Ash wandered aimlessly through the dim-lit city, the echoes of the alleys stretching like whispers behind his steps. The weight of the day hadn't quite hit him—not in the way it might hit others. There was no panic in his breath, no wide-eyed scrambling for shelter or certainty. But there was a tremble beneath the surface. A small one. Like the faint shake in a gambler's hand just before revealing his final card.
He tried to shrug it off.
"That vision was just… weird timing. A fluke. Maybe I breathed in too much dust. Or incense. Maybe I hit my head. Doesn't matter. I've been through worse."
His mind gnawed at the edges of the image—the chains spiraling across the sky, the whispering voice of something not quite mortal. But he had learned long ago to bury thoughts too sharp to hold. He let his eyes roam instead, drinking in the late-night cityscape.
He passed a corner where the Temple of Faith rose from stone like a forgotten promise. From within its arched windows, warm light flickered, and robed priests moved in slow, ritualistic patterns. Ash slowed his pace, watching as one priest lit a stick of incense and held it aloft. They all turned their heads skyward, toward the vast, empty dark.
Ash frowned. "Are they looking at something?" he thought. "Can they… see it too?"
He rubbed his arms and turned away. Sleep. That's all I need. Just sleep.
Down a twisting path of back alleys stained with mildew and broken graffiti, he found a pocket of quiet. Half-covered in moldy tarps and old crates, it looked like a place most people would avoid—but for Ash, it was better than any inn. He ducked under a broken awning and laid down an old sheet he'd packed into his bag. The fabric was thin but cleaner than the concrete. He pulled a small crust of bread from his satchel—the one Nibs had given him—and tore into it slowly.
The taste was stale, but the gesture had made it sweet.
He leaned against the wall, chewing in silence as the weight of night pressed in. "Alright. Tomorrow," he muttered between bites. "New plan. I'll pawn the watch. No, wait. Too risky. Maybe the charm I lifted last week. I could head to the south stalls, maybe pickpocket a few tourists while they're distracted by the illusions."
His thoughts drifted lazily as the food settled in his stomach.
But then—
A voice, raspy and full of weight, cut through the silence like a blade through silk.
"So you're the one who saw the Chains… so young."
Ash jolted upright, eyes narrowing. A figure stood just beyond the alley's opening, silhouetted by a distant lantern's glow. He was hunched, leaning on a carved cane, face half-covered by a cracked porcelain mask. Long grey robes swayed at his ankles like they were caught in a wind Ash couldn't feel.
"Who the hell—" Ash began, but the words caught in his throat.
The man stepped forward, just enough for Ash to make out the shape of his face. At first, he seemed... normal. Old, yes, with a limp and gnarled hands. But human.
Then the Crown pulsed.
Not a visible flash—just a sensation. A slow rise of pressure behind Ash's eyes. And suddenly, the alley warped.
The man's form rippled, as if reality couldn't quite contain him. His shape twisted at the edges, blurred and flickering like a broken film reel. Behind him—no, through him—Ash saw wings. Vast, white, otherworldly wings that shimmered as if made of mist and moonlight. The shadows recoiled from them. His heartbeat spiked.
Run.
He didn't think. He just moved.
Ash bolted from the alley, sprinting down the street as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The presence of that being clung to his skin like smoke.
The old man didn't follow. He just watched.
Ash turned corner after corner, lungs heaving, limbs burning. Eventually, he stumbled into an abandoned train yard on the edge of the district, where rusted locomotives slumbered like forgotten beasts. He collapsed behind a rust-stained carriage, chest rising and falling.
"What the hell was that?"
He tore off one glove and clutched his wrist. A burning sensation pulsed on the back of his hand. Under the pale light of the moon, he saw it—a mark. Faint. Glowing. Almost like a brand.
"That wasn't there before… Was it because of the Crown? Because I saw that thing?"
He turned over his palm. The heat faded, but the mark remained.
He didn't get long to think.
A shout cut through the silence.
"Hey! This is our spot, you rat-faced bastard!"
Ash froze.
A group of five thugs rounded a row of rusted crates. Each one armed with a bat or metal pipe. One of them squinted, then broke into a wide grin.
"Well, if it ain't the little trickster. Look at you, still walking around like you own the streets."
Ash stood slowly. His eyes darted, looking for exits. None that weren't blocked.
Another thug laughed, eyeing the Crown on Ash's head.
"Looks like your scams have leveled up. Who'd you steal that from—some prince? A king?"
"Doesn't matter," another said, cracking his knuckles. "We'll take it off your hands. Call it payment for all the times you conned us."
They advanced, fanning out. Ash's back hit the side of the train. No way out.
His breath slowed.
Then the Crown pulsed again.
Something shifted inside him.
The world stilled.
Their voices fell away, muffled, distant. Time didn't freeze, but it stretched—like it was waiting for his decision.
And in that stillness, he saw it.
The truth.
Each of the thugs stood before him like broken diagrams—highlighted weaknesses in their stances, old injuries, exposed nerves. He didn't know how he saw it. He just did.
The words came to his mind unbidden.
"Manifest truth."
Power surged. A soft shimmer—barely visible—rippling out from him.
The five thugs stopped in their tracks, faces contorting with confusion.
Then panic.
"What the hell?! I—I can't move!"
"My legs! I can't feel my legs!"
"Something's—Something's grabbing me!"
They struggled, screamed, flailed—but their bodies stayed frozen in place, bound by invisible truths made real.
Ash watched, stunned. And then… he laughed.
Short. Breathless. A ragged chuckle that built into a grin.
"This… this is power."
He turned and ran, leaving their cries behind him. His breath came in gasps, lungs aching—but his grin never faded.
He loved it.
Not just the escape. The fear in their eyes. The helplessness. The way he had controlled the moment. He'd never felt anything like it.
He didn't know what he was becoming.
But he knew he wanted more.
─── ✦ ───
Far away—though not by distance—within a place unbound by walls or time, a figure watched through a dark pool.
His golden eyes glinted with thought.
"He's already touched the First Lock," the voice murmured, neither surprised nor amused. "No bearer has ever moved so quickly. If they had, madness would've consumed them long before this point."
The chains overhead pulsed once.
The being's lips curled into a small smile.
"Still smiling… How long can you keep it up, little Crown?"