The eternal darkness had swallowed the world whole. Oil lamps burned profusely, becoming the city's most valuable source of light. In the outer districts, where the air reeked of sweat and poverty, a young boy scrubbed the dirt from the floor of Old Neil's bar.
His hands were raw and bruised, working rhythmically as the water in the nearby bucket darkened with every stroke. Laughter and chatter filled the room, but he paid it no mind. His world was quiet, composed of the steady scrape of the brush and his measured breaths.
The boy's name was Clive, though not many knew it. To the regulars of Old Neil's, he was simply "the boy," a shadow moving silently through the dimly lit bar.
His eyes were covered by a tattered purple cloth, a makeshift blindfold over the blank sockets where sight should have been. Yet Clive saw more than most people ever could. He had learned to listen and feel the world in ways others could not imagine.
Vibrations in the floorboards told him when someone approached. The scent of sweat and stale ale revealed who was near. Softer voices spoke volumes about the fears and thoughts of the patrons.
Tonight, the bar was crowded. Word had spread that Lady Harlingen would be telling a story, and the people of the Outer District, desperate for distraction from the encroaching darkness, had gathered to listen.
Clive paused, tilting his head to catch her voice. The night passed slowly. Eventually, Lady Harlingen finished her tale, and the patrons drifted away, discussing what they had heard. Soon, only Clive, Old Neil, his trusted friend Mordecai, Lady Harlingen, and her lover remained.
Before leaving, Lady Harlingen handed him a coin. Clive's fingers traced its surface carefully—a single Terran, the local low-value currency used for everyday trade. Terrans were coarse, dense, roughly stamped; Nexar, the medium-value currency, was smooth and cool to the touch; Auror, high-value, used for royal transactions, and Kyrium, rare and exclusive. Clive had never handled Auror or Kyrium. He knew the conversion: one Terran = 0.5 Nexar, one Auror = 5 Terran = 2 Nexar, and one Kyrium = 10 Terran = 5 Nexar. This was the widely known Luminari Standard.
Clive slipped the coin into his pocket and resumed scrubbing. He felt two gazes on him, but neither held ill intent. From a young age, he had discovered how to sense intentions. Though blind, he saw more than anyone else.
Mordecai spoke quietly. "Can't you let the boy go now? He's blind, unfit for this."
Clive bristled. He hated pity. He paused, calming his breath, waiting for Mordecai to fall silent before continuing.
After a pause, Old Neil's voice rumbled through the bar. "In a way, you're right. But you're missing the bigger picture. This boy chooses to work here, even though his mother's debt to me has been paid. I do not force him, and honestly… I've grown attached. He listens without judging or giving nasty looks. If I chased him away, I'd be condemning him to hunger… I'm all he's got."
Mordecai murmured, "I see," but neither noticed that Clive's grip on his brush had tightened and he had stopped scrubbing.
Before anyone could speak further, the oil lamp flickered and died. "Well, the oil's out. I'll be heading upstairs," Old Neil said with a shake of his head and a smile. Mordecai bid him farewell and left.
In the darkness, Old Neil lingered, watching Clive for a few moments before going upstairs, leaving the boy alone. Darkness was no obstacle for Clive; he always continued working after the lamps went out.
He thought back to when he first started scrubbing Old Neil's floors. He had been young and clumsy; it took six months to navigate the bar efficiently. Old Neil had been ruthless, stepping on his fingers and overturning his bucket, but Clive endured silently. Over time, the provocations decreased until he could ignore them altogether.
Despite his silence, Clive had developed a deep hatred for Old Neil. The world had been cruel to him from birth; why should he show kindness?
To Clive, the world was a horrible place, filled with liars, drunkards, criminals, and the Fallen—abominations that preyed on humanity. From the stories he had heard, the lands outside the city walls were perilous, navigable only by humanity's strongest warriors, the Pathfinders.
He finished scrubbing, hands sore, and rose to his feet. Navigating the bar was second nature. Rinsing his brush and wringing it out, the sound of water dripping echoed in the darkness.
His fingers trailed along the wall as he made for the door. Cold air enveloped him as he stepped outside. The streets were empty; merchants had packed up, vendors gone home, the market silent. Only the distant wind howled, and the old buildings groaned and creaked.
Clive knew the outer district better than anyone. He made his way past the crowded streets toward the cemetery where he lived. His shack, just outside the cemetery, had been home since childhood. He and his mother were outcasts—she had Elden blood.
The memory of his mother pierced his heart. The world had denied him sight, and then it had taken her—the only person who had ever truly loved him.
After a short walk, he reached his shack. The door creaked as he entered. Inside, there was little: a single pallet for a bed and a pile of clothes in the corner. Exhaustion washed over him, and he collapsed onto the pallet.
His mind replayed the night's events: Lady Harlingen's story, Old Neil's words, Mordecai's pity.
He pushed the thoughts aside, fingers brushing the coin in his pocket—a single Terran, a small fortune in his hands. A plan formed. Tomorrow, he would visit the market, buy food and supplies. Maybe even get the cobberstone fish he had smelled the other day.
Old John had said it only cost one Terra, leaving him with nine to spare.
For now, Clive rested, darkness enveloping him like a shroud as sleep claimed him. Tomorrow would be a big day.