Ash walked with his hands in his coat pockets, the weight of his past conversation with Crookjaw trailing behind each step like an old ghost.
"You don't wear a crown unless you're ready for people to notice."
Crookjaw's voice echoed again as if it had been sewn into the seams of his thoughts. His voice had been gruff—half warning, half some twisted form of care. Before they parted ways in that cracked alleyway behind the old tavern, he had handed Ash a battered satchel, one with a false bottom and a deep enough pocket to tuck the cursed crown away.
"Don't let it shine unless you're ready for blood," Crookjaw had said, and then with a grimace, "And stop looking like yourself for a while. Even rats don't want to be seen when the fire's lit."
Now Ash wandered the city's outskirts, away from the richer districts and deeper into the cracked stone and wooden bones of Old Ridge. Where the buildings leaned, the fog clung to your ankles, and every eye watched for its own reasons.
He walked hooded, his face covered. And the crown—the one that had become the centerpiece of his troubles—lay hidden, tucked tightly into that satchel like a stolen relic. Which, he supposed, it was.
And despite all of Crookjaw's advice, despite the precautions, it was starting to feel like none of it mattered.
Because the world was watching.
Every street he passed, conversations hiccupped mid-word. Vendors quieted. Laughter died. Eyes slid across him, pretended to glance away, but he could feel it—that itchy, crawling sensation of being observed. Not just by people.
No, it felt bigger than that. Like the city itself had started noticing him.
A week ago, he was a nobody. A ghost on the street. Just another con artist running distraction plays and fleecing nobles who were too drunk or too dumb to guard their coin purses. He was good—great even. But forgettable. Intentionally forgettable.
Now?
Now it was like the whole damn world had turned its head in his direction, lips parted in a breathless whisper.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is insane," he muttered aloud.
He didn't notice the man until they collided.
Ash jolted, stepping back and already raising a hand to apologize, when he looked up—and froze.
A red sash. Black robes. A crescent sigil stitched in dark thread on the chest.
One of the cultists.
"Hey, kid," the man said. His voice was casual, almost friendly. "You seen this guy around?"
He pulled out a parchment and unfolded it with a snap.
Ash stared.
It was a perfect sketch. Impossibly perfect. Every strand of his hair, the exact tilt of his jaw, even the faint scar near his right brow. The image looked like it had been taken, not drawn.
He blinked. "Hmm," he said, voice lifting slightly as he leaned forward and studied the sketch like a critic. "That's a handsome fella."
The cultist didn't smile.
Ash's eyes flicked, measured. Three more down the road. More behind. Posters—fliers—plastered across walls and posts and crates. His face. Everywhere.
He chuckled, soft and smooth. "Can't say I've seen him."
Then he was gone.
A turn down a side street, a quick vault over a half-collapsed wall, and he was back into the under veins of the city where shadows played nicer.
His breathing calmed by the time he leaned against a support pillar under an old bridge, fanning himself lightly with one of the fliers he'd ripped down.
"I can't go around hooded forever," he muttered. "I need something better."
An idea flickered.
There was someone. An old contact. Slick Bastel, they used to call him. Bastel could change a man's entire look with a needle and two fingers. Greedy bastard, but damn good at what he did. Problem was—he charged like a high noble's tailor.
Ash grimaced. He needed coin. Fast.
He started toward the old hideout. A narrow, crumbling estate near the edge of the warehouse district. It was where he kept everything of value—trinkets, stashes, escape gear. Things he'd rather not leave behind.
But as he rounded the corner, his breath hitched.
Cultists. Everywhere.
Not just a few. A dozen at least, maybe more. Milling about the cracked stone facade of the hideout. Like beetles scuttling over a carcass.
Ash ducked behind a wall, muttering, "Well shit. Isn't that convenient."
He pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes.
He could feel it now. The circle tightening. His routes closing.
He'd always run. Always. It was his talent. Never confront. Just disappear. He was good at vanishing.
But this?
This was different.
No matter how many streets he turned down, how many hoods he wore, the chains stayed.
He reached for the crown in the satchel, fingers brushing its jagged shape through the cloth.
"I'm not escaping this one, am I?" he whispered.
He walked again. Aimless. Hollow. Thinking.
Until he saw him.
A lone figure walking toward him down the center of the street.
Wearing a black mask, thin and minimal, showing only a thin slit for the eyes and mouth. Their clothes were simple, but there was a strange aura to them—like they didn't belong here.
Ash's instincts twitched.
He sized the figure up, marked their gait, posture.
Easy mark, he thought.
Reflex took over.
As they passed, Ash's hand moved quick and silent. Years of practice. A touch, a shift, a pull.
The wallet was in his hand before he even registered the weight.
Perfect.
He turned to go.
Then—
"So you're someone like this, huh?"
Ash's body moved on its own.
He twisted just in time to avoid a kick so fast it blurred. It slammed into the stone where his head had just been, cracking the pavement like glass.
He leapt back, heart pounding.
"What the—?"
The masked figure lowered their leg calmly. "Hmm. So you can dodge something like that. You really have unlocked the first chain already, haven't you?"
Ash narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry, my good sir," he said with a smirk, hands raised. "But I don't remember offending you enough to warrant skull-shattering violence."
The figure ignored the sarcasm. "Where's your mark?"
Ash blinked. "You don't just ask someone that. Bit personal." "Cant quite trust a guy hiding himself behind a mask you know?"
The man tilted his head. "You don't need to trust me. I'll show you why you should."
He pulled down the collar of his sweater.
Ash's eyes widened.
A mark. The same as his.
He froze. "You're... a Touched?"
The man's slit eyes crinkled in a subtle, amused smile.
"I'm someone you'll be very familiar with soon," he said. "But for now, go to the church tonight. You'll find something… interesting."
"Wait, who the hell even are y—"
But the man dissipated.
Not disappeared. Dissipated. Like smoke curling off a candle. One finger to his lips, whispering, "See you there, Crowned Rat."
Ash stood there, stunned.
He checked his pocket.
The wallet was gone.
"That damn guy…" he muttered. "Couldn't at least leave me one thing?"
He sighed and trudged off.
He found an old inn and paid with the last of the coin Crookjaw had slipped him.
The bed was hard, the sheets rough. But it was safe. For now.
He lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
That kick had been fast—too fast. If he hadn't moved...
He pulled the crown out from the satchel.
It glimmered faintly.
He placed it on his head, held out a hand. "Bow."
Nothing.
He groaned and slapped his forehead. "Seriously? It's got a mood?"
Still, his thoughts flicked to the thugs he'd bound. What happened to them?
Then to the priest. The moment the word Lie had glowed above his head.
That wasn't coincidence.
He sat up, crown in his lap, and whispered, "I need answers."
He closed his eyes.
Night fell.
He rose, dressed in black. Long sleeves, gloves. Quiet as smoke, he slid from the window and melted into the city.
The church loomed ahead, moonlight clinging to its stones like frost.
He slipped past three guards without a sound.
Inside—
Dozens of cultists knelt in a circle, heads bowed. The high priest stood at the center, chanting in an ancient, guttural tongue.
And above him, something formed.
Something wrong.
Limbs too long. A blindfold of glowing scripture wrapped over a stretched, eyeless face.
Ash's breath caught.
The high priest spoke.
"The Crowned Anomaly must be brought back. Dead or alive. But alive… would be preferable."
He touched the blindfold.
The scriptures burned gold.
The creature let out a screech that tore into the mind—not the ears.
Then it smiled.
Ash stared, frozen in place.
"What... the hell is this?"