The Nexus Spire pulsed faintly as the city settled into the quiet rhythm of the night. The glyphs on its surface brightened, casting a soft, shifting light over the plaza. The magical barrier surrounding Kethra shimmered faintly, its energy feeding into the spire like a stream into a vast reservoir.
Inside the spire, deep within its core, something shifted. The flow of magic was steady, its patterns precise and unyielding. But tonight, the patterns faltered—briefly, almost imperceptibly. The spire’s energy rippled as though disturbed by an unseen hand.
A presence had brushed against its boundaries. Not an ordinary intrusion, but something darker. Something familiar.
Rowan pushed open the heavy wooden door of a tavern tucked away in Kethra’s lower district. The warm glow of enchanted lanterns spilled onto the cobblestones, accompanied by the hum of lively conversation and the clink of mugs. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced ale.
He stepped inside, his hood pulled low, and scanned the room. The tavern was crowded, filled with merchants, laborers, and travelers. A drake-like creature rested near the hearth, its scales glinting faintly in the firelight as its owner sipped a mug of ale.
Rowan moved to a corner table, his back to the wall. He preferred to watch unnoticed, to study the movements of the room. The shard in his pocket pulsed faintly, its rhythm aligning with the subtle hum of magic woven into the tavern’s wards.
Rowan’s quiet observation was interrupted by a loud crash. A man, burly and red-faced, slammed his mug onto the table in the center of the room. His voice rose above the din, slurred with drink but laced with aggression.
“You think you can just cheat me?” he bellowed, pointing a meaty finger at a wiry man seated across from him. The wiry man’s expression was calm, almost bored, as he leaned back in his chair.
“I didn’t cheat you,” the wiry man said, his tone smooth. “You just lost.”
The burly man growled, shoving the table aside as he lunged at the wiry man. Chairs scraped against the floor as patrons moved quickly to get out of the way. Rowan didn’t flinch, his sharp eyes watching the scene unfold.
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The wiry man dodged the attack easily, his movements fluid. But the burly man wasn’t deterred. He reached for his belt, drawing a short blade that gleamed in the tavern’s light.
Rowan sighed softly. He didn’t care about the fight itself—bar brawls were common enough in places like this. But the shard in his pocket pulsed sharply, as though reacting to the sudden spike in tension. The shadows at his feet stirred, sluggish but eager.
The wiry man ducked behind another table, his expression shifting from calm to alarmed. The burly man advanced, his blade raised.
Rowan stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He stepped into the path of the burly man, his cloak shifting as he reached out. The shadows responded, coiling around his arm and extending outward like a whip. The man froze, his eyes widening as the shadow lash struck the blade, sending it clattering to the floor.
“Enough,” Rowan said, his voice low but commanding.
The burly man stumbled back, his drunken bravado faltering as he stared at Rowan. The shadows at Rowan’s feet writhed faintly, their movements unsettling. The room fell silent, the patrons watching with a mix of curiosity and unease.
The wiry man adjusted his coat, his composure returning as he stepped away from the overturned table. “Appreciate the intervention,” he said, his tone light. “Though I had it under control.”
Rowan’s gaze didn’t waver from the burly man. “Leave.”
The man hesitated, his pride warring with his fear. But the sight of Rowan’s shadows curling like serpents around his boots was enough to make him retreat. He muttered curses under his breath as he stumbled out of the tavern.
Rowan returned to his seat, the shadows retreating into stillness. The patrons slowly resumed their conversations, though their glances lingered on him. The wiry man approached, his expression thoughtful.
“You’ve got a talent for making an impression,” the man said, taking the seat opposite Rowan without waiting for an invitation.
Rowan’s expression remained cold. “What do you want?”
The man shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “To thank you, I suppose. And to offer some advice.”
Rowan’s brow arched faintly. “Advice?”
The man smiled faintly. “You’re not as invisible as you think. Kethra has eyes everywhere, especially around the spire.”
Rowan’s chest tightened, but his expression didn’t change. “And how would you know?”
The man tapped his temple, his smile growing. “Let’s just say I know how to read people. And you’re carrying something that’s drawing attention.”
Before Rowan could respond, the man stood, tipping his hat in a mock salute. “Good luck, stranger. You’ll need it.”
Rowan watched him leave, the shard in his pocket pulsing faintly. The Riftwood’s whispers stirred again, threading through his thoughts like a warning. The spire wasn’t just watching—it was reacting. And Rowan was running out of time to stay in the shadows.
