements.
The scarred man lunged. Nox sidestepped instinctively, guided by something beyond sight. He touched the man lightly, enough to unbalance him, and the attack missed by inches. The others hesitated, confused.
Corvin exhaled softly. "We… should keep moving," he muttered.
Nox didn't respond. He just walked, cane tapping, steps deliberate. They moved past the brutes without further incident.
The package was delivered. Payment collected. Nothing extraordinary happened, and yet Nox felt the weight of the city pressing around him, faintly shifting, subtly alive.
He didn't think about power. He didn't think about danger. Not aloud. Not now.
He only thought about surviving. Finishing the job. The next meal.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet part of him remembered the dark fear he never spoke of. The memories stayed buried—silent, unacknowledged, and unwelcome.
For now, that fear could wait. There was work to do, and Nox moved forward, as always.