Chapter 2 — Eyes That See Too Much
Aryn ducked into a narrow alley, boots skidding across damp stone. His breath came in ragged bursts, cold air scraping down his throat like broken glass. The scent of rust, smoke, and old fish clung to the back of his tongue. Somewhere behind him—closer than he liked—shouts echoed. Heavy footsteps. The low growl of someone furious.
Tigerclub.
Not just thugs. Predators.
He pressed his back to the wall, heart slamming against his ribs. The adrenaline that had kept him running was already starting to burn out, leaving only nausea and an ache crawling up the back of his neck.
Too fast. Too loud.
Too many of them.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Blood. Again.
"Shit," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut. His head pulsed like someone had driven nails through his temples. But stopping wasn't an option.
They were still looking.
Gritting his teeth, Aryn drew a slow, shaky breath—and opened his eyes.
The world erupted in blue.
Lines surged around him, networks of movement, motion, and magic. Buildings folded open like models in his vision, layers peeled back to reveal hollow corridors and support beams. Footsteps glowed orange, trailing like comets through the city. Magical echoes shimmered like hot air, flickering with the residue of hastily cast spells—tracking wards, binding glyphs, even a detection sweep moving like a sonar wave across the lower harbor.
They're spread out.
Two behind me. One to the left. Three covering the northern bridge. That rooftop—sniper rune. He's recharging it every twelve seconds.
His stomach turned violently. The glow burned too bright. His vision trembled. Information came too fast, too dense, like being buried under a flood of numbers and symbols. Every rune, every trap, every line of sight screamed at him.
The back of his eyes throbbed. The world distorted, bending sideways as if the city itself was warping around him. Blood trickled from his nose again, faster this time.
Not now.
He staggered forward, gripping the wall for balance. His fingers were numb. But the map in his mind—despite the pain—was perfect.
Right. Through the butcher's alley. Under the collapsed arch. Into the old water tunnels. Four meters down, ten across. Blind spot. Shadowed. Dry.
He pushed himself forward, legs trembling beneath him. He didn't dare close his eyes. Not until he got there.
The sound of boots on stone roared behind him again—closer. Someone shouted his name.
He didn't listen.
His feet hit the edge of the drop, and without hesitation, he dove.
Down into the dark.
His shoulder slammed into the stone as he rolled, grit tearing his coat. Pain exploded through his ribs, but he didn't stop. He crawled forward, eyes still glowing, dragging himself into the gap between two broken aqueduct pipes.
Safe. For now.
He shut his eyes.
The threads vanished.
And the migraine came.
White-hot and searing, like fire licking the inside of his skull. He curled in on himself, teeth clenched so hard he tasted blood. His vision flickered even behind closed lids—afterimages of runes and symbols dancing like ghosts.
It was always like this.
The cost.
He should've known better than to push it that far. Omni Eye wasn't meant to be used under stress. Not without preparation. Not like that.
But he didn't have a choice.
Aryn lay there in the dark, pulse pounding in his ears. Above him, distant footsteps crossed the broken stones. They were close. But not close enough.
They'd lost him—for now.
He exhaled shakily, letting the pain bleed through him, letting it anchor him. His fingers trembled as he wiped the blood from his face once more.
"I hate this," he whispered to no one.
But still—he survived.
And they hadn't seen what he had.
Not yet.
Aryn let his body collapse fully against the cold stone, feeling the rough texture dig into his skin. The pain was a dull hum in the background, too familiar now to make him wince anymore. He tried to focus on breathing, slow and steady, but his mind refused to cooperate.
His eyes were still closed, but the world didn't stop glowing, not completely. The pulse of magic around him faded slowly, but the tendrils of light clung to the edges of his vision, a faint reminder of what he was forced to see. And despite the exhaustion pulling at him, he couldn't push it away.
The sounds of the city, the rushing of water through the old aqueducts, the distant calls of sailors, faded into a blurry hum as his body surrendered to the darkness.
He didn't fight it.
Minutes or hours passed—time lost all meaning as his body curled into a ball on the damp stone floor. The darkness crept up on him like an old friend, comforting in its absence of noise, of pressure, of the constant hum of magic.
And just like that, the pressure in his head ebbed away, leaving only a quiet ache in its wake. His mind, that always buzzed with the weight of too much, too fast, went still. His eyes fluttered open once, the soft blue of his irises glowing faintly in the dark before they shut again.
The last thing he heard before sleep took him was the faint sound of distant footsteps—footsteps that didn't belong to the people chasing him. For once, they didn't matter.
He was too tired to care.
Aryn's eyes blinked open to the dim blur of a ceiling he didn't recognize.
His whole body ached—dull soreness in his limbs, a sharp pulse behind his eyes, and that familiar weight pressing at the edges of his skull. He winced slightly as he shifted, feeling the stiffness in his back from sleeping on hard stone. The taste of iron still lingered in his mouth.
How long was I out?
The question barely formed before another realization struck: he wasn't alone.
There was movement—a quiet rustle of fabric, the soft clink of something ceramic. Aryn turned his head slightly.
A girl sat a few feet away, knees drawn up, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She was staring out a broken section of the wall, where the early light of morning filtered through dust and vines. Her silver hair glowed faintly in the light, same as before.
Her.
The girl from the rooftop.
Elaina Rorth. Or at least... that's what his eyes had screamed when they saw her.
She didn't look at him. Didn't speak. Just sipped whatever was in her cup and let the silence stretch.
Aryn sat up slowly, ignoring the pounding in his skull. His voice came out hoarse. "You again?"
She glanced over, not startled. Just... calm. Like she'd been waiting.
"I figured you'd wake up eventually," she said, setting her cup down. "You passed out in a half-collapsed hallway, bleeding and twitching in your sleep. It was very dramatic."
Aryn narrowed his eyes. "You followed me."
"I didn't have to," she said simply. "You leave a trail. Threads. Like smoke after fire."
He froze at her words.
That wasn't something someone was supposed to say—not unless they saw what he did. Not unless—
His eyes flared instinctively, just a flicker, trying to read her again.
But the moment the symbols began to crawl into his vision, pain stabbed through his temple like a dagger, and he groaned, eyes snapping shut.
"Don't," she said quickly, standing and crossing to him in a few soft steps. "Whatever that thing is you do—it's hurting you."
"No kidding," he muttered, pressing his palms into his forehead.
She crouched beside him, studying him more carefully now. There was no mockery in her gaze this time. Just a quiet intensity.
"I still don't know what you are," she said softly. "But I think… you're not supposed to be alone with it."
Aryn blinked at her through the haze of pain. "You talk like you know what this is."
"I don't," she said. "But I know a few things about magic that eats away at you. And about people who bleed for no reason."
He looked at her then. Really looked. And this time, he didn't activate anything.
Her expression was unreadable.
"So," she added lightly, trying to soften the moment, "I brought you tea. It's terrible. But warm."
Aryn exhaled a dry laugh. "Guess that's something."
She handed him the chipped mug, and for a moment, they sat there in silence, two strangers surrounded by ruins, warmed by a bad cup of tea and something else—something not yet named.
Aryn sipped, then grimaced. "This is terrible."
She smiled faintly. "Told you."
And for a moment, the headache didn't seem quite as heavy.
Aryn stared at the cup in his hand, then at the steam rising from the surface of the tea. His eyebrow arched slightly.
"...Okay, hold on," he muttered. "How the hell did you manage to brew tea out here? There's no stove. No magic heater. What'd you do—rub two rocks together until they sparked?"
Elaina turned to him with the kind of expression that said this was the most normal question in the world. "Oh, that's easy. I used fire magic."
Aryn stared at her. "…But you didn't—I didn't see you activate a magic circle. No catalyst, no chant."
She smiled, a little smug. "That's because I've trained myself to cast basic spells without chants. Most elite mages can do it. Especially if they've got a strong elemental affinity—mine's Light and Ice, but I can manipulate fire a little. Just enough to boil water. I don't wanna blow up half a building over a cup of tea."
Aryn slowly lifted the cup. "And… the cup?"
"Oh! I bought it. From the market two days ago, when I first got into the city. Came in a set of two—discounted because there's a tiny crack at the base, but still good. And the tea box? I got it from an herb shop. I asked for something that works best for 'relaxation in high-pressure environments with potential mafia pursuit,' and they gave me this. Tastes kinda bad, but it's supposed to be calming."
Aryn stared at her, blank.
Elaina wasn't done. "And I keep the water in a little magic storage pouch—like a mini dimensional bag. Usually used for potion ingredients, but I just filled it with clean water. So I pour, heat it with fire magic, pour again, done. Super convenient, really."
Aryn looked at the cup in his hands like it was a holy relic.
"…You could've just said 'I used fire magic.'"
Elaina shrugged with an innocent smile. "You asked."
He sighed, took another sip—still bitter, still weird, but warm on his throat. Strangely enough, some small part of him felt… a little comforted.
And that was more disturbing than all the magic nonsense she'd just spewed.
Aryn stood up, brushing the dust off his coat. The weight of the encounter was starting to catch up with him, and he didn't feel like sticking around much longer.
"I should head back home," he said, adjusting his coat and glancing toward the distant horizon. The city sprawled out before him, just waiting for him to disappear into its maze of streets. "Thanks for the tea."
Elaina, however, didn't move. She stayed seated, her posture relaxed but her eyes watching him carefully. "You should rest for a while," she said, her voice softer now. "You're still... not in the best shape."
Aryn paused for a second. "I'm fine," he muttered, but there was a sharp twinge in his skull, a lingering reminder of the migraine from earlier. He wasn't fine. But he wasn't about to admit that.
Elaina, still watching him, gave a small shrug. "I'm not worried. I just... don't like seeing people die in front of me."
Aryn turned back to her, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in disbelief. "That's your excuse? You don't like seeing people die?"
Her expression remained neutral, though there was a hint of something behind her eyes—something that suggested she wasn't entirely comfortable with her own words.
"I mean it," she said, almost like she was convincing herself. "I'd rather not have blood on my hands, even if I don't know the person."
Aryn raised an eyebrow, feeling an odd tension hanging in the air. The reason felt... stiff. Forced. It didn't sit right with him.
"You sure that's all it is?" he asked, his voice low, but cutting.
Elaina didn't reply right away. Instead, she just looked at him, a flicker of something hidden behind her calm gaze. "It's enough for me."
Aryn didn't push it. He turned away again, the ache in his head still gnawing at him, but now, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than she was letting on.
"Whatever," he muttered, more to himself than to her, before starting to walk toward the edge of the rooftop. "I'm leaving. It's your world, not mine."
Elaina didn't stop him this time. She just watched him go.
Aryn had just taken his first few steps toward the street when a sharp, sudden shout cut through the air, freezing him mid-stride.
"Hey, white-haired kid! What's your name?"
Aryn paused, shoulders stiffening for a moment. The shout had come from behind him, and he turned his head just slightly to see Elaina standing a good distance away, her hands on her hips, as if she'd been watching him for longer than he realized.
He sighed, rolling his eyes as the migraine pulsed faintly in his temples. "Aryn," he called back, his voice flat.
Elaina didn't seem satisfied, though. She squinted at him, probably not convinced that he had given his real name. "What was that? I didn't catch it," she shouted again.
Aryn let out a slow breath. "I said, Aryn!" he repeated, louder this time, his tone edged with a little impatience.
She raised a hand in acknowledgment, but instead of continuing their conversation, she simply nodded. "Aryn, huh? Well, good luck, Aryn."
With that, she turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
Aryn stood there for a moment, staring after her, before shaking his head and continuing on his way. He wasn't in the mood for another strange encounter today.