The morning sun warmed the stone streets of Corvin. It was a busy trade city located in the harsh outer lands of the Valerius Empire. People hurried past the small park where Silas sat. Blacksmiths hauled sacks of coal, bakers set up their stalls, and merchants yelled at each other over the right of way for their carts. It was just a normal, loud morning.
Silas sat on a wooden bench and looked down at his hands. He turned them over, rubbing his thumb against his palm.
"Eighteen tomorrow," he muttered to himself. "Almost eighteen years in this place."
He still remembered his old life. Back on Earth, he wasn't a peasant. He was a data analyst. He had a quiet apartment, a steady paycheck, and a boring, comfortable routine. Then, he closed his eyes one night and woke up crying in a wooden crib. He was forced to grow up all over again in a world he didn't understand.
A dry, brown leaf rested on the bench beside him. Silas looked at it. He raised his index finger and pointed at the center of the leaf. He focused, pushing a tiny bit of his energy forward.
A weak puff of air left his fingertip. The leaf flipped over twice and drifted off the bench into the dirt.
Silas dropped his hand and shook his head. "That is the absolute limit," he said quietly.
In the Valerius Empire, magic was in the blood. The nobles were born with the right biology to cast real spells. They could burn down buildings or freeze rivers. Silas was a commoner. He was born with what the nobles called "muddy mana." Moving a dry leaf with a slight breeze was the strongest magic he would ever do.
"Morning, Silas!" a loud voice called out.
Silas looked up. A heavy-set man driving a wagon full of flour sacks waved at him. It was Miller, one of the wealthiest bakers in the district.
"I have those tax ledgers ready for you," Miller shouted over the noise of the street. "Stop by my shop before noon!"
"I'll be there," Silas called back, waving his hand.
Silas couldn't fight, and he couldn't cast spells. But he knew numbers. He took the skills from his old life as a data analyst and applied them here. He started organizing inventory for local shopkeepers when he was twelve. He figured out ways to cut their transport costs. He caught mistakes in their accounting that the regular clerks missed.
Now, he had a solid reputation in the city. If a merchant guild had a problem with their books, they hired Silas. He made good money. He had a clean room to sleep in and never went hungry. For a commoner in the Valerius Empire, he had built a very good life.
The clank of heavy metal broke his thoughts. A squad of Royal Guards marched past the edge of the park. They wore thick, polished steel armor with the silver crest of the Valerius Empire stamped on their chests. They carried long halberds and walked in perfect lockstep. Regular city watchmen wore cheap boiled leather and slouched. These men were elite.
Silas frowned. He saw a familiar face rushing past on the street. It was Tom, a young man who worked at the grocer's stall, carrying a heavy wooden crate of apples.
"Hey, Tom," Silas called out, stepping toward the path.
Tom stopped, panting slightly, and rested the crate on his hip. "Morning, Silas."
"What's with the heavy armor?" Silas pointed his chin toward the marching guards. "Is someone important coming to the city?"
Tom shrugged. "Yeah, I heard a noble from the inner territory is passing through. No idea who they are or what they want."
Silas opened his mouth to ask why a high-ranking noble would bother coming to a dusty border city like Corvin. But he stopped himself. It didn't matter. Nobles only ever brought trouble for commoners.
"Right," Silas said. "Thanks, Tom."
He shook his head and stood up from the bench, brushing the dirt off his pants. He turned away from the market and started the walk back to his house.
He walked for ten minutes, leaving the loud merchant district behind. He reached a quiet street and unlocked the heavy wooden door of his home. It was a good house. It had solid walls, a tight roof, and real glass in the windows. He paid for it all with his accounting work.
"Mom? I'm back," Silas called out as he stepped inside and shut the door.
The house was quiet. He walked into the small living room. His mother, Clara, sat in a wooden rocking chair in the corner. She was staring blankly at the unlit fireplace, holding a frayed knitted blanket tight against her chest.
Her mind had been broken for a long time. Silas's father had been a cruel man. He drank too much and used his fists on his wife whenever he was angry. He died in a tavern brawl ten years ago, but the damage to Clara was permanent. She never recovered from the years of fear. Some days she could talk and smile. Most days, she was just a shell, trapped in the memories of the abuse, afraid to make a sound.
Silas walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bowl of warm oat porridge he had left on the stove. He brought it over to the living room.
"Here, Mom. You need to eat," he said gently.
He pulled up a stool and sat facing her. He scooped up a spoonful of porridge and held it near her mouth. Clara blinked slowly, looking at his face as if she was trying to figure out who he was. After a few seconds, she parted her lips and took a small bite.
They sat in silence while he fed her. She chewed slowly, her eyes eventually drifting away from him and back to the empty fireplace. She started to rock the chair back and forth, a slow, nervous rhythm.
Silas let out a soft breath and set the half-empty bowl on a side table. He reached out and gently rested his hand over her thin, shaking fingers.
"Let's go to the clinic this afternoon," Silas said in a quiet, steady voice. "Dr. said he was expecting a new shipment of herbs from the capital. We can get you checked out, see if he has something new to help you sleep."
Clara pulled her hands away from his. She blinked a few times, and the blank look in her eyes faded, replaced by a sudden, nervous energy.
She stood up from the rocking chair. She wasn't physically weak or broken. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her faded dress and looked around the room as if she had just woken up.
"No," she muttered, shaking her head quickly. "No clinic. Too many people there. Too much noise."
She walked past Silas to the corner of the room and grabbed a straw broom. She started sweeping the floor near the door. The floor was already clean, but she swept with fast, sharp motions.
"The house is dirty," she whispered to herself. "Need to keep it clean. Can't let it get messy."
Silas watched her. He knew pushing the issue would only make her panic. Her mind was damaged, but she wasn't helpless. On her good days, she would cook meals, wash clothes, and even talk with him about the neighbors. Today was just a middle day. She needed a simple task to focus on to keep her bad memories away.
Silas stood up and picked up the porridge bowl. He carried it into the kitchen and quickly washed it in the small metal sink.
"Okay, Mom. No clinic today," he called out, keeping his voice calm and normal. "I have to go to Miller's bakery to check his tax ledgers. I will be back before dinner."
Clara didn't stop sweeping. "Lock the door," she said, her voice tight. "When you leave. Lock the door. Keep them out."
"I always do," Silas replied.
He walked back into the living room and grabbed his leather satchel from a side table. It held his pens, a small bottle of ink, and his notebooks. He walked to the front door and paused, looking back at her. She was still sweeping the exact same spot.
"I'll buy some fresh bread on the way home," he said.
She gave a small nod but didn't look up. Silas opened the heavy door, stepped out into the street, and pulled it shut. He locked the deadbolt firmly behind him. He tugged on the iron handle twice, just to be sure it was secure, before turning back toward the busy merchant district.