Arthur's life had become a dangerous ballet of routine and anticipation. About eight months had stretched since the fall of his home; Arthur knew they were no longer in their homeland, by now, they would have crossed at least half a continent, and the eight-year-old boy who had fled the Northwing mansion was slowly being rewritten. His pajamas had given way to worn leather and wool clothes, his once pale face now marked by the sun and biting wind. He was thinner, his muscles harder, his movements quieter, almost furtive.

When the looters were distracted, Arthur moved among them like a shadow, his guard never down. The tension in Kragen's band was palpable, like a taut thread about to snap. With recent casualties, plundering yielded less fruit, and fights over portions of meat became more frequent. Arthur observed everything, his mind calculating, a silent calculator. He waited. The perfect opportunity, the right moment to make his move.

Whispers about a new mission began to circulate, low at first, then an excited roar. Kragen D'Elijah and Thorne, the Cold Gaze, finally revealed the objective: to transport their new spoils, the "Mana Tusks of Iron Snout" and other rare organs of the beast, to be delivered to the eccentric Lord Gondrik in Sinoparis, a modest city on the edge of the Central Continent. The route, a narrow gorge to the South, and the time of departure, in the dead of night, were detailed. Greed glimmered in each mercenary's eyes. For Arthur, however, the information was a spark; the idea of being so close to the Central Continent frightened him, how could a resident of Velmore's Far North be on a continent with Elves and Dwarves. But he couldn't waste time thinking about how far he was from home; this was his chance. The Wind whispered in his mind, a complex and lethal plan beginning to unfold.

The night of departure arrived, laden with a cold mist that clung to the rocks. Kragen's band, with wagons loaded with the spoils of the Giant Boar, positioned themselves in the gorge that connected to Sinoparis, a point known for its apparent security. Arthur, using his newfound agility, found an elevated and discreet spot from which he could observe and act. In the middle of the journey, when the patrol appeared, it wasn't a caravan, but a patrol of city guards, better equipped than Kragen had anticipated. Their polished armor and the mana blades gleaming in their hands were more sophisticated than Arthur had ever seen in the Northern Lands. Far outnumbering what Kragen expected, for common citizens, it would be a mere detail on the road, but for looters fleeing the Upthere like them, it was an imminent confrontation. After all, their heads were priced throughout the continent. The clash was inevitable. The confrontation erupted like an open wound in the night. Screams, the clang of metal, the crackle of spells, and the roar of battle echoed through the rocks.

The battle was a whirlwind of lights and shadows. The guards' Enhancers moved like lightning, their mana swords cutting the air with lethal hisses. One of them, an Arcanist, raised his hands and cast a fiery blast that made the rock explode near Kragen. Another, a Wind Enhancer, used his mana to propel himself, becoming a blur on the field, and delivering quick, evasive blows.

Arthur acted. A tremor at the nape of his neck, a subtle shiver, his skin tingling with mana. The Wind responded. He didn't aim at the guards, but at Kragen's men. Precise gusts of dust and sand were stirred up in Kragen's and Ragnar's faces at critical moments. An enemy arrow that would have flown towards one of the guards' necks was subtly diverted by an air current, embedding itself in a tree. A barrel of supplies, pushed by one of the mercenaries, rolled with the help of a gust, hitting Thorne, the Cold Gaze, and knocking him down. The Wind mana danced under his command, an extension of his will. Arthur was a ghost on the battlefield, amplifying the chaos, unseen. For a brief moment, as he directed the Wind with the intention of causing harm, Arthur felt a slight resistance, as if the air hesitated, his intention not being pure.

At the height of the combat, Arthur saw Ragnar, the Brute, entangled in a savage fight with a guard. Icy rage propelled him. He glimpsed how he could use the Air to manipulate the outcome of that battle. But, before Arthur could finalize his plan, Ragnar fell, his body falling inert onto the wet rock, after an unexpected axe blow, followed by a cry of pain. Ragnar looked up, eyes confused, finding no one to hate. It was quick, brutal, and without Arthur's intervention.

Arthur's face, which was about to twist in vengeful satisfaction, froze. Rage turned into bitter frustration, a cutting emptiness. He couldn't savor the revenge. He couldn't feel death by his own hands. The debt was paid, but without the taste of his own effort. The image of his mother smiling, and the mocking gleam of the opal on Ragnar's necklace, flashed in his mind. The necklace was now a symbol of unfinished debt. He thought of leaving it there, or trampling it, but Louis's ring on his finger burned, and he retreated, a strong and controlled gesture.

Chaos still reigned, but the scales tipped. Kragen and the other looters were at a disadvantage, the battle dissolving into a disorderly retreat. Arthur, with calculated efficiency, moved quickly to the center of the confusion, where the cargo had fallen. A sturdy leather bag, containing the "Mana Tusks of Iron Snout" and the other rare organs. Heavy, but precious. He secured the bag, taking advantage of the widespread carnage to disappear, a shadow among shadows, the Wind helping him move furtively out of the gorge.

He was alone again. The road to Sinoparis opened before him. The cargo was a physical weight on his shoulders, but the purpose was lighter, even with the vacuum of unsatisfied vengeance. If you don't feel death, it's not enough. It's not justice. It's just absence. This obsession, the need to feel control, began to form, a dark seed. His journey was solitary. He ate precariously, hunting small animals or stealing bread, sleeping in hidden places, under the cold light of the stars. Each day, the world seemed vaster, more dangerous, and he more adapted.

On a night of exhaustion, Arthur hallucinated. Fragments of images of Louis, smiling, reading to him by a warm fireplace, mingled with dark glimpses of Ragnar, his yellow smile. A distorted voice, perhaps his mother's or the dead brute's, whispered: "You took the cargo. But you left what you are on the ground, along with that body." He thrashed, sweating cold, Louis's ring clutched in his hand. When he awoke, his mother's ring was embedded in his palm.

Finally, the Free City appeared on the horizon. Not like a mirage, but like a promise. The walls, imposing, taller than those of his County, rose under a blue sky. The gates, guarded by sentinels of different races, seemed like portals to another world. Arthur felt small again as he entered the city, but now he didn't cower—he measured. Sinoparis was large, but he had already learned to grow inside, to observe weaknesses and strengths, to discern the hidden dangers in the vibrant shadows.

The streets were a whirlwind of colors, sounds, and smells. Vibrant markets with exotic spices, the aroma of fresh bread from bakeries, the smoke of forges. The hammering of forges muffled the distant strumming of a lute—as if war and art shared the same sidewalk. Buildings of stone and wood, some with elegant elven adornments, others with dwarven solidity. Dwarves, elves, humans, and even some excluded creatures, living and working side by side. There was an energy, a hum of life, that he had never imagined. And there, in the distance, an imposing structure, a fortified citadel, that resembled a true castle, a symbol of power very different from what he knew.

Arthur inquired discreetly, using the few coins he had to get information. The "eccentric old man," Lord Gondrik, lived in an older district, near the canals, where houses leaned against each other. The journey there was a sensory exploration. Narrower streets, the smell of herbs and potions, the occasional clink of glass.

Exhausted, but with the cargo in hand, Arthur finally arrived at Lord Gondrik's door. It was a peculiar house, with crooked windows and a strong, sweet smell of sulfur and something else, something organic and strange. He took a deep breath, the cold air in his lungs. A mix of relief, apprehension, and a new kind of hope. Louis's ring glimmered faintly on his finger. A second of hesitation—not from fear, but from the awareness of the monetary value this knock represented. He raised his hand. And knocked on the door. The hollow sound echoed in the street's silence, a call to the unknown.