The city of Marinth was alive with the rhythm of trade and chatter. Known as the hub of small-time merchants, its streets were a labyrinth of stalls and shops, where the scent of fresh fruits mingled with the metallic tang of weapons for sale. Voices called out prices, haggling blended into the background, and the clinking of coins filled the air like a melody.
Among the bustling crowd, people with gold-lined pockets moved briskly, examining wares or carrying wrapped goods. Merchants stood at their stalls, beckoning customers with eager smiles, their displays bursting with everything from gleaming swords to ripe pomegranates.
But the rhythm of the city was suddenly disrupted. A loud, piercing cry broke through the busy din, and all heads turned toward the source of the sound.
A small boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, was standing in front of a burly, muscular man whose towering figure cast a long shadow. The man, clearly a shopkeeper, looked down at the boy with a mix of concern and frustration, trying to console him as the boy's cries drew the attention of the crowd.
Two Minutes Earlier
The small boy, his frame thin and his clothes patched but clean, approached a utensil shop nestled in a quieter corner of the street. His wide eyes scanned the neatly arranged plates, bowls, and cooking tools displayed on shelves, shining in the midday sun.
The shopkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with a kind face and a salt-and-pepper beard, noticed the boy standing there. The boy hesitated before speaking.
"Sir, are you the owner here?" the boy asked, his voice polite and timid.
The shopkeeper chuckled at the boy's formality and leaned on his counter. "Yes, I'm the owner," he said warmly. "What do you need, kid?"
The boy straightened his back and said, "My mom sent me to buy some plates and dishes for food. Do you have any?"
The shopkeeper's smile grew wider. "Plates and dishes? Of course, I do!" he said. But then, tilting his head slightly, he added, "But tell me, kid, where are your parents? Why'd they send you here alone?"
At the question, the boy's expression faltered. His gaze dropped, and his shoulders slumped. "My father is dead," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We just moved here after he passed away. My mother's been sick since then… I'm working near our house to earn money for us."
The shopkeeper's face softened as guilt flickered in his eyes. "Ah, I see. Sorry, kid—I shouldn't have asked," he said, his tone regretful.
But the boy looked up, smiling faintly. "It's okay, uncle. Don't worry about it. We're managing."
The man paused for a moment, then smiled back. "Uncle, huh? Alright then, kid. Come on, the utensils are over here. Take a look and pick what you need." He gestured toward a section of the shop where dishes and plates were arranged neatly in rows.
The boy nodded eagerly and walked over to inspect the wares. His small hands carefully picked through the items, running over smooth surfaces and shiny edges. After a few minutes, he returned to the counter, carrying five plates and bowls in his arms.
"Thank you, uncle. I'll take these," the boy said with a cheerful grin, turning to leave.
But the shopkeeper frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a second, kid," he said, his voice growing serious. "You haven't paid yet."
The boy froze mid-step and turned back, confusion written all over his face. "What do you mean, uncle?" he said, his voice quivering. "I gave you two silver coins before I went to pick the plates."
The shopkeeper's brow furrowed further, and his tone grew stern. "Don't joke around, kid. I didn't see you give me any coins."
The boy's face turned pale, and his lower lip trembled. "B-but I did! I gave you the money!" he insisted, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes.
The shopkeeper crossed his arms, his expression darkening. "Enough games. Either pay up or put the plates back," he said grimly.
PRESENT
The streets of Marinth were as vibrant as ever, a symphony of chatter and clinking coins, but one corner had devolved into chaos. A towering, burly shopkeeper stood with his face flushed crimson, looming over a small boy who was crying rivers of tears. The shopkeeper's booming voice had ceased, replaced by the boy's heart-wrenching sobs that echoed through the street like a siren, pulling the attention of every curious passerby.
The crowd thickened, and whispers turned into murmurs, then into outright accusations.
"Did you see that? A man of that size bullying a child!"
"Poor boy! He's just a kid!"
"Should we call the guards? Someone should stop this!"
"He probably saw that the boy has no family around and decided to rob him!"
The shopkeeper's face twisted from frustration into panic as the remarks escalated, each more ridiculous than the last. He waved his massive hands frantically, trying to calm the crowd.
"Wait, wait! That's not what's happening!" he stammered, his voice cracking in an uncharacteristic high pitch. "I didn't take anything from the boy—I'm just trying to get what's owed to me!"
But his protests were drowned out by the mounting outrage.
"What a bully!"
"Who picks on a kid? Especially one that small!"
"You should be ashamed of yourself!"
The shopkeeper's attempts at damage control only made matters worse. The crowd, which now included nearby merchants abandoning their own stalls, had painted him as the villain of the day.
Unnoticed amidst the growing commotion, a figure stood at the edge of the crowd. Draped in thin, tattered clothes and a face hidden beneath a worn cloth mask, the man leaned casually against a wall, watching the scene unfold with an air of amusement.
The shopkeeper's frantic gestures, the boy's dramatic sobs, and the crowd's misplaced outrage all seemed to delight the mysterious stranger. He cocked his head slightly, as though contemplating something, and then—without a sound—he moved.
To the untrained eye, it would have seemed as though he vanished. But if anyone had been looking closely, they might have noticed the brief glint of sunlight on a boot as the man scaled the nearest wall with uncanny precision.
Each step was calculated, every motion silent. He moved like a shadow slipping through cracks, his body weightless as he navigated the narrow ledges and rooftops. If one of Marinth's city guards had seen him, they would have called him a ghost or perhaps a highly trained assassin. But the guards were busy elsewhere, and the man had no intention of being seen.
From his vantage point above the utensil shop, the stranger crouched low, his sharp eyes scanning the shopkeeper's counter. He smiled beneath his mask—a pouch of coins lay just within reach behind the counter.
Like a predator stalking prey, he slid down the side of the building, landing with barely a whisper of sound. His movements were smooth and deliberate as he slipped into the shop, his form concealed by the shadows cast by the bright afternoon sun outside.
The shopkeeper was still outside, busy waving his arms and shouting in vain at the crowd. The stranger didn't even glance his way. His focus was solely on the treasure hidden within the shop.
Once inside, the man moved with the grace of a cat, each step avoiding even the faintest creak of the wooden floorboards. He reached the counter and swiftly located the stash of coins beneath it—a small pouch bulging with silver and gold.
The stranger's gloved fingers closed around the pouch, and he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The weight of the pouch told him it was a good haul. He tucked it into his belt, pausing only to glance around the shop for anything else of value.
That's when his elbow grazed a precariously stacked pile of tin plates.
The plates toppled with a loud clang that echoed through the shop and out into the street. The stranger froze for a split second, his mind racing.
Outside, the shopkeeper and the crowd turned as one toward the sound.
"What was that?" someone asked.
The shopkeeper's eyes widened in alarm. "MY SHOP!" he bellowed, shoving his way past the onlookers.
The stranger didn't wait for an invitation. Grabbing the pouch of coins, he bolted out of the shop like a spring-loaded arrow. His lean figure shot through the door and into the open street, where the midday sun reflected off his thin, worn clothes.
"There he is!" someone shouted, pointing at the fleeing man.
The shopkeeper, seeing the flash of his coin pouch in the stranger's hand, let out a roar that could have shaken the walls of a fortress. "STOP THAT MAN!" he yelled, barreling after the thief.
But the stranger was no ordinary man. He moved with the agility of a wild animal, weaving through the crowded street like water flowing through a sieve. Every step was precise, every turn calculated to avoid collisions.
The shopkeeper tried to follow, his heavy boots pounding the ground and his breath coming in ragged gasps. His bulk, impressive though it was, slowed him down considerably in the narrow alleys and crowded streets.
The stranger leapt onto a market stall, using its frame as a springboard to vault onto a nearby roof. The crowd gasped as he disappeared from sight, only to reappear moments later on the opposite side of the street, darting between two buildings.
The shopkeeper stopped, panting and sweating profusely, his hands on his knees. "Damn it," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "He's faster than a rat in a granary!"
The crowd, now thoroughly entertained, began to disperse as the excitement faded. The shopkeeper trudged back toward his stall, muttering curses under his breath. But when he reached the front of his shop, he stopped short.
The boy—the one he had been arguing with moments ago—was gone.
His eyes darted around, scanning the street, but there was no sign of the thin, crying child. The plates he had chosen were still sitting on the counter, untouched.
Realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
"That little…" he began, his voice rising in anger. He slammed a fist onto the counter, startling a nearby merchant. "He tricked me! The little brat tricked me!"
The shopkeeper stared at the empty counter, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He thought of the lost coins, the trickster boy, and the thief who had vanished into the city's maze-like streets.
LATER THAT NIGHT
The small, ramshackle house creaked in protest as the cold night wind swept through its broken windows and the gaps in its wooden walls. A faint glow from a single flickering candle lit the room, casting long shadows across the mismatched furniture and a roof that looked one storm away from caving in. Despite the grim setting, the room was alive with laughter.
Seated on a threadbare rug near the flickering candle were two brothers—Orion, a wiry young man in his late teens, and Eirik, a bright-eyed boy whose mischievous grin lit up the dim space. Eirik's laughter was loud and infectious, filling the house with a warmth it seldom knew.
"Brother, today was amazing!" Eirik exclaimed between fits of giggles. "Did you see how that big buffoon believed every word I said? My acting was flawless!"
Orion leaned back against the cracked wall, his lips curling into a smirk. His sharp eyes, however, carried a weight that belied his relaxed posture. He pulled the cloth mask from his face, revealing angular features that were hardened beyond his years. He casually tossed the gold pouch they had stolen onto the floor between them. The coins inside clinked together, their metallic sound echoing in the quiet of the night.
"You did good, Eirik," Orion said, his voice calm and measured. "That little performance of yours was the best I've seen yet. But…" He glanced at the pouch, the smirk fading into a grim line. "It's still not enough."
Eirik's grin faltered. "What do you mean? This is a good haul, isn't it? If we keep pulling jobs like this for a year, we'll have enough to reach the capital!"
Orion let out a quiet sigh, ruffling the boy's unruly hair with a rough yet affectionate hand. "A year?" he repeated, shaking his head. "I don't have a year, Eirik. I'm tired of scraping by in these miserable towns. We've been living in filth and shadows long enough." His voice hardened, and his eyes fixed on the dim candlelight as if staring through it into some far-off vision. "The capital is where we need to be. That's where the real opportunities are. This…" He gestured around the shabby room. "…this isn't living. It's surviving."
Eirik's heart skipped a beat at Orion's bold declaration. The idea of aiming bigger, of taking greater risks, sent a wave of panic through him. His hands instinctively clenched the thin fabric of his worn tunic, but he quickly forced a smile, not wanting to show his fear. Orion's confidence was unshakable, and Eirik didn't want to be the one to question it, even if doubt gnawed at him.
For a fleeting moment, Eirik thought about the guards, the dangers, the possibility of getting caught—or worse. But as he looked at his brother, sitting there with determination etched into his face, Eirik felt a strange calm wash over him. Orion had always been there, protecting him, guiding him, and giving him hope.
"I'll follow you, brother," Eirik thought, his resolve hardening. "No matter where it leads—whether to a better life or to the very edge of death."