"Sometimes, being seen is the beginning of being saved."
The rooftops of Lower Caelumaris glowed in rust and gold. Evening light draped itself across sagging laundry lines, crumbling chimneys, and soot-streaked windows. Market bells rang in the distance—faint, worn-out chimes drowned by the sounds of enchantment stalls and haggling voices. The floating city of Caelumaris shimmered above like a world untouched by gravity or grime.
But Artha's corner never touched light the same way.
He wiped the sweat from his face with a dirt-smudged sleeve, barefoot soles stinging as he dragged a wooden crate up a slope. Its contents clattered—cheap brass tools for a blacksmith who paid in leftover soup and "life lessons."
An automaton zipped past overhead, trailing steam and lazy hums of mana.
A few bystanders laughed at the boy laboring like a beast while machines glided like birds.
From a nearby booth, an old vendor smirked. "You again, boy? What're you doing with your back bent like an ox?"
Artha flashed a crooked grin, panting. "Oxen are strong, right?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He never expected one.
Later that same hour, a group of chickens were chasing him across a small courtyard.
"Get outta there, you imp!" a farmer roared, waving a ladle.
Artha bolted, half-laughing, half-screaming. "I was just trying to pet one!"
Feathers flew like confetti. The world was absurd, but absurdity had a way of keeping hunger at bay.
That night, under the cracked stone walls of a closed training ground, Artha crouched in shadow.
He watched through the bars as academy students sparred in precise patterns. Their weapons weren't metal—they were rune-sketched blades of raw elements. One glowed with lightning. Another crackled with frost. Their footwork shimmered with glyph energy.
"No wand. No mentor. No family crest."
But he watched.
And he learned.
Later, in the abandoned courtyard behind a bakery, he mimicked them with a broken mop.
It wasn't elegant.
His legs tangled. His feet slipped. His stance faltered again and again.
"Turn the wrist first… shift weight…"
A memory surfaced—unexpected, vivid. His mother's face, laughing beneath the golden vines of their old village arbor.
"Even when you stumble, Artha," she'd said once, eyes full of love, "you look like you're dancing."
He clenched his teeth. Tried again.
And then—
A flicker.
Not light. Not flame.
Something stranger.
The air twitched. Time bent—not visibly, but subtly—like the moment before a sneeze or a dropped glass.
A frame skipped. The broken mop jerked unnaturally fast—and then normal again.
Artha gasped. Took two steps back.
The world had… glitched.
Far above, upon a moonlit spire, Lady Sariya Velantra's eyes snapped open.
Clad in her silver and black robes, she stood motionless thinking about the boy—tall, proud, Watcher of the Threads of Time.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"That… that wasn't Kala-Vritti," she whispered, voice cracking the silence. "But it was close."
A memory flooded her mind unbidden—a child screaming as spiraling light consumed them. Their form blurred. Their voice silenced.
"Not again," she breathed. "Please, not another one."
She turned toward the Lower Tier.
And began her descent.
The following day, Artha wandered through the city bazaar.
The air smelled of cinnamon and forge smoke, perfumed oils and sweat. Hawkers called out in six languages, offering love charms, pickled phoenix eggs, and secondhand spell scrolls.
Amid the noise, Artha spotted a fruit rolling across the stone street—a red mango dropped in the rush.
He picked it up. His stomach clenched. His fingers tightened.
But he looked up, saw a girl crying near the fruit stall. Her coin pouch was gone.
Artha walked over and returned it, offering a small smile.
A few kids watched from behind crates, confused. One whispered, "He gave it back? But he's the street rat…"
Artha didn't hear them. Or he pretended not to.
Nearby, disguised in traveler's clothing, Sariya watched him.
Even with her aura dampened, her presence was unmistakably regal. Her silver-threaded shawl caught the breeze like woven moonlight.
"Why would a boy that hungry… give something away?" she murmured to herself.
Just then, Artha tripped on uneven stone and landed right at her feet.
"Ow… the gravity here is stronger than usual…" he groaned, face pressed to the ground.
Sariya raised an eyebrow. "That's not how gravity works."
He looked up, grinning despite the scrape on his chin. "...But it feels true sword lady.we meet again haa"
Later, they sat side by side on a low garden wall in a quieter corner of the market. Children played in the distance. A musician strummed a wind harp nearby.
Sariya held out a few silver gleams.
He shook his head. "I'm okay. I'm saving up—one smile at a time."
She tilted her head. "That's not a currency."
He smiled, quieter now. "It is… if you know where to spend it."
She didn't understand him. Not fully. But she didn't press.
Instead, she pulled out a small crystal device—circular, palm-sized, glowing faintly.
"I just want to check something," she said, gently.
She scanned him.
The device lit—then flickered. Then glitched. The reading blinked: [NO MANA DETECTED]... ERROR... UNDEFINED ANOMALY]
Sariya froze.
"That's not possible," she said under her breath. "Are you… masking?"
Artha blinked. "I don't even have a mask."
She laughed. It caught her by surprise.
He laughed with her.
For a moment, they were simply two strangers, sitting beneath a shared sky.
Then her gaze turned northward—toward the Academy, floating among the clouds like a forgotten dream.
"I won't take you by force, boy. But when the time comes… I pray you choose the sky."
That night, Artha walked alone again. His shadow stretched long beneath the moonlight.
He looked up at the glowing towers above.
He didn't dream of power.
"Please be alive, Brother…" he whispered.
Then—
The wind stopped.
A chime echoed.
The air… folded.
A ripple tore across the stars—like a wound in the night sky. A circular void opened, unnatural and pulsing.
Time froze.
Everything halted—except Artha.
He stumbled backward, heart pounding, vision swimming.
A pale light burst downward from the rift. It wasn't warm. It wasn't cold.
It was knowing.
"Again?! What is this—what's happening to me?!" he gasped.
Power surged through him like an avalanche without warning. He tried to resist—but it was too much.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed, eyes wide, breath gone.
Above, the void sealed shut like a closing eye.
Silence.
His chest rose and fell—barely.
The locket he wore, old and brass, pulsed once. Four interlocked rings formed its core.
One of the rings…
...faded.
Vanished as if it had never been part of it.
Far above, on watchtower spire, Sariya's eyes widened. Her hands gripped the railing.
"So… it has started."