---
Location: Korrbend Fringe
At the outermost bend where structured civilization loosened its grip and the wastes stopped pretending to be empty, there existed a settlement known only as Korrbend Fringe.
A place without proclamation.
Without grandeur.
Just existence—patched together where it had no right to be seamless.
Stalls floated in uneven rows across fractured ground. Some hovered slightly above the dustless earth, others leaned on unstable frames as if refusing to admit they were standing at all. Cloth canopies shimmered faintly with diluted celestial residue, giving everything a soft afterglow that never fully resolved into brilliance.
Vendors worked without urgency.
Goods drifted between hands and trays—luminous fruits, broken rune shards, half-repaired artifacts humming faintly like tired thoughts.
Nothing here was rich.
Nothing here was poor.
It was simply… maintained survival dressed in leftover divinity.
And through it all, children ran.
---
They wore imitation celestial attire—stitched patterns resembling star veins, halo-threaded sleeves, and faintly glowing wrist rings that flickered on and off like uncertain memories of power.
None of it was real.
All of it was belief in costume form.
One child leapt onto a crate, arms wide.
"Final decree—release!"
A burst of harmless light scattered from his palms in an exaggerated arc, bright enough to impress but weak enough to never matter.
Across the makeshift stage of crates and floating boards, another child staggered theatrically, clutching his chest.
"It… has struck me…"
He fell backward with dramatic precision into a pile of folded cloth.
The audience—other children—cheered like an audience witnessing history.
This was normal here.
Roleplay elevated into instinct.
Myth turned into playground logic.
---
Walking through this was Imuis, composed as always, gaze moving in quiet observation rather than surprise.
Beside him, Nocth followed.
He did not walk like someone searching for meaning.
He walked like someone who assumed meaning would eventually explain itself.
Imuis glanced sideways.
"You're unusually quiet today."
"I am observing movement," Nocth replied.
"That's called walking."
"I am still observing movement."
Imuis exhaled softly. Not a correction. Just acceptance.
They continued.
---
The stall rows thickened as they moved deeper into Korrbend Fringe.
A vendor adjusted floating glass vials filled with dim starlight.
Another hammered at a hovering metal frame that refused to stay fully assembled.
A third quietly repaired rune-thread bracelets that pulsed faintly in inconsistent rhythms.
Everything here felt like something once greater had been reduced into manageable pieces.
Not broken.
Just… downgraded into survival size.
---
A group of children ran past them mid-performance.
One stood atop a crate like a commander addressing invisible armies.
"Hold formation against the Falling Sky!"
The others charged forward in slow motion, shouting back in unison.
Their world was a theater without audience limits.
Imuis watched them briefly.
"This place used to train basic celestial adaptation techniques," he said.
Nocth glanced at him.
"It looks like play."
"It became play after it stopped being necessary."
Nocth accepted this without further question.
---
Then the collision happened.
A child burst between stalls mid-run, too fast, too focused on his imagined world to notice the real one.
He struck Nocth lightly.
Momentum tipped him backward immediately.
For a fraction of a moment, gravity completed its decision.
Then—
Nocth caught him.
One arm.
Clean. Controlled. Effortless.
The fall ended before it could become consequence.
Silence touched the space briefly.
The child looked up.
No fear.
No panic.
Just stillness.
Like something inside him had paused without instruction.
Nocth released him gently.
"You were falling," he said.
"I noticed," the child replied.
But he did not move away.
He was looking at Nocth instead.
Not studying.
Not admiring.
Just… registering something unfamiliar.
As if a missing pattern had briefly aligned in front of him and then refused to stay complete.
Nocth tilted his head slightly.
"You should be more careful."
The child nodded once.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached up and lightly tugged Nocth's hair.
Testing reality.
Nocth did not react.
Instead, he reached down and ruffled the child's hair in return.
A simple gesture.
Uncalculated.
The child blinked—
Then smiled.
Not wide.
Not dramatic.
Just naturally returning to his default expression, like a system resetting.
He stepped back.
"Okay."
And ran off.
---
Behind them, two nearby children who had witnessed the interaction leaned toward each other.
"…Did you see that?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"I don't know."
A pause.
Then, in quiet agreement:
"We should increase distance in future interactions with him."
"Agreed."
They slowly stepped away from the direction the child had run, as though adjusting invisible safety margins around an unknown variable.
---
Imuis resumed walking.
Nocth followed.
But his gaze lingered slightly longer than usual in the direction the child disappeared.
"…Strange," he said.
"What is strange?" Imuis asked.
"That feeling."
Imuis did not press.
"That is often how Korrbend Fringe begins," he said instead.
Nocth did not respond, but the impression remained.
Faint.
Unresolved.
---
The deeper they walked, the quieter the stalls became—not in sound, but in attention.
As if something ahead pulled focus away from casual activity.
Imuis slowed.
"There," he said.
Nocth looked forward.
A stall stood apart from the others.
Not elevated.
Not decorated.
Not important by appearance.
And yet everything around it subtly gave it space.
Not avoidance.
Respect without explanation.
---
Inside, clutter filled the frame—unfinished devices, suspended rune fragments, tools hovering mid-adjustment as if waiting for a thought to complete them.
At the center—
A boy floated.
Not fully.
Not naturally.
Supported by shifting mechanical extensions emerging from his clothing—curved structures resembling anchored wings fused with rotating skeletal arcs.
They did not spin mechanically.
They responded.
As if listening to invisible equations in the air.
Around them hovered faint rune clusters.
Five incomplete formations.
Unstable.
Alive in a half-formed way.
Each one pulsing at uneven intervals, like thoughts refusing to synchronize.
---
The boy laughed mid-air.
Loud.
Unbothered.
"Oh—nope, that's not correct at all!"
He rotated once awkwardly, stabilizing through sheer confidence rather than engineering precision.
Then he noticed them.
"Visitors!"
He tilted sideways and descended—gliding more than falling.
Landing was imperfect.
A half-step stumble, then recovery.
He pointed immediately at Nocth.
"You."
Nocth blinked.
"Get down here."
Imuis raised a hand slightly.
Nocth did not move.
The boy sighed dramatically.
"You're doing that thing where you stand like the world owes you permission to exist."
Nocth tilted his head.
"That is not a thing."
"It is now."
A brief laugh escaped him.
Then he gestured behind himself.
The floating constructs folded inward slightly, hovering closer like tired companions.
He stepped forward.
"I am Heron ," he said.
A pause.
Then added casually:
"Self-taught inventor. Mostly functional. Occasionally alive."
He grinned.
"And professionally known as the person who makes things explode in aesthetically pleasing ways."
Behind him, a faint spark flickered from one of his constructs.
He didn't even look.
"…Yep. That one wasn't supposed to happen."
He laughed again.
Like failure was just another form of movement.
Like nothing here was ever meant to stay correct for long.
And somehow—
That made it worse.
Or better.
It was hard to tell yet.
But Korrbend Fringe had just gained another anomaly.
And it was smiling.