In the city of Makar, shadows held dominion, bnketing everything from the narrowest of alleyways to the towers that loomed high above. Makar sprawled over the ndscape like a beast, its tangled streets resembling a byrinth born of ambition and neglect. The city was built on the bones of something older – ancient walls of cracked stone and cobbled streets that whispered of bygone eras and half-forgotten rulers. The structures rose haphazardly, growing in yers like the rings of a tree, each story and archway a testament to an age or ruler lying buried under Makar’s relentless growth.
Fog hung low tonight, lingering like a ghost over the rooftops and seeping down into the alleys where it pooled thick and cold. The fog was a near-constant companion in Makar, winding through the twisting streets, shrouding the city in perpetual twilight during the early hours. In the damp, chill air, nterns burned feebly, their light reduced to pinpricks swallowed by the mist, casting hazy orbs that made every alley, every corner, feel like the threshold to another world.
And within that mist, the sounds of the city carried with eerie crity. The distant ctter of horseshoes against stone echoed through the silence, the murmur of voices fading in and out from shadowed doorways, the occasional crack of a door closing or the scrape of metal on metal. Somewhere in the depths of the low quarter, a dog barked, its call quickly muffled as though it feared drawing attention. The sounds were fleeting, often muffled by the all-encompassing fog, but always yered – creating a constant symphony of life, suffering, and survival. Makar’s streets were never truly silent.
In the low quarter, where the city’s refuse accumuted like driftwood on a baren shore, the buildings leaned close, almost conspiratorially, their upper floors jutting out over the streets below, casting each alley into shadow even at midday. The cobblestones here were cracked and uneven, worn smooth by years of hasty footsteps and scurrying boots. A pungent smell of rot and stale water clung to the air. Gutters overflowed with the sludge of recent rains, mixed with refuse discarded by careless hands, and forgotten souls.
And in this murky, forgotten pce, a young thief was on the move. He slipped through the gloom with the silence of a cat, his bare feet light upon the stones. He was perhaps sixteen, though his face bore a haunted sharpness, the kind that only a lifetime of constant hunger and watchful nights could carve. His dark eyes were bright, filled with a cunning beyond his years, though their depths were shielded by an unruly mop of hair as dark as the alleys themselves. His name was Kyrell, but in Makar’s low quarter, he was only known as “the rat”. Few ever called him by his given name, and he liked it that way.
Kyrell moved like water over stone, merging with the fog and darkness, his patched and tattered clothes blending into the muted tones of his surroundings. He wore a cloak that had once been a rich shade of blue but was now faded, battered grey, ragged at the edges. His belt carried nothing but a few tools – a bent, thin sliver of metal for locks, a small, ft knife, and a pouch that was usually empty.
But tonight, Kyrell had a purpose. Rumours had drifted through the low quarter that a merchant who had grown too comfortable in Makar’s neglect had something locked away in his basement. A chest bound in iron, they said, containing something worth more than coin – a relic, stolen from a noble’s vault or lifted from some long-forgotten tomb. In the low quarter, tales of treasure spread like fire, lighting up the dark corners of the streets with whispers of fortune. And Kyrell, drawn by the promise of something more than his daily scavenge for scraps, had stalked the merchant’s house for days, studying its rhythms, learning its pulse.
The house sat at the edge of the quarter, a structure that seemed out of pce among the squalor, its pstered walls still a clean white despite the creeping damp, its roof a shingle mosaic, polished like the scales of a creature from a fairytale. A low fence surrounded it, though the fence’s gate was swollen and warped from rain, sagging at an angle that showed its age and neglect.
Kyrell approached the house slowly, his steps quiet, slipping under the fence’s gap, his bare feet careful not to leave a sound. He could hear the distant chime of bells in the high quarter, announcing the final toll before dawn, and with it the change in the guards’ watch. The merchant had hired a pair of guards to stand at the entrance, but he hadn’t accounted for the celr – an oversight born of arrogance and comfort. Kyrell had memorized the merchant’s patterns. He had watched from his perch across the way as the guards rotated, as the house fell silent, and now he knew the exact moment the celr door would be unguarded.
A thin sliver of metal in hand, he crouched beside the door, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked the lock. The damp wood was soft, swollen with the night’s chill, and it creaked faintly, though the noise barely rose above the whispers of the fog. Kyrell stilled, waiting, listening. When he was sure he was alone, he eased the door open, slipping into the house’s belly like a shadow swallowed by the gloom.
Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the smell of damp earth and stale wine. The stone walls of the celr were ancient, covered in moss that thrived in the darkness, its damp, green tendrils hanging like long-forgotten vines. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with barrels of wine and dusty jars of preserves. Spiders had cimed the corners, waving webs thick enough to glisten in the faint light that leaked from above. In the far corner of the celr, half-hidden beneath a rough woolen cloth, was the chest he had come for.
The chest was iron-bound, its metal tarnished and etched with marks that suggested a history Kyrell couldn’t even begin to guess. Runes were etched along its surface, faded, and worn; their symbols older than any nguage he knew. He knelt before it, a thrill running through him. With a quick, steady hand, he worked the lock, his fingers deftly navigating the pins until he heard the quiet click. He felt a surge of triumph, a thrill he only ever felt in moments like these, and he carefully lifted the lid.
Inside, resting upon a bed of faded silk, was a stone no rger than his thumb. It was dark, nearly bck, but as he lifted it, the stone pulsed with a dim, eerie blue glow, a light that flickered as though alive. It was warm to the touch, and Kyrell could feel something in it – a hum, like the low resonance of a tuning fork, a vibration that seemed to crawl up his arm and settle deep within his chest. The hairs on his neck prickled, and he felt, in a strange way as though the stone was watching him.
A sudden noise above – the scuff of boots, the creak of floorboards. The merchant’s guards were changing shifts. With a start, Kyrell slipped the stone into his pouch, closing the chest and repcing the cloth as quickly as he could. He backed toward the door, heart pounding in his chest as he listened to the sound of footsteps approaching the celr stairs.
“Hey! Who’s down there?” came a rough, hoarse voice, slicing through the quiet.
Without waiting for the question to be asked again, Kyrell darted through the door, his feet silent on the celrs stone floor. He heard a shout behind him, then the cnging of metal as the guards gave chase. He fled into the twisting maze of the low quarter, his body moving as though guided by an instinct older than memory.
Through the fog, over rain-slick cobblestones, he sprinted, heard hammering as he twisted and turned through the familiar byrinth of Makar. He ducked under archways, scaled walls, and finally hid in the shadows beneath an abandoned smithy, his breath ragged, his body pressed to the cold stone as the guards’ footsteps faded into the distance.
When the city finally y still, and Kyrell’s heartbeat returned to its steady rhythm, he dared a gnce at his prize. The stone in his hand pulsed, a strange warmth radiating from it, filling the dark space around him with a faint blue glow. He had no idea what it was or what powers it held, but in that moment, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time – hope.
As the first light of dawn crept over the rooftops of Makar, Kyrell slopped back into the depths of the city, the strange stone a weight in his pocket, a promise of something greater than the life he had always known.
