The morning came sluggishly to the slums, draping the narrow alleys in a pale, sickly light. Smoke drifted from broken chimneys and charred barrels, and the scent of rot clung to every corner. Leir sat on the edge of a crumbling wall, watching a group of boys throw stones at a stray dog. The dog yelped, trying to flee, but the stones followed relentlessly.
He had long since stopped caring. Not about the dog. Not about the stones. Not about anything. The world had taught him, early and often, that he was invisible, inconsequential, and replaceable. He could feel the weight of other people's indifference pressing against him like a hand, and he'd grown used to the sensation. Sometimes, in the quietest moments, he imagined the indifference as a tangible thing, like a cloak draped over his shoulders, suffocating, and warm.
He moved along the alleyways with the grace of someone who had learned to disappear, threading between puddles of sewage, overturned carts, and the occasional body curled up in sleep or death. The city was alive only in its cruelty: people shouting over petty disputes, the distant clanging of weapons from soldiers, and the low hum of mercenaries taking advantage of chaos. Leir knew better than to look for mercy. He had none coming.
As he turned a corner, he caught sight of them—faces familiar and unwanted. The boys who had tormented him for as long as he could remember, their sneers sharper than any blade. They knew his routine, his weaknesses, and they exploited them without hesitation.
"Leir," one of them called, voice dripping with mockery. "Did you forget your breakfast again, or are you just hoping to starve faster?"
Leir said nothing. His silence was worse than a fight. The boys knew it. They closed in, circling him like predators who sensed weakness.
A stone bounced dangerously close to his foot. He let it roll past, imagining it sinking into his flesh. The boys laughed, louder this time, and one of them pushed him roughly into a wall. Pain flared across his shoulder, but it was familiar, mundane. It was expected. He had learned to live with it.
And yet, something inside him stirred. Not the usual flame of anger or fear—it was something heavier, colder. The kind of desire that gnawed quietly at the edges of his mind when no one was watching. The desire to be seen. To matter. To make the world pay attention for once, in a way they could not ignore. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The boys didn't notice it. They never noticed anything beyond what they could exploit.
He stepped past them, keeping his gaze down. The world had no place for someone like him, and he had learned to move as if he were already dead. He wandered through the labyrinth of broken streets, searching for a place to escape the morning's cruelty. His path took him to the outskirts, where the ruins of an old city lay silent beneath layers of dirt and shadow.
The ruins were a different kind of quiet—ominous, almost alive. Cracked pillars leaned at impossible angles, arches jutted out like skeletal fingers, and the faint wind whispered through hollow corridors as if carrying secrets from long-forgotten times. Leir moved cautiously, feet stepping over rubble and loose stone. The air was thicker here, and he could feel something pressing against the back of his mind, an unseen presence brushing at his thoughts.
He paused near a collapsed archway, eyes drawn to a glint of metal buried beneath dust and stone. It was small, unassuming, yet it seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible energy. He bent down, brushing dirt away to reveal a strange artifact. It was not a crown in any traditional sense—more like a twisted ring of blackened metal, etched with patterns that pulsed faintly as he touched it.
Leir recoiled slightly, the sensation crawling across his skin as if the object were aware of him. It was too still, too quiet, yet he could feel it pressing into the edges of his mind, probing, testing. The shadows around him seemed to shift subtly, stretching and warping like smoke curling toward him with intent. For the first time in his life, he felt that chill of attention—not from another person, not from the world, but from something else entirely.
The wind whispered again, carrying something almost like words, faint, fragmented: Look at me… know me… He blinked, trying to convince himself it was the wind, the echoing ruins, his imagination. But the feeling remained: this thing knew him. It understood the corners of his mind no one else had ever seen.
He reached for it, heart hammering. The instant his blood touched its surface—a small nick from a jagged stone—an electric pulse shot through him. The ruins seemed to pulse with the sensation, and for a moment, Leir's vision warped. Shadows stretched, shapes shifted. Whispers grew louder, clearer, though no mouth moved. The feeling was intoxicating. It was not pain. It was not fear. It was… recognition. A terrible, cold recognition that he existed, that he mattered, that he could shape something of the world if only he dared.
He staggered back, clutching the wound, breathing heavily. The artifact was quiet again, unassuming—but he knew. Something had answered him. Something was inside him now, watching, waiting, hungry.
Leir sank to the ground, alone in the ruins. For the first time in his life, he felt alive in a way he could not name. Around him, shadows shifted just slightly, as if acknowledging his presence. The wind carried another faint whisper: This is only the beginning.
And for the first time, Leir smiled—not because the world was kind, but because finally, he was seen.