City Of New Beginnings

Lothern was a city of whispers and knives.

Cassin had expected grandeur—towering spires, streets paved in gold, the kind of opulence he'd heard nobles flaunted in tales. Instead, he found a labyrinth of smoke-stained stone and shadow, where the air smelled of salt and iron, and the people moved with the wary precision of those who knew how easily a coin purse could vanish.

The Shard hummed in his chest, a quiet pulse of awareness. "You do not belong here."

He didn't answer. Belonging had never been something Cassin concerned himself with.

The mercenary association was housed in a squat, unremarkable building near the docks, its sign—a rusted sword crossed with a coin—swaying gently in the wind. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and cheap ale, the walls lined with bounty notices and faded maps. A handful of men and women lounged at scarred wooden tables, their armor dented but serviceable, their eyes sharp as they tracked his entrance.

The woman behind the counter didn't bother looking up as he approached. "Name?"

"Cassin."

"Experience?"

"Enough."

That got her attention. She lifted her head, her gaze flicking over him with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd sized up a thousand would-be sellswords. Her eyes lingered on the dagger at his belt—Eira's dagger—then on his face.

"You're what, seventeen? Eighteen?" She snorted. "Kid, 'enough' doesn't cut it here. You want work, you need proof you can handle it. Guild seals. Military service. Something."

Cassin's fingers twitched. He had none of those things. All he had was a lifetime of surviving things most of these people couldn't imagine.

The woman sighed at his silence. "Look, if you're serious about this, go get trained. Properly. The Cyrus Sword Order takes recruits twice a year. Dawn Academy's got a decent combat program. Even the Argent Academy'll whip you into shape if you've got the coin." She shrugged. "Or try one of the smaller places—the Iron Fang Dojo, the Verdant Blade School. They're not as prestigious, but they'll teach you how to hold a sword without cutting your own damn foot off."

Cassin clenched his jaw. Training. Time wasted when he could be hunting.

But the woman wasn't wrong. He'd killed the man in black through sheer, desperate fury—but fury wouldn't be enough next time.

He turned to leave when her voice stopped him.

"One more thing." She tossed a crumpled parchment onto the counter. "You look like the type who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. There's a bounty on a group of deserters holed up near the eastern marshes. Low pay, high risk. But if you're stupid enough to try it, bring proof, and I'll put in a word for you."

Cassin didn't take the parchment. But he memorized the details before he walked out.

The streets of Lothern were alive with rumors.

Cassin moved through them like a ghost, listening, learning. The Shard in his chest thrummed with quiet interest as snippets of conversation reached him.

"—heard another Shard was found near the Black Peaks—"

"—crystallization hit him fast, they say by the end he was more stone than man—"

"—only a hundred thousand Shardbearers in the world, you think we'd ever—"

He slowed, his pulse quickening. Shards. Crystallization. The words were familiar, but the context wasn't.

A pair of scholars argued outside a dimly lit tavern, their voices carrying.

"It's not a curse, it's a balance," the taller one insisted. "The Shards grant power, but the Oaths ensure they're not misused. Fail to uphold your Oath, and the Shard reclaims its price."

The other scoffed. "And what of the Transcendent Shards? The ones that bend reality itself? You think there's balance there?"

Cassin didn't stay to hear the rest. But the pieces were falling into place.

Shards were rare. Dangerous. And those who wielded them walked a razor's edge between power and annihilation.

He touched his chest, where the Shard lay nestled against his ribs. "You knew this," he accused silently.

"You did not ask."

Cassin exhaled sharply. Another thing to learn. Another weapon to master.

But first, he needed to survive long enough to use it.

The bounty on the deserters was a start.

The marshes stank of rotting vegetation and stagnant water, the ground sucking at Cassin's boots as he moved through the mist-shrouded trees. The deserters were five in number, their camp a haphazard collection of stolen tents and dying fires.

They never saw him coming.

The first died with a dagger through his throat. The second barely had time to reach for his sword before Cassin broke his neck. The third and fourth came at him together—one with an axe, the other with a rusted spear.

Cassin let the Shard's power flood his veins.

The world sharpened. Time slowed. He moved like liquid shadow, dodging the axe, catching the spear mid-thrust, and wrenching it free from its owner's grip. The deserter's eyes widened—

Then Cassin drove the spear through his chest.

The last one ran.

Cassin let him get ten paces before hurling the dagger. It struck true, burying itself between the man's shoulder blades. He collapsed face-first into the muck.

Silence.

Cassin retrieved his dagger, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's shirt. He felt no satisfaction. No guilt. Only the cold certainty that this was the path he'd chosen.

The Shard pulsed. "You are learning."

He didn't answer.

But as he turned back toward Lothern, the deserters' heads wrapped in burlap, he knew one thing.

One of the great academies would be expecting a new recruit soon.