I was not yet sure which name belonged to me.
The marketplace gave no time to ponder it.
By dawn, the cold stone thoroughfare was already roaring with a thousand haggling voices. Saffron merchants with crimson sashes hawked their spices; a trader from the southern ports displayed a caged, iridescent salamander that hissed when the crowd pressed too near. In a stall half-shadowed by a sagging awning, I held my breath and tried to look invisible.
My palms were slick with sweat as I cradled the small iron-banded coffer—a coffer I hadn't truly earned. Its weight felt too heavy for a boy whose memories came in ragged flashes: a field of dying embers, a hand gripping mine, the taste of copper on my tongue.
The woman across the stall squinted at me. Her face was all hard lines and sun-creased suspicion.
"Three silvers," she said flatly.
I swallowed. In her tone, I heard what she thought: that I was too thin, too ragged, too unimportant to hold a box that might buy a month of meals.
"It's worth twice that," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Her eyebrow twitched. "You think I haven't seen a half-spent glow coffer before? The seal's already faded."
I looked down at the box. A runic sigil glimmered weakly on the latch, the once-bright glyph pulsing only every few seconds. It's weakening, I thought. If I didn't sell it here, I'd never afford the quicksilver needed to recharge it.
I drew a slow breath, willing the small well of energy at my core to stir. The first time I'd felt it, days ago, I nearly collapsed—raw, untamed magic responding to desperation. This time, it flickered more obediently, though the effort made my vision blur at the edges.
I laid my hand on the latch and whispered the simplest invocation I knew.
A pulse of light surged beneath my palm, so bright the woman hissed and stepped back. The sigil flared white, then slowly dimmed again to its sputtering glow.
A few bystanders gasped. Someone murmured "Talent," as if the word were half a curse.
My heartbeat thundered. The effort left a hollow ache behind my ribs, as if I'd spent something I couldn't easily replace.
Cost, I thought dimly. Magic always demands a price.
The woman's eyes darted from my hand to my face. She licked her lips.
"Five silvers," she conceded.
I hesitated. My head still swam from the exertion, and I could feel the last dregs of my energy slipping away. But if I haggled longer, I might faint and lose everything.
"Done."
She thrust a leather purse into my palm. The coins inside clinked with a promising weight—more wealth than I'd held since I woke in this unfamiliar shell of a life.
As she turned to leave with the coffer, I tried not to sway on my feet. My hand still trembled from channeling power I didn't fully understand.
Behind me, a snort of derision cut through the crowd.
"Little gutter rat thinks he's a magus," someone muttered.
I ignored it. When I finally dared look up, I realized a tall figure in a dark blue coat had been watching me from across the market. His collar was pinned with a silver sigil I didn't recognize. For an instant, our gazes locked—and something in his expression made my chest tighten.
Recognition? Pity? Calculation?
Before I could decide, he turned and disappeared into the throng.
---
I made my way toward the eastward lanes, the purse clenched tight in my fist. Every step felt measured, deliberate. As if the world itself was weighing my right to exist here.
Orison was a city that measured everything. The banners overhead—each stitched with the heraldry of old merchant guilds—snapped in the wind like a chorus of judgment.
I passed a poster plastered crooked on a timber beam:
By Decree of the Crown: All trade levies to be doubled for unlicensed vendors.
Someone had scrawled a reply in red chalk beneath it:
Better the Union's chaos than an Emperor's yoke.
I shivered. I didn't know which side I would have chosen—if I'd had a choice at all.
Perhaps I still didn't.
---
When I reached the quieter alleys near the counting houses, I paused to catch my breath. The ache beneath my ribs had settled into a dull throb, a reminder that magic, no matter how feeble, demanded repayment.
I tipped the purse into my palm and counted.
Five silver drakes. Enough to rent a corner in the apprentices' dormitory for a fortnight. Enough to buy a ledger with blank pages to record my debts, my bargains, my intentions.
Enough to begin.
This isn't yours, some part of me whispered. This name. This body.
But the memory of the woman's face—her grudging respect when the glyph flared—gave me something steadier to hold onto than the past.
If the Empyrean Realm wouldn't offer me peace, I would carve out purpose instead.
---
Above the counting house eaves, the sky was a pale, brittle blue. I could almost imagine it watching, waiting to see whether I'd spend these coins wisely—or vanish like the boy whose name I wore.
You were here, I thought, closing my fist around the silver. And now, so am I.