Morning mist clung to the harbor as the city stirred awake. Aiden stood at the edge of the market square, clutching the small leather pouch that held every coin he owned. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation.
He had planned this day for weeks.
Word had spread that a caravan from the east had arrived, its wagons laden with spices, silks, and oils. The traders wanted quick coin before moving inland. To most, their goods were luxuries far beyond reach. But Aiden saw something else: opportunity.
He stepped into the bustling market, keeping to the shadows of taller men and women. Merchants barked their prices, nobles' servants haggled, and children darted underfoot with stolen apples. Aiden slipped through them all, eyes sharp, ears keener than ever.
The pendant at his chest grew warm. His vision sharpened. He could see the pattern: saffron traded too cheap, cinnamon overvalued, silk ignored by sailors who only wanted salt pork and ale. He understood what others missed—what would matter not today, but tomorrow.
"Boy," a gruff voice snapped. A hand seized his shoulder.
Aiden spun to find himself staring at a man dressed better than any dockhand but not fine enough to be a lord. His cloak was trimmed in green, his boots polished but worn. His sharp nose and calculating eyes told Aiden this was no common merchant.
"What are you staring at my crates for?" the man asked.
Aiden swallowed. "Only… that you'll lose coin if you sell saffron at that price."
The merchant's brows lifted. "Is that so?"
"It spoils if kept damp," Aiden said quickly, words tumbling from him like water. "But the noble kitchens on High Hill—they'll pay triple, especially before the feast of Saint Ivara. Sell here, you'll gain copper. Hold it one day longer, you'll gain gold."
The merchant studied him, silent.
For a moment, Aiden thought he'd be struck or laughed at. But instead, the man chuckled. "You've a sharp tongue for a rat." He reached into his cloak and tossed Aiden a small coin. Silver. More than Aiden had held in weeks.
"Why?" Aiden asked, stunned.
"Because," the man said, eyes narrowing, "I value men who can see farther than their stomachs. Remember me, boy. I am Master Corvell. And men who serve me either rise… or are crushed."
With that, he turned back to his crates, barking orders to his men.
Aiden stood frozen, the coin heavy in his palm. For the first time, someone beyond the slums had noticed him—not as a nuisance, not as a ghost, but as something useful.
That night, under the broken arch, he turned the silver over in his hand again and again. Corvell's words echoed in his mind: rise or be crushed.
He touched the pendant. "I'll rise," he whispered. "I'll rise until even the Veyras must see me."
And deep within the gem, a faint light flickered, as though the pendant itself approved.