THE STORY CONTINUES.....
Chapter — The Imprint That Refused to Sleep
Morning did not come gently.
Armin woke before the bells, before the city stirred, before even the birds dared to test the sky.
He sat upright in the narrow bed, fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket, chest rising too fast for a man who had slept undisturbed.
The room was unchanged.
The inn smelled of old wood and weak tea.
Sunlight crept through the shutters.
And yet—
Something was wrong.
His shadow had not followed him out of the dream.
Armin slowly swung his legs off the bed. The floor was cold. Solid. Real. He stood, breathing evenly, counting heartbeats like Alfred had taught him.
One.
Two.
Three.
The shadow appeared a second late.
It stretched, not mimicking his movement, but correcting itself, as if it had hesitated—like a thought deciding whether it should exist.
Armin's jaw tightened.
"So it's started," he murmured.
The city outside was alive in a way the swamp never was.
Merchants argued loudly over prices they pretended mattered. Children ran barefoot through streets still wet from dawn cleaning. Guards yawned at posts they believed were safe.
Simon waved at him from across the square, already halfway into a conversation with a baker who was aggressively explaining why bread today was "historically significant." Alfred stood nearby, arms folded, eyes half-lidded—but watching everything.
Armin joined them.
"You look like you fought the night itself," Simon said, grinning.
"Lost," Armin replied flatly.
Alfred's gaze sharpened. "Dreams?"
Armin nodded.
"That wasn't a dream," Alfred said. "That was an echo."
Simon blinked. "I miss when mornings were just… mornings."
They met City Lord Loyd before noon.
Loyd Jovially was exactly as his name promised—round-faced, sharp-eyed, dressed far too richly for a man who claimed to hate luxury.
He laughed easily, spoke warmly, and asked dangerous questions with the smile of someone offering tea.
"You've brought trouble," Loyd said cheerfully, pouring himself a drink. "But you've also brought survival. I can work with that."
Armin didn't answer.
Loyd leaned closer, voice lowering just enough to matter. "The swamp has been restless for years. Whatever followed you here—whatever noticed you—it didn't start with you."
Armin felt it then.
A pressure behind his sternum.
A pulse—not mana, not Qi.
Something carved deeper.
The Imprint.
Not awakening.
Anchoring.
That night, Armin stood alone on the inn's rooftop.
The city slept beneath him, trusting walls that had never been tested by bells, by mud that remembered faces, by gods that watched out of boredom.
His shadow stretched long across the tiles.
Too long.
"You don't get to choose when I rest," Armin whispered to it.
The shadow did not move.
But somewhere—far beyond the city, far beyond comfort—
something shifted its attention.
And smiled.
To be continued....