I had the day off.

  Which, in theory, meant “rest.”

  In practice, it meant “stew in my own head until I lose my mind.”

  So I walked.

  The Lower Quarter—or non-human quarter—wasn’t exactly a destination. It was a place people ended up. Humans and elves liked their marble towers and gilded fountains. Down here? Mismatched bricks, rusted signs, and alleys that smelled like wet fur and regret.

  It had its own charm, though. The denizens had replaced many of the cobblestones with runed glass that glowed faintly—its color shifting with the time of day.

  Many of the rusted signs had been painted. Bright, happy colors.

  I don’t know.

  But today? It didn’t feel awful.

  Someone was roasting something that might have been meat. A group of kobold cubs hopped past, barking and yipping, their parents shouting after them in a language that sounded like breaking plates. I caught myself half-smiling before I stopped.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  This place wasn’t safe. This place wasn’t clean.

  But it was real.

  The kind of real that didn’t bother pretending to like you. And today, I felt more at home here than I had in weeks.

  Maybe even years.

  ?

  My stomach grumbled at me, so I stopped to get some food. A crooked stall caught my eye.

  I stood at the stall a little too long, unsure what I was looking at.

  The pies were lumpy. The crust looked like it had been kneaded by fists, not hands. But the smell—

  “Meat and root,” the goblin woman croaked. “Two coppers. Still warm.”

  The smell was…almost good?

  I hesitated. “What kind of meat?”

  She grinned up at me with teeth like broken spoons. “The edible kind.”

  I raised a brow.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. “No rats today. That was yesterday’s batch.”

  She snorted at her own joke. At least I hoped it was a joke.

  I passed over the coins and she handed me the pie, wrapped in waxy parchment. Her hands were callused and careful.

  “First time in the Lower Quarter?” she asked, looking up at me with cloudy yellow eyes.

  “No,” I said. “I just… don’t usually stop.”

  “Mmm,” she replied.

  “That’s a shame. Walking through without tasting is like reading a book and skipping the good parts.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  So I just nodded.

  As I turned to go, she added, “You’ve got the look.”

  I paused. “The look?”

  “Someone trying not to feel too much.”

  She turned away before I could reply, already serving the next customer.

  I wandered slowly before I found a cracked bench and sat down, munching on a warm pie I had bought from the oddly kind old goblin baker.

  Kindly. Goblin.

  Words I wouldn’t have put together a week ago.

  How perspective changed.

  How quickly, too.

  I sat and watched a lizardfolk sweep her porch with a broom twice her size.

  Was I really trying to avoid feeling?

  I already knew the answer, before I shoved it back down.

  I munched on the pie. At least it was warm on a cold day.

  Vaarg.

  Magic.

  The glyph.

  Fire.

  I felt my stomach turn. A bit in trepidation, a bit in excitement.

  How did Vaarg know? How much did he know?

  So many pieces floating together. Grif, the Shade…Vaarg.

  Vaarg was part of something big.

  The question was, did I want to be a part of it too?

  If it meant magic - then yes.

  But how? How did I use magic?

  Me. Of all people. A poor peasant slave.

  I knew I didn’t have mana. The slavers had tested me.

  If I’d had the ability to be a mage, they would have sold me rather than have me mine.

  Would have made them a tidy sum more.

  For a lot less effort.

  The thing is, most beings had at least some mana.

  In fact, I was the only one I’d ever heard of with absolutely no mana.

  The slavers had tested me for mana—twice.

  I had none. Not a flicker.

  Broken they had called me.

  I leaned back and stared at the sky.

  ?

  Mom used to say the sky was the gods’ ceiling.

  It didn’t look holy today.

  Just wide - and empty.

  Not empty. It had clouds.

  Which looked so free.

  I sighed.

  She would’ve hated this city.

  Dad too.

  Not quiet enough. Not enough trees.

  Not enough anything.

  Except disappointment.

  I swallowed, trying not to let the memory sink too deep.

  It was my tenth birthday when the bandits came.

  Ten when everyone I knew died in front of me.

  Ten when I became a slave-miner.

  By Twelve?

  I had given up hope of escape.

  I don’t remember how old I was when I stopped hoping for anything at all.

  ?

  And now this.

  A job I didn’t ask for.

  A goblin who knows more than he says.

  Magic.

  Magic I’m not supposed to have. And something in the air—like the world’s watching to see what I’ll do with it.

  Maybe I should be grateful.

  Maybe I’m just tired.

  Maybe I’m ready to be the one who makes a difference.

  ?

  A street performer began playing a cracked violin, each note wailing like a ghost with unfinished business.

  I stayed and listened. Just for a minute.

  Tomorrow, I’d be back in the madness.

  Tonight, I just wanted to sit and feel something.