The temple did not feel sacred in the morning.
At night, when the lamps were lit and incense smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, it almost felt like a place that listened. People spoke softly then, as if the stone itself might overhear and remember. In the early hours, before the city truly woke, it was nothing more than stone and dust and the quiet breathing of bodies pressed too close together.
The narrator states this plainly:
Sacredness was a function of attention.The city withdrew attention in the morning.
Kael opened his eyes before the bell rang.
The dream was already fading, but the pressure in his chest remained. That was how it always went. The images dissolved first—the fence, the man's back, the warmth of a hand whose shape he could no longer remember clearly—leaving only the tightness behind, as if something had been pressed into him and then removed without warning.
He lay still for a while, staring at a crack in the ceiling.
It ran from one corner to another, uneven and shallow, the result of settling rather than damage. Someone had tried to fill it once. The filler had failed. The crack had endured.
Someone coughed nearby. Another man muttered in his sleep, voice thick with sickness or drink. The smell of old sweat and extinguished incense hung in the air, heavy and stale, but no one reacted to it.
Kael sat up slowly.
He had learned not to move too fast after waking. His body did not always agree with sudden decisions. When he rushed, things broke—wood, stone, sometimes himself. His dreams had been growing deeper, their fragments sharper, and waking required negotiation.
He placed his left hand on the ground and pushed himself up, careful to distribute his weight evenly. The empty space where his right arm should have been tugged at his balance, as it always did. He adjusted without thinking, shifting his hips, grounding himself through his legs.
Only when he was standing did he breathe properly.
In through his nose.Hold.Out through his mouth.
His father had taught him that once, during a winter when the air hurt to inhale. Kael still did it when no one was watching, or when it looked normal enough not to invite questions.
The pressure in his chest eased, folding inward instead of spreading outward. He stayed there for a few breaths longer than necessary, just to be sure.
Then the bell rang.
People began to stir, the sound of bodies waking reluctantly. The monk's staff tapped once against stone, not a command, simply a signal that the pause was over.
Kael stepped outside before the monk could look at him again.
The city greeted him with indifference.
Mist clung low to the streets, dampening the sound of footsteps and muffling voices. The stones beneath his feet were slick, worn smooth by generations of people who had walked them without ever leaving a mark.
A woman dumped a bucket of dirty water into the gutter without looking. Two men argued over a handcart, their voices sharp but tired. Somewhere farther down the street, metal struck metal in a steady rhythm that echoed faintly between buildings.
Kael walked.
He did not hurry. He did not stop.
This was his third day in the city, and already he had learned something important: attention was dangerous. People who moved too fast, spoke too loudly, or lingered too long drew eyes. Eyes led to questions. Questions led to trouble.
So he moved like the city moved—forward, without urgency.
The bakery announced itself before it appeared.
Heat leaked through the cracks in the walls, carrying the smell of bread and scorched flour. In the morning, the scent was stronger, sharper, because it had not yet been diluted by the day's traffic.
Kael slowed despite himself.
Inside the doorway, the apprentice swept ash from the threshold. He was a boy a few years older than Kael, broad-shouldered already, with the bored confidence of someone who believed he would never starve.
The narrator frames him clearly:
This boy had always had food.He had never needed to listen for it.
The apprentice glanced up, recognized Kael, and rolled his eyes.
"You again," he said, irritation sharpened by routine. "Do you sleep at the temple or something?"
Kael nodded.
The boy snorted and leaned on his broom. "Figures. If you're hoping for leftovers, come back later. Master hates beggars before noon."
This was not cruelty.This was scheduling.
Kael did not argue. He nodded again and continued on his way.
Behind him, the apprentice muttered, more to himself than to Kael, "At least you don't smell as bad as the others."
Kael almost smiled.
He accepted the statement for what it was: permission without generosity.
He found work by "accident" again.
This was no coincidence. It was pattern.
Kael circled the markets because markets spilled mistakes. Crates tipped. Ropes snapped. Men misjudged weight. Someone always needed help quickly and did not care who provided it.
Near the spice market, a porter stumbled, his foot catching on an uneven stone. The crate in his arms tilted, then fell, bursting open as it hit the ground. Red powder spilled everywhere, staining the street and sending a dozen people coughing and swearing.
The porter froze.
He was a large man, strong enough to carry the load but too tired to recover smoothly. His face went pale not from fear, but from calculation. He was already measuring punishment.
Kael stepped forward before he thought about it.
He bent, slipped his hand beneath the crate, and lifted. He braced the load against his shoulder and chest, using the stump of his right arm to stabilize rather than carry.
The wood creaked loudly.
Kael froze.
Too much.
He loosened his grip immediately, letting the weight settle instead of forcing it upward. His legs bent slightly, his back straightening as he adjusted his center.
The narrator interrupts:
This was not strength.This was error correction.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted again.
This time, the crate rose without protest.
The porter stared at him for a breath too long, then reacted.
"You," the man said, voice rough with relief and lingering anger. "Carry that."
There was no gratitude in the order.Only transfer of responsibility.
Kael nodded and followed him through the market. Sweat beaded on his skin almost immediately. The smell of spice burned his nose, but he kept his breathing slow and controlled.
When they reached the stall, the porter waved him off and pressed two copper coins into his palm.
"That's it," the man said, then paused, noticing the missing arm fully for the first time. His tone shifted, becoming awkward. "Thanks for assisting."
Kael closed his fingers around the coins and stepped back.
His hand trembled once the porter turned away.
He waited until it stopped before moving again.
He spent the first coin on bread.
The second he hid carefully, pushing it into the lining of his sleeve where it would not fall out easily.
He did not spend it.
He could not.
Money disappeared quickly in the city.So did people.
By afternoon, his muscles burned with a deep, dull ache. He carried sacks, dragged crates, and hauled bundles for anyone who would pay. He spoke little and listened more, filing away scraps of conversation without trying to understand them fully.
The city spoke in fragments.
"…sect recruiters—""…another fight by the south gate—""…Red—no, I heard—"
Names meant nothing to him yet.
He let them pass.
When evening came, Kael returned to the temple.
The old monk sat in the same place as before, staff across his knees.
"You came back," the monk said.
This was not surprise.It was recognition.
Kael nodded. "It's quiet."
The monk's mouth twitched. "Quiet is relative."
Kael sat near the wall, back against cold stone. His body sagged with exhaustion the moment he stopped moving. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing again, forcing his muscles to relax one by one.
The monk watched him for a long moment.
"You hold yourself like someone carrying something heavy," the old man said.
Kael did not answer.
"Some things cannot be put down," the monk continued, voice steady, unadorned. "But they can be balanced."
Kael opened his eyes.
"How?" he asked.
The monk smiled faintly. "By learning where the weight truly is."
The narrator closes the meaning:
The monk did not offer instruction.He offered classification.
That night, Kael slept without dreaming.
The city breathed outside the temple walls.
And it did not care whether he listened or not.