Date: March 27, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The alley on Grumbler's Street had finally turned into an arena. The fog, pressed to the ground by the heavy aura of the "Heavy Tread" Spirit, swirled around the fighters' legs like living boiling water. The sound of the barrel Maël had thrown still echoed off the stone walls when the bruiser Korg, shaking splinters from his shoulder, let out a low, vibrating growl.
Dur felt the air grow denser with each breath. This wasn't magic in its pure form—it was physical pressure, making his heart beat heavier and every movement require double the effort. But Dur was no ordinary city dweller. Six months in the forest under Torm's tutelage, sleeping on roots and running knee-deep in icy water, had turned his body into a tightly coiled sinew. He was used to fighting against nature's resistance.
"You're… quick," the lean Vein rasped, rising from his knees. His ghostly threads, connected to his "Spirit of the Measuring Thread," now glowed not yellow, but a sickly orange. "But there's no room for wild ways in the city. I'll measure your path to the very grave!"
Vein threw up both hands. Six threads burst from his fingers at once. They didn't fly straight, but began tracing complex arcs, intertwining in the air to create a semblance of a glowing net.
"Dur, don't let him close the circuit!" Maël shouted.
Maël himself was in a desperate position at that moment. The bruiser Korg, whose steps literally struck sparks from the cobblestones, was advancing on him. With each of Korg's steps, the pressure zone expanded. Maël moved strangely—he wasn't just retreating; he seemed to be adapting to the weight of the air. His movements became fluid; he crouched slightly before each pulse of force emanating from the enemy. His Spirit of Adaptability, still weak and unformed, worked on an instinctive level, making his muscles contract in a rhythm that prevented him from being crushed.
Dur lunged towards Vein. The threads lashed the stones where he'd stood a moment before, leaving deep, melted furrows. The youth drew his knife—Torm's gift. The steel glinted dully in the fog.
"Metal doesn't cut spirit," Dur remembered his mentor's words. "But spirit is always tied to flesh. Strike the flesh."
Vein was an experienced collector. He saw that Dur was a physical fighter and kept him at a distance. He made the threads spin around him, creating a cocoon that couldn't be touched. "Give up, vagrant!" he cried. "You're wasting your strength! One measure from me, and you won't even be able to breathe!"
At that moment, Dur did what Vein didn't expect. He didn't try to break through the threads. He spun sharply and… jumped onto the wall. His boots found purchase in the uneven masonry; he ran three steps vertically, above the threads' reach, and pushing off a tavern sign, flew straight at Korg, who was just raising his massive fist over Maël.
"Korg, behind you!" Vein squealed.
But it was too late. Dur didn't intend to kill. He kicked the bruiser in the back, at that very spot under the shoulder blade where, as Torm taught, a bear's center of balance lies. Korg's huge bulk swayed. His "Heavy Tread" Spirit faltered—the pressure momentarily weakened, and Maël, feeling the freedom, reacted instantly.
Maël didn't strike with his fist. He struck with an open palm at the bruiser's knee, using the inertia of his own weight. A dry crack was heard. Korg howled, and his aura exploded in a wave of brown light, throwing Dur and Maël in opposite directions.
"You… little insects!" Korg dropped to one knee; the ground beneath him cracked. "I'll crush this whole block to get you!"
Vein, seeing his partner wounded, switched to a more aggressive tactic. His threads lengthened and stiffened into spears. "Cage of Measurements!" he shrieked.
The threads stabbed into the ground and walls around Dur, creating a geometrically perfect hexagon. Dur felt the space inside this figure begin to contract. This was the Spirit's ability—to impose its rules on the physical world. The cage's boundaries were sharper than razors.
Dur froze in the center. His breathing became steady. He looked at Vein. The man was breathing heavily, his face pale—using the Spirit required enormous mental and spiritual energy.
"He's tiring," Dur realized. "He can't hold this long."
Maël, who had been thrown to the workshop doors, got up. His caftan was torn, but a cold light burned in his eyes. "Dur! Hold on for ten more seconds! His spirit is eating his mind!"
Maël suddenly began moving, not towards Vein, but towards… Korg. "Hey, mountain of rocks! Your 'Tread' only works on the ground, right?" Maël picked up a long iron bar from the ground—a blank for a wagon wheel rim. "Let's see how you handle a lever!"
In Ligra, the Agrims were respected not only for strength but also for intelligence. And Maël, though Dur didn't suspect it, possessed that very type of mind that saw the weak point in any system—even a combat one.
Korg tried to stand, but his injured knee buckled. He punched the ground, hoping to cause a seismic wave, but at that moment, Maël shoved the iron bar under Korg's massive pauldron and threw all his weight onto the other end.
"Dur, now! The circuit is breaking!"
Indeed, when Korg's attention shifted to Maël and his pain became the dominant feeling, the collectors' overall coordination broke down. Vein flinched, his hand wavered, and one of the threads of the "Cage of Measurements" momentarily lost its brightness.
That moment was enough for Dur. He didn't try to exit—he struck the glowing thread with his knife. The steel was covered in sweat and grime, but behind it stood the will of a man who refused to be imprisoned. Pure physical energy collided with a fading spirit. A sound like a snapped lute string rang out.
Dur tumbled out of the cage, rolled across the pavement, and in three bounds was beside Vein. The man tried to summon new threads, but only waved his arms helplessly—his reserve was empty. Dur pressed the knife blade to the lean collector's throat.
"Measure this," Dur said quietly.
At the other end of the alley, Korg lay on his stomach, pinned to the ground by his own weight and Maël's iron lever.
"It's over," Maël exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.
The residents of Grumbler's Street, watching from their windows, buzzed with noise. Someone whistled approvingly. These two collectors were known for their rudeness, and the sight of their defeat evoked a rare feeling of gloating satisfaction among the people. But Maël didn't look like a victor. He quickly glanced around.
"We need to go, Dur. Fast. The city guard will be here soon. Collectors aren't just bandits; they're part of the system. Hitting them means challenging the Estate."
Dur put away his knife. He looked at the fallen opponents. On Korg's shoulder, the Agrim symbol was visible, now smeared with mud. "Will they come after us?" Dur asked.
"They always come after us," Maël replied, grabbing his bag. "But today, at least we showed them that not everyone in this Ligra is a docile sheep."
They ducked into a side alley just as the first guard whistles cut through the foggy air. Dur felt his muscles trembling from overexertion, and the hum of "Heavy Tread" still echoed in his head. He had encountered the power of Spirits in battle for the first time, and it was… frightening. If simple tax collectors possessed such abilities, what must the elite of the Agrim family be capable of?
"Maël," Dur said when they had run several blocks. "Your Spirit… you felt something too, didn't you?"
Maël smiled bitterly as he ran. "I felt the world around me changing, adapting to my fear. But that's not enough, Dur. In Ligra, you either learn to wield your power, or it becomes your collar."
They returned to their refuge, knowing that the next day in the city would be even more dangerous for them. But that evening, Dur understood one important thing: Torm's steel could withstand the city's magic if behind it stood a will that knew no bounds.