Felix's lungs burned as he sprinted through the labyrinth of narrow alleys, the shouts of the soldiers fading behind him. He skidded to a halt, chest heaving, and glanced around. The air here was thick with the scent of damp wood and unwashed stone.
"Where am I?"
This was no part of Balmwich he recognized. The buildings leaned against each other like drunkards, their roofs patched with moldy thatch. Shadows clung to the corners, and the few people on the streets moved with hurried, furtive steps, their faces obscured by ragged hoods. The Market District—where came from—was nowhere in sight.
Felix straightened and approached a hunched figure shuffling past. "Excuse me, which way to the town market?" The man didn't even glance up, brushing past him as if he were a ghost. He tried again with a woman balancing a basket of wilted greens. She tightened her grip and quickened her pace. They were not welcoming.
This place is different. Not the bustling heart of the city, where merchants hawked spices and nobles paraded in silks. This was the underbelly, where the forgotten of Balmwich scraped by. Felix's skin prickled. He needed to leave.
"Hey, young one."
The voice was like gravel wrapped in parchment. Felix turned to see an old man slumped against a crumbling wall, a sack the size of a small barrel strapped to his back. The weight bowed his spine, yet his eyes—sharp as flint—locked onto Felix with unsettling clarity.
"Can you help this old man?" he wheezed, gesturing to the burden he is holding.
Felix hesitated, then hoisted the sack with a grunt. The weight nearly buckled his knees. "Why carry all this, wise one? Where are you headed?"
The old man chuckled, rubbing his gnarled hands. "To the market, to sell what little I have. And you, son? You've the look of a hare who's outrun the hounds."
Felix stiffened. "I was just… following an animal. Got lost."
The old man's grin widened, revealing gaps between his teeth. "Ah. And the soldiers? They chase birds now too?"
Felix's pulse spiked. How—?
"An old man knows many things," he said, tapping his temple. "But more than lies, I see the weight you carry. Why chain yourself to others' suffering? Live for yourself awhile."
Felix's jaw tightened. "You wouldn't understand."
"Don't I?" The old man's voice softened. "Heroism is a cloak that smothers if worn too long. Even the brightest flame consumes itself."
Felix shoved down his surge of irritation. "I'm no hero. I just hate people worse than me."
The old man smiles, as if he'd told a joke. "Of course, of course."
They wound through alleys and up uneven stairways, the old man humming. When the cramped lanes finally spat them into the sunlit market square, Felix blinked at the sudden riot of color and noise—vendors shouting, children darting between stalls, the aroma of roasted meat and honeyed pastries thick in the air.
"Here we are," the old man said, taking back his sack. "Thank you, son. But a word before you go:
The power you wield—it's a blessing to you now, but curses often wear pretty masks."
Felix froze.
That phrase. He'd heard it before—years ago, spat at him by a mercenary who'd pinned him in a back alley. The man's breath had reeked of ale; his knife had nicked Felix's ear as he hissed it.
The old man pressed a small plant into his palm. Its leaves shimmered faintly, like captured starlight. "Take this don't open it now. Answers come when they're needed, not when they're demanded." The alley around him warped. The market's noise dulled to a hum. For a heartbeat, he was *there* again—kneeling in the dirt, a stranger's breath hot on his face, those same damned words snarled down at him.
He snapped back to his reality, but it was too late .
The old man was gone. Vanished, as if he'd never been.
What .....?
Shaking off the unease, Felix tucked the plant into his pocket and let the market's chaos swallow him. Stalls overflowed with exotic fruits and bolts of embroidered silk, but his goal was herbs—Balmwich's true treasure. He followed the scent of dried lavender and earth until he found a shop tucked between a baker and a blacksmith.
The moment he stepped inside, his breath caught.
It was a library of botany. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with jars of petals, roots, and murky elixirs. A prism by the window cast rainbows over bundles of hanging moss that glowed faintly, even in daylight.
"Look around," croaked the shopkeeper, an old woman stirring a cauldron of something that smelled like burnt sugar and lightning. "See what calls to you."
Felix's fingers trailed over labels: Bloodroot Vine—thick red sap, mends wounds in minutes. Silverleaf—steeped for pain, favored by wanderers.His gaze snagged on a vial of iridescent blue petals near the back. Moonmoss - glows fainly uunder moonlight used in burns and rashes. For healing properties.
"Yes ... said the old woman. Here on the left if you want for energy."
Felix looks to his left.
Iron blossom: rare flower with orange Patels only found in Balmwich, chewed to fight teh exaustion helps in cold climates.
Cinder thorn: spicy seed that, when inhaled increases or shapens your reflexes and temporarily improves focus.
Than something caught Felix's eyes it was a painting of a very beautiful flower.
"That one," he said, pointing. "What is it?"
The woman's eyes gleamed. "Starfall Bloom. Grows only where stars once struck the earth. One petal can mend a shattered mind or a dying body." She leaned closer. "Very rare." And one patel of this flower can make you wealthy.
Felix's mind raced with possibilities—gold, influence, a way out. But the old man's warning echoed in his skull. He bought only the bloodroot and turned to leave when a roar erupted outside.
A crowd surged toward the arena, chanting, "Orric! Orric!" The Duke's son was set to face the undefeated champion today—and the King himself would watch. Felix smirked. Orric's reputation was legendary. Might as well see what real strength looks like.
He melted into the throng, unaware that the Starfall Bloom's glow had brightened in his pocket—just as the old man had known it would.