---
Elsewhere in Nareth'Qel, the small gathering that had formed around the scattered crates and worn cloth coverings began to swell with energy the moment food was revealed.
It was never orderly.
It was never calm.
Children—thin, restless, and long accustomed to uncertainty—moved with instinct rather than patience. Hands reached before thoughts formed, bodies leaned in, and voices overlapped in a rising tide of urgency.
"Give me that—!"
"Hey, I saw it first!"
"Don't take all of it!"
The bundle Imuis had brought became the center of gravity, and for a moment, everything else in the world seemed irrelevant.
He stood in the middle of it, grinning, holding the food just slightly out of reach as if enjoying the chaos he had created.
"Relax, relax!" he laughed. "There's enough if you don't act like wild beasts."
"That's easy for you to say!" one of the younger ones snapped, hopping in place.
Another tried to reach past him, only for Imuis to shift sideways with practiced ease, keeping the bundle just beyond grasp.
"Hey—!"
"Wait your turn!"
"Turn?" another scoffed. "Since when do we have turns?"
The pushing grew tighter, more frantic—not violent, but desperate in a way that spoke of habit rather than momentary excitement.
---
"Alright, that's enough."
The voice cut through the noise cleanly.
Not loud.
But firm.
The children paused—not completely, but enough for attention to shift.
The puppeteer stepped forward, wiping his hands against his worn sleeves as he approached.
"Back up a little," he said calmly. "You'll get something. But not like this."
There was reluctance.
Visible, immediate reluctance.
But also familiarity.
They shuffled back, some muttering under their breath, others still eyeing the food like it might vanish if they blinked too long.
Imuis shrugged and handed the bundle over.
"Fine, fine. You deal with it," he said, stepping aside.
The puppeteer nodded once, then began dividing the food with surprising precision.
Not equal portions exactly—but fair enough to prevent argument.
A piece of bread here.
A portion of fruit there.
He moved steadily, passing items into waiting hands, occasionally nudging one child back if they tried to take more than offered.
"Everyone eats," he said simply. "No one hoards."
That rule was not questioned.
Not openly.
---
Nearby, a woman stepped forward.
She looked slightly older than the rest—mid-twenties perhaps—but carried herself with a quiet steadiness that set her apart.
Her clothing was simple, but cleaner than most in the area, carefully maintained despite the surrounding conditions.
She carried a small satchel at her side, from which she began to take out additional wrapped portions.
"Here," she said softly, handing them to the puppeteer.
"For the younger ones."
He nodded in appreciation.
"Always thinking ahead," he said.
She smiled faintly.
"Someone has to."
---
The children noticed her immediately.
Some straightened slightly.
Others greeted her with quiet familiarity.
"She's here!"
"More food?"
"Did you bring more?"
She laughed lightly, shaking her head.
"Not for all of you today. But enough to make sure no one goes hungry."
That answer satisfied them more than they let on.
---
As distribution continued, conversation began to settle into the gaps between movement.
One of the older children leaned against a crate, chewing slowly.
"…You hear what happened near the upper districts?" they said.
Another snorted.
"When is it ever something good?"
A third shook their head.
"…Nobles again."
The word carried weight.
Not respect.
Not admiration.
Something closer to quiet resentment.
---
"They've taken more land," the first continued.
"Claimed it's theirs by right."
"Of course they did," another muttered. "They always do."
The woman sighed softly, glancing toward the direction of the upper strata, though nothing from it could be seen here.
"They say it's because of their abilities," she said. "That they're meant to rule. That the rest of us…"
She paused slightly.
"…are simply meant to exist beneath them."
A bitter laugh followed from one of the children.
"Beneath them? That's a nice way to put it."
"More like under their feet," another added.
"They don't even live here," someone else said. "Not really. But they own everything anyway."
The irony was not lost on any of them.
They were not part of the same stratum.
Not truly.
Yet the nobles had claimed vast portions of land, dividing territories, enforcing control, and leaving the rest to fight over what remained.
"…Unbarren zones," one of the older kids muttered.
"Yeah," another nodded. "Fight for scraps while they sit on everything else."
The woman's expression tightened slightly.
"…It wasn't always like this," she said quietly.
No one responded.
Because none of them remembered a time when it wasn't.
---
A brief silence followed.
Then—
"…If it wasn't for him, we'd be worse off."
The shift in conversation was subtle, but immediate.
Heads turned slightly.
Glances moved.
Toward Imuis.
---
He sat cross-legged now, already eating, completely unfazed by being the subject of attention.
"…You mean him?" one child asked, though the answer was obvious.
"Who else?" another replied.
"…If he didn't keep bringing things like this…"
They didn't finish the sentence.
They didn't need to.
---
The woman looked at Imuis for a moment, thoughtful.
"…He shouldn't have to," she said.
"But he does," one of the older children replied.
"…And he's good at it."
Another nodded.
"…Too good."
There was something unspoken in that.
Something that didn't quite fit the simple explanation of a street orphan surviving through skill alone.
---
"…He's not from here," the woman said quietly.
A few of the children exchanged looks.
"…Yeah," one said. "We know."
"…He told us some of it," another added.
"…Something about a clan, right?"
Imuis didn't react.
Didn't even look up.
But his chewing slowed slightly.
---
"…A big one," the woman continued.
"…Or at least… it used to be."
Her tone suggested uncertainty.
Or perhaps incomplete information.
"…Something happened. A feud, maybe."
A pause.
"…And then he just… appeared here."
"Like he fell out of nowhere," one of the children said.
"…Yeah," another agreed. "Just showed up one day."
"…And started stealing food the next," someone added with a grin.
That earned a few quiet laughs.
---
"…He's looking for something," the woman said.
Her voice lowered slightly.
"…That much I'm sure of."
The children leaned in, curious.
"…Like what?" one asked.
She shook her head.
"…He never says it clearly. But… something tied to where he came from."
A pause.
"…Something important."
"Some kind of inheritance?" one of the older kids suggested.
"…Maybe," she replied.
"…Or something like it."
---
The conversation drifted again.
More slowly this time.
More cautiously.
Because there was another presence among them that did not fit easily into explanation.
---
"…What about him?"
The question came quietly.
Almost hesitant.
Eyes shifted.
Not toward Imuis this time.
But toward the boy sitting beside him.
---
He was still eating.
Calmly.
Without urgency.
Without distraction.
His expression remained the same—steady, quiet, unreadable in a way that didn't quite match his age.
"…His eyes…" one of the children murmured.
"…Yeah," another whispered.
"…They're weird."
Not in a loud way.
Not in a mocking way.
More like a shared observation that no one quite knew how to describe properly.
---
"…Where did he come from?" someone asked.
Silence followed.
Because no one had a clear answer.
---
"…He just came with him," one of them finally said, nodding slightly toward Imuis.
"…One day. Just like that."
"…From where?" another pressed.
A shrug.
"…Don't know."
"…Imuis doesn't say."
"…Or maybe he doesn't know either."
---
The woman frowned slightly.
"…There's something about him," she said.
A pause.
"…I just can't place it."
"…Same," one of the children admitted.
"…He's quiet, but…"
"…It's not just that."
They struggled to explain.
Because what they felt didn't translate easily into words.
---
"…It's like…" one began.
Then stopped.
"…Like what?" another urged.
They shook their head.
"…I don't know."
"…Just… something."
---
The boy—still eating—heard every word.
Not because they spoke loudly.
But because their voices carried easily in the open space.
And because he was not trying to ignore them.
---
He chewed slowly.
Then exhaled faintly through his nose.
A small, almost invisible gesture.
But enough to suggest mild resignation.
---
They're talking again.
The thought came quietly.
Not annoyed.
Not surprised.
Just… expected.
---
Always the same thing.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his posture without drawing attention.
---
Eyes.
He blinked once.
Slowly.
---
Presence.
Another bite.
---
Something different.
He exhaled again.
Softer this time.
---
If they only knew how little I understand it myself.
The thought lingered.
Longer than the others.
---
He didn't look at them.
Didn't respond.
Didn't interrupt.
---
Where did I come from?
The question wasn't new.
It didn't carry urgency anymore.
Just a quiet, persistent absence of answer.
---
I don't know.
The simplicity of it didn't bother him.
Not anymore.
---
His gaze shifted slightly.
Toward Imuis.
Who was laughing at something one of the kids had said.
Completely unbothered.
Completely present.
---
But he does.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to act.
Enough to move.
Enough to exist without hesitation.
---
Wild.
The word formed naturally.
Not as criticism.
But as observation.
---
Unpredictable.
Another.
---
But reliable.
That one stayed longer.
---
He took another bite.
---
Maybe…
A pause.
---
Maybe that's enough.
His gaze lowered slightly.
---
For now.
---
Nearby, Imuis leaned back, stretching slightly.
"…You all worry too much," he said casually.
One of the children rolled their eyes.
"…Says the one who runs from half the market every day."
Imuis grinned.
"…And still gets away."
That earned a few laughs.
---
He glanced sideways.
"…Right?"
The boy didn't respond immediately.
Then, quietly:
"…Until you don't."
Imuis snorted.
"…Yeah, yeah."
He waved it off.
"…When that happens, I'll just run faster."
More laughter.
---
And just like that—
the tension faded.
The conversation dissolved.
The moment returned to something simple.
---
Children eating.
Talking.
Laughing.
---
And among them—
two boys sat side by side.
One loud.
One quiet.
---
Both unaware—
or perhaps simply unconcerned—
that something far beyond them had already begun to move.