The streets of Sethrae were quieter than usual that morning. Lanterns still flickered in the faint gray light of dawn, but the Lower District had yet to wake fully. Aerin Kael moved through the twisting alleys like a ghost, hood low over his face, eyes alert to the subtle patterns that the city offered. Yesterday had been a test; today, he intended to explore the threads in more detail.
Coins, shadows, stray animals—everything he touched bent subtly to his will. The city had become a canvas, each step a brushstroke, each glance a note in the symphony of possibilities.
The air smelled faintly of bread from an early vendor, of wet stone and smoke, and Aerin inhaled it with precision, cataloging the environment.
He reached a junction where three streets converged.
Normally, the flow of people followed predictable paths: the market crowd would scatter here, a cart would tip there.
Aerin imagined multiple outcomes simultaneously: people shifting left and right at once, a cart tipping and remaining upright, a stray dog appearing in one place and another. Reality bent to his will without resistance.
And yet, he sensed it before it even happened—a presence not natural to the city. A figure, cloaked and still, observing from the shadows of a roof. Aerin's eyes narrowed. It was not curiosity.
It was calculation. Someone else had noticed the fractures he was leaving behind.
The city moved around him as he descended toward the main square.
Merchants shouted over one another, the hum of conversation mixing with the clatter of carts.
Aerin allowed the patterns to flow naturally, small impossibilities hidden among the mundane. A coin hovered midair, caught between a customer's hand and a vendor's tray.
A basket of bread teetered impossibly but remained upright. No one noticed.
The cracks in reality were invisible to those who did not pay attention—but they were there.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the cloaked figure again, moving silently across the rooftops.
The patience of a predator, the precision of someone who had trained to see impossible events without hesitation. They were cataloging him. He did not flee.
He did not confront. Observation was a weapon as potent as any other.
By mid-morning, the market was bustling with life. Children darted between stalls, cats slinking under carts, the rhythm of commerce continuing without pause.
Aerin spotted a pickpocket, a boy not older than fourteen, targeting a vendor's silver tray. He could have intervened directly, but he chose to manipulate the environment subtly.
He imagined the boy stealing the coins and not stealing them simultaneously. The coins hovered midair, the boy froze for a heartbeat, and the tray teetered. When the boy attempted to grab a coin again, his hand passed through it as if reality had folded over itself.
The merchant, oblivious, rearranged the coins instinctively. Confused, the boy fled empty-handed.
Aerin smiled faintly. The dance of possibility had many steps, and he intended to learn them all.
A sudden commotion from an alley drew his attention. Three men had trapped a merchant, demanding payment he did not owe. Normally, such situations ended in a beating or stolen coins. Aerin stepped into the alley, and the world began to obey him.
He imagined multiple outcomes: the men striking and missing, the merchant falling and not falling, a lantern dropping and remaining suspended. The alley became a stage for impossible events. A man swung a fist and froze midair; the second tripped over an unseen stone, falling onto the third, who slammed into a wall.
The merchant backed away slowly, bewildered but unharmed.
As the men scrambled, the cloaked observer appeared again, perched silently on a nearby roof, cataloging the sequence.
Aerin met their gaze briefly, not flinching.
The figure disappeared before he could react, leaving only the certainty that someone, somewhere, was taking notes.
The afternoon heat settled over the city.
Aerin moved toward the southern districts, narrow alleys and crumbling stairways where the poor and desperate lived. Here, the fractures he left would have greater effect.
Coins hung suspended in midair as street children chased them, cats appeared in multiple positions at once, and a cart that should have tipped remained perfectly upright despite a wheel missing.
He tested more complex sequences: a man should fall, a dog should run into the street, and a basket should tip.
All happened simultaneously, without chaos, without harm. He began to see patterns not just in the city, but in how the people reacted. They adjusted instinctively, unaware of the fractures he caused. Sethrae was alive, bending subtly to his observation.
From a distant rooftop, he caught a flash of movement—a second observer this time.
Not the same as before, but similar in precision and patience. They watched him briefly, disappeared into shadows, leaving the certainty that he was no longer alone in his understanding of the city.
Night approached, and the Lower District quieted as lanterns flickered on. Aerin climbed the roof of his building, surveying the city below. Every alley, every stall, every shadow, every light—he cataloged it all.
Coins hovered, animals froze in impossible positions, children darted across streets, oblivious.
Every minor fracture had created new threads he could pull, new possibilities he could manipulate.
He whispered into the night:
"If the world bends, I will find the point where nothing resists me. And when I do, I will stand unchallenged."
The moon hung low in the sky, casting crooked silver light over the rooftops. Somewhere, distant, a bell tolled twice when it should have tolled once. Somewhere, in the twisting alleys, cloaked observers took notes, cataloging him, studying him.
Aerin did not move. He only watched, only calculated, only experimented. And the city bent around him, quietly, perfectly, as if it had always belonged to him.