The spring wind drifted through the streets, but instead of blossoms and laughter, it carried only gloom and the scent of poverty.
Corpses lay abandoned by the roadside, their eyes fixed blankly on the sky. Rainwater had already washed much of the blood into the gutters, leaving behind dark red puddles that stained the cobblestones.
A young man walked briskly through the narrow lanes. His face was pale, his hair unkempt, and though he wore a suit, the fabric was worn thin and carried no trace of luxury. Only his shoes, carefully polished, seemed to retain any value.
Around him, the city seethed with silent misery. A golden banner of the new king fluttered proudly on a tall pole, its bright colors mocking the hollow eyes of the hungry crowd below. Children tugged at their mothers' skirts, vendors hawked scraps with desperate voices, and a handful of guards lounged idly, indifferent to the despair around them.
One of the guards conjured a small flame with a flick of his hand to light his cigar. Bitter stares followed the act.
Nearby, a small child raised his palm and strained to mimic the trick, only for nothing to happen. His mother pulled him close, whispering "hush" with embarrassment.
The young man's gaze lingered briefly, then he turned away. Around here, there are only mortals. Why waste time parading such power? He lowered his head, concentrating instead on keeping his shoes free of the blood staining the street.
"They still haven't cleared the bodies," he muttered under his breath, pinching his nose against the stench. "How are we supposed to celebrate a coronation when there's nothing to celebrate?"
The district around him was hushed, the silence broken only by the occasional clatter of wood or muffled argument. Tall, derelict buildings leaned against each other like weary giants, their shadows draping the street in gloom. Those who lingered here were either desperate or had nowhere else to go.
After weaving through a narrow alley wedged between two crumbling structures, he reached a small dwelling tucked away in the shadows. The hovel was barely large enough for one person, yet compared to the streets outside, it carried a fragile warmth.
Inside, a woman crouched over a tiny stove. She turned at the sound of the door, her tired face creasing into a smile that lit the room more than the fire did.
"How was work today, Lux?"
Wrinkles lined her cheeks, and her back bent slightly from years of toil, but her eyes softened with affection.
"Mother," he said with a frown, "I told you to rest. You shouldn't be moving around so much."
She waved him off with a weak chuckle. "And how can I not cook for my precious son? Especially on a day like this?"
Lux stared at her in disbelief. "Don't tell me you're thinking the new king will be different. They're all the same—selfish. To them, people like us are nothing more than pebbles underfoot."
Her smile faltered, and she lowered her gaze. "No, Lux. It's not the king I'm talking about. Today, I received a letter from one of your father's old companions. He says he will be visiting Penumbra next week, and… he wishes to meet you."
Lux's expression darkened. "Mother… please. Stop clinging to his memory. Father brought nothing but hardship to this family, yet you still hold him in such regard."
Her hands trembled faintly as she folded them in her lap. "Lux, I know your memories of him are bitter. You've carried the weight of everything since he was gone. But maybe… if you met this friend of his, you might understand him a little better." Her eyes glistened, as though fighting back tears.
Lux sighed and moved closer, softening his voice. "Alright, alright. Don't get so gloomy now. Didn't you say today is a joyous day? I'll meet this man. But first… show me the letter."
Her face brightened instantly, her smile almost girlish for a moment. "Hah! You're still so soft-hearted. You can't refuse me. What will you do when you have a wife one day?"
She chuckled to herself and hurried to rescue the stew from burning.
Lux sat cross-legged on the floor and unfolded the letter. The ink was refined, far too expensive for common folk. He recognized it at once—similar to the kind his colleagues at the firm often admired but could never afford.
The message was brief: an audience requested a meeting exactly a week from today, alongside an address in the well-off part of town. The sender's name stood clearly at the bottom.
Mister Dux.
The strokes of the quill were steady, each line deliberate, carrying authority. Whoever this Dux was, he was no ordinary man.
Lux repeated the name quietly, but it stirred no memory. With a sigh, he set the letter down just as his mother placed a steaming bowl of stew before him.
"Eat, then rest. Don't trouble yourself too much over Mister Dux," she said softly, retreating to her bed.
"Aren't you going to eat? We don't get rice every day," Lux asked.
But she had already closed her eyes. Her lips still curved in a faint smile as sleep claimed her.
Lux shook his head with a wry smile. "Always pushing yourself…"
He ate quietly, leaving half the food for her, then rose to his feet.
Outside, the air was cool and sharp. Though it was not yet evening, the night sky was already visible, jeweled with countless stars. To most in Penumbra, they were a source of wonder, perhaps even comfort. But to Lux, the sight was hollow—beautiful, yet empty.
He glanced down at the ring on his hand. Its surface was scratched, its band simple, but it bore a faint engraving—worn thin, the pattern almost lost to time. A heaviness stirred in his chest, memories he refused to unearth.
He buried the feeling and turned back toward the hovel.
Above, a single star flickered faintly. No one noticed. Not yet.