"You sure you've got the coin, my lord?"
Ash's grin was lazy, half-lidded eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned across the table.
His fingers drummed on the wood, casual as a cat sunning itself — but every beat was a measure, every breath a calculation.
The noble stiffened, eyes flicking to the silk bundle between them. "Of course," he sniffed. "Who do you take me for, street rat?"
Ash tilted his head, his lips quirking. "A man about to make a very fine investment, obviously." He flicked a glance at the two guards looming behind the noble. "Though, with an entourage like that, I'd have thought you knew better than to shop in alleyways."
The noble's nostrils flared. "Watch your tongue."
Ash spread his hands in mock surrender.
"Apologies, my lord. Slipped right past me." He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you know how the streets are. Quick deals, quiet places. Best not to draw attention."
The noble reached for the silk.
Ash's fingers twitched — almost there —
"Tell me," the noble said sharply, "where does a boy like you get imported silks?"
Ash's smile didn't falter. Not yet.
"Oh, here and there. Friends in high places."
His eyes sparkled with dry amusement. "The gods smile on me, you might say."
The noble paused. His gaze sharpened, flicking over Ash's patched coat, scuffed boots, the too-thin frame of a boy who'd been fighting the streets since he could walk.
Then his fingers snapped.
The guards moved.
Ash didn't wait.
In one smooth motion, he slid back from the table, snatching the silk, pivoting — a grin flashing over his shoulder. "Well, this has been lovely."
"Get him!"
Ash bolted.
Boots thundered behind him as he tore through narrow alleys, ducking between crates, weaving through market stalls. His heart pounded, but his mind stayed cool, sharp, alive with calculation.
Left at the tanner's. Through the fishmonger's stall. Over the fence behind the baker's.
He could almost hear old Mara's voice in his head: Run like the wind, Ash, but think like the sea.
The city blurred around him — but something was wrong.
This street. That crumbling archway. The dead-end he should've known but didn't.
Ash cursed under his breath. He'd slipped into a part of the city even he didn't know — a tangle of forgotten streets where the bones of old buildings leaned together like drunkards in the dark.
Ahead loomed a run-down building, its roof sagging under years of rot. Ash's boots pounded up the side, fingers gripping old drainpipes, breath ragged but determined.
On the rooftop, he crouched, grinning to himself, watching the guards barrel past below.
"Sorry, boys," he murmured. "Maybe next time."
He stood, brushing off his coat — and the rooftop gave a long, low groan.
Ash froze.
Oh, no—
The roof crumbled beneath him.
He landed hard, air knocked from his lungs.
Groaning, Ash pushed himself up, coughing in the thick dust. His head throbbed, and when he blinked the dirt from his eyes, he froze.
The room was hollowed out by time — sagging walls, broken beams, a gaping hole in the ceiling where moonlight pooled. But in the center, absurdly clean and untouched, sat a chair.
No — a throne.
And on it, a crown.
Ash let out a sharp laugh, scrubbing a hand through his tangled black hair. "You've got to be kidding me."
It didn't belong here. Where the floor was rotted and the walls collapsed, the throne gleamed, its gold untouched by rust or dust.
And the crown — battered, yes, but gleaming, as if waiting.
Ash approached, slow, cautious. His grin tugged at his mouth despite himself. "Well, Ash, you've conned your way into a lot of things… but this might top the list."
Up close, the crown was strangely heavy-looking. Not flashy — simple, almost. But it pulled at his gaze.
He glanced over his shoulder, heart still hammering.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No eyes.
For once, he was alone.
"Well," he said, mostly to himself, "who's gonna stop me?"
Grinning, he snatched up the crown — and without hesitation, jammed it onto his head.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then —
A sharp, searing pain lanced through his skull.
Ash dropped to his knees, gasping, clutching his head as a thousand needles of light burned behind his eyes. His breath came ragged, disjointed. Confusion reeled through his mind.
"Wh-what the hell…"
The voices came then — faint, distant. Not outside. Not inside. Somewhere in between.
Footsteps. Loud. Real.
Ash forced himself upright, ripping the crown from his head, wrapping it hastily in his threadbare shirt. His hands trembled, but his smirk edged back to life.
"Get it together, Ash."
Above, the guards' voices echoed faintly through the streets.
Ash slipped into the shadows, sharp-eyed, breath still shaky. His boots whispered across stone as he made his way back, weaving through alleys with practiced ease.
By the time the orphanage door creaked open under his hand, his smile was firmly in place.
"Can't wait to see their faces," Ash muttered, voice low with triumph. "They'll never believe what I pulled off this time."
Far above, in a place no mortal eye could see, something stirred.
A being, vast and quiet, paused mid-sentence — its attention flickering downward like a candle's flame drawn to a draft.
"Interesting…," it murmured.
The stars did not answer.