The Lower District of Sethrae was alive before dawn, though most of its inhabitants were still hidden behind shutters or leaning doors.
Aerin Kael moved through the twisting alleys like he had been born there, hood low, eyes scanning every shadow, every ripple in the early light.
Cobblestones glimmered faintly with rainwater, reflecting the dim glow of lanterns that had not yet been extinguished. The air smelled of wet stone, iron, and smoke from distant chimneys.
Since the events of last night, he had understood something undeniable: the world could bend, and he could make it bend. Small things had already yielded to his will—a coin hovering midair, a child stumbling but never falling, a stray dog navigating the streets unharmed.
But today, he wanted more. Not just small fractures; he wanted threads, patterns, the flow of the city itself.
The streets were gradually filling. Merchants dragged carts into position, calling out prices and swinging wares in practiced arcs.
Children darted between legs, cats slinking silently through the crowd, oblivious to the subtle impossibilities happening around them.
Aerin walked among them, watching, noticing the minute contradictions in motion.
A basket of apples teetered on the edge of a cart. He tilted his focus, imagining it both falling and remaining upright.
The basket wavered for a heartbeat before gently settling back, as if the city itself hesitated at the edge of possibility.
The vendor blinked and shook his head, muttering about a gust of wind. No one else noticed.
Aerin moved on, eyes darting across the stalls and streets, cataloging patterns in motion.
He noted how shadows bent against angles they shouldn't, how footsteps sometimes echoed faintly behind people who had already passed, and how the flow of the crowd seemed to shift around him in ways no one could perceive.
It was subtle, imperceptible to anyone not paying attention, but it was there—and it would become far more useful with practice.
He paused at a narrow alley branching off the main street.
Three men were cornering a street performer, a wiry boy no older than twelve. The boy had no weapon, no allies, and the men were ready to rough him up for a handful of coins.
Aerin's lips tightened. He did not move forward immediately. He observed the angles of their arms, the rhythm of their steps, the way the boy's small frame pivoted.
Then he let the world obey his thoughts.
A punch swung at the boy and froze midair.
The second man tripped over his own foot.
The third slammed into a wall with a grunt.
The boy ran, unharmed, and the men cursed, disappearing into the shadows.
The alley returned to silence. Aerin did not move to follow. He never overreached.
Subtlety was his first advantage.
As the sun rose higher, the streets became denser, yet he moved like a ghost, bending small fractures into the flow of the city.
Coins hovered midair, cats appeared in impossible positions, bread baskets teetered and settled without toppling entirely.
Citizens went about their business, oblivious to the minor miracles around them.
A cloaked figure appeared briefly at the edge of a rooftop across the square. Their presence was deliberate, patient, and weighty.
Aerin noticed without flinching.
They did not move, did not intervene, simply observed before disappearing again.
Factions were watching. That much was certain.
By midday, he had wandered through nearly half of the Lower District, mapping streets, alleys, markets, and hidden corners in his mind.
Each fracture he created left subtle clues in the environment for anyone watching carefully.
Each reaction, each pause, each split-second change in reality revealed new potential threads to pull.
A commotion in a nearby street drew his attention.
Two pickpockets had attempted to steal coins from a merchant's tray. Normally, they would have run, screamed, or been caught by guards.
Aerin stepped into the flow of time and imagined multiple outcomes simultaneously: the theft succeeds and fails, the cart tips and remains upright, the thieves escape and are caught.
Time fractured around them. Coins hovered midair.
The thieves froze, unsure of their own motions. The cart wavered, then settled back into place. Confused and empty-handed, the thieves fled into the crowd.
Aerin watched silently, cataloging the reactions of the city. Nothing was wasted. Every event was data. Every possibility was a weapon.
By late afternoon, the market was alive with the hum of normalcy. Yet nothing was normal. Children ran past, dodging floating oranges and hovering coins.
Merchants arranged their wares as if they knew, instinctively, where the impossible had touched their stalls.
Shadows continued to bend, subtly, in ways that contradicted the angle of the lanterns. Aerin walked through it all, mind sharp, eyes sharper.
A sudden shift caught his attention: a man in a dark cloak, perched on the roof of a nearby building. Not random.
Not curious. He was observing Aerin, calculating, cataloging, as though every subtle fracture in the city were being recorded.
Aerin let him watch. He did not care. Patience was part of the game.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the streets emptied gradually. Lanterns flickered to life, casting long shadows across rooftops and alleys.
Aerin climbed to the roof of his building, surveying the city below.
He could see patterns forming, small fractures accumulating into complex sequences.
A basket teetering on a cart, a coin frozen midair, a stray dog navigating impossible paths—all were threads he had woven into the city's movement.
He tested something new. A sequence of contradictions cascading through multiple people: one man falls and doesn't, a cart tips and remains upright, a child runs and freezes simultaneously.
The city adapted without knowing. It responded, subtly, as if reality itself were taking notes.
The cloaked observer returned briefly on a distant rooftop, then vanished into the darkening streets.
Someone else, somewhere, was recording him, cataloging him, taking note of the patterns he created.
Aerin crouched on the edge of the roof, breathing slowly, observing the movement of the city, the rhythm of the streets, the play of light and shadow.
Each action had a consequence. Each fracture a potential to shape the city, to shape reality.
He whispered into the twilight:
"If the world bends, I will see how far it can stretch before it breaks. And when it breaks, I will stand at the center."
Above him, the moon hung crooked in the sky, silver slicing darkness like a blade.
Somewhere, far away, a bell tolled twice when it should have tolled once. Shadows bent, citizens moved, and the city continued unaware of the fractures hidden in its flow.
Aerin did not flinch.
He only observed, only calculated, only experimented. And the world bent, quietly, perfectly, around him.