He had no home.
The night before, he'd slept on a bench under the market's roof, wrapped in his cloak. They'd given him soup at the old man's table, but nothing more — food and a place to rest his body for a few hours. After that, the streets.
He woke with a stiff neck and a dry throat. Walked to the market without asking questions. If you need something here, the market teaches you: hands for coins, services without questions.
He found work in half an hour. A broad-shouldered man was unloading crates from a cart. They paid small coins for every full load. Sylryk offered to help, and they accepted. The work was hard and full of short orders: lift, set down, turn, place. At first, he failed. He almost dropped a crate. They corrected him without insults; taught him to use his legs, not his back. He learned by gesture. By the end of the day, he had enough coins in his pocket to buy some proper clothes and food.
While he worked, he saw magic in action. It wasn't a spectacle — it was useful.
A woman blew out a candle with a small gesture and lit it again with the same hand.
An artisan muttered a short word, and his tool floated back to its place without being touched.
For the people, it was routine.
For Sylryk, it was new information: magic was used in everyday life.
He also heard the word Karthas. Two merchants were talking in low voices near a stall:
— "Good thing we're in a quiet place," said one. "I've heard the Karthas are killing people on the northern routes. They don't spare anyone."
— "If you meet one, bad luck," replied the other. "Those things have no mercy."
The conversation stopped when a customer walked by. The word stayed there, like a warning. Sylryk kept it in mind.
With two more coins, he could afford a bed in a cheap inn for one night. He didn't want to spend more; saving was necessary. With the pouch hidden, he felt less vulnerable. He had a way to earn food the next day if he repeated the work.
Four days passed with the same routine: wake up, move crates, collect coins, watch small uses of magic, hear rumors about the Karthas, and sleep wherever he could.
He learned how to move around the plaza; learned not to get into useless fights.
But on the fourth night, something changed.
Sylryk dreamed.
He was floating in thick darkness, with no ground or sky. He heard sounds — other people breathing.
Then a voice.
— "Is that all you're going to do?" it asked, deep and almost disappointed. "I didn't bring you here to carry boxes."
He tried to answer, but no sound came out of his throat.
The voice continued, closer now:
— "You're wasting time. Out there, everything is moving. If you stay hidden, when you open your eyes, it'll already be too late."
The dream shattered. Sylryk woke up gasping. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
The cloak clung to his skin. Outside, dawn was just breaking, the sky painted that gray tone before sunrise.
He didn't know if it was a nightmare — or something else.
But the words wouldn't leave his mind.
He got up, without hunger, and walked to the market.
Same noise, same routine.
Until a different sound made him stop.
In the middle of the street, two women were arguing.
One was pale, eyes swollen from crying, her voice trembling as she shouted:
— "We can't stay silent anymore! The king is letting people die on the other side of the city! Neither the guards nor the heroes are doing anything!"
No one answered.
The merchants pretended not to hear. Some lowered their gaze; others just kept walking.
Beside her, the other woman held her head high.
She had a short sword on her belt, her hand already resting on the hilt. Her eyes swept across the crowd with a mix of anger and restrained pride.
— "Are you all going to stay deaf?" she shouted firmly. "Not one of you has the courage to act?"
Sylryk stood still. It wasn't his problem — he knew that.
But something burned in his chest, as if the words from that dream echoed again in his head. As if it were a sign.
The shouting drew four guards. They marched with heavy steps, red capes stained with dust.
— "That's enough noise," one ordered. "Both of you are coming with us."
The woman with the sword stepped forward, steel half drawn.
— "Take one more step, and you'll regret it."
The other woman, still crying, clutched her dress and begged:
— "Please… we don't want trouble, we just want help…"
Sylryk watched the scene.
People backed away. No one would step in.
He felt the impulse without thinking.
He moved through the crowd until he stood in front of the guards.
— "I'll do it," he said.
Silence fell over the street.
— "What did you say?" one of the soldiers asked.
Sylryk took a deep breath, his voice steady.
— "I said I'll take them."
The guards were confused.
They didn't understand why he said it — and neither did he.