| Whispers in the Dark

༺ The Fractured City II ༻

The alleyway bore the weight of time, its walls cracked and crumbling, swallowed by decay. A stagnant puddle sat in the middle, reflecting the dim, flickering light of a nearby lamp. Beside it, an old red can lay bent and rusting, a relic of neglect.

Rowan followed the old man into the narrow passage, the silence pressing in around them. The old man stepped through without care, his boot splashing through the puddle without hesitation. Rowan, more cautious, sidestepped it entirely. His foot struck the can instead, sending it tumbling forward with a soft, eerie rattle. The sound echoed unnaturally in the stillness, lingering in the cold air.

The old man gave a slow nod and gestured around. "Here we are, lad. Home, such as it is."

Before them stood an aged wooden door, wedged between the ruined brick walls. Its surface was warped from years of relentless rain, the peeling paint revealing splintered wood beneath. Rusted hinges clung stubbornly to the frame, as if unwilling to yield to time.

The old man grasped the worn brass handle and pulled. The door resisted, groaning like a beast in slumber. With a quiet grunt, he tugged again, harder this time. The hinges let out a long, creaking wail before the door finally shuddered open.

Inside, the old man's dwelling was modest—a single-room space barely touched by light. A tiny wooden table sat in the center, accompanied by two stools. Against the wall, a stove stood with a circular bronze kettle resting atop it. The scent of aged wood and faint spices clung to the air.

"Have a seat," the old man offered as he moved toward the stove. "I'll make some tea."

Rowan nodded and took his place at the table. The stool wobbled slightly under his weight, its wooden legs uneven. As he waited, his fingers brushed against the worn fabric of his coat, reaching beneath it. His touch found the cool, ridged hilt of his keris, its familiar weight steadying him. With a subtle shift, he loosened it in its sheath, ensuring it was ready if needed. Satisfied, he let his coat fall back into place, concealing the weapon once more.

The old man hummed softly as he worked, filling the kettle with water from a dented metal pitcher. He placed it atop the stove and struck a match, the small flame flickering before igniting the burner beneath. The low hiss of heating water filled the space.

Moments later, he returned, carrying a small wooden tray with a miniature tea set—a simple teapot and two ceramic cups. He set it on the table with practiced ease, then gave Rowan a kind smile.

"Once again, I welcome you to my humble abode."

Rowan dipped his head slightly. "Thank you."

The old man poured the tea with steady hands, the amber liquid swirling as it filled the cups. He slid one toward Rowan, then took his own, blowing gently over its surface.

As the warmth seeped into Rowan's fingers, the old man's expression turned thoughtful. "Tell me, lad, do you know of Aether?"

Rowan blinked. "Aether?"

The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "I see… You really are clueless. Some people are born gifted with Aether currents, allowing them to wield magic."

Rowan sat up straighter, intrigue flickering in his eyes. "Magic?"

The old man let out a deep, amused guffaw. "Yes, magic. It is composed of four base elements—Pyro, Aqua, Aero, and Terra. Each one governs a different force of nature, and those attuned to Aether can manipulate them."

Rowan brought the cup to his lips, sipping thoughtfully. The tea was strong and earthy, the heat spreading through his chest. Magic, Aether currents—this world was unlike anything he had known. His mind swirled with questions.

But as curiosity took hold, so did another realization: he had nowhere to stay.

The thought must have been plain on his face, because the old man studied him for a moment before offering a small nod. "You can stay here if you need to, lad."

Rowan exhaled in quiet relief. "I appreciate it."

But the old man's voice lowered as he leaned slightly forward. "This city, however, has a dark secret." His eyes darkened. "It has been under the control of a mysterious figure known as The Owl. His eyes are everywhere."

Rowan frowned. "The Owl?"

The old man nodded. "No one knows who he really is. But his reach extends far beyond these streets. The government, the markets, even the beggars whisper his name. Those who challenge him—" He paused, then shook his head. "They disappear."

Rowan set his cup down. A faint unease settled in his chest. He had barely begun to understand this world, yet already, it seemed entangled in something dangerous.

Before he could ask more—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

A sudden, rapid pounding erupted against the door.

The sound was harsh and insistent, shaking the frail wood in its frame.

Rowan's hand instinctively went to his keris.

The old man's expression did not change, but his voice was barely above a whisper.

"…We have company."