He didn’t head straight for the inn. Instead, he let his steps take him further, through streets where the stone grew older and the lights fewer. The noise of the perforrs faded behind him, replaced by the murmur of smaller trades.
Here, lanterns swung on chains, their glass cracked and smoky. The shops were little more than open doorways, cluttered with tools, trinkets, and scraps. Most players passed them by—too little profit, too much dust. Rhys slowed.
At one doorway, he found a basket of rusted blades. In the bottom lay a shard of iron with faint etchings, worn almost smooth. He turned it in his hand, the lines catching only in the right light. It was nothing to most eyes. To him, it spoke of an origin older than the weapon it once belonged to. He bought it.
Another stall held shelves of glass jars, each filled with yellowed teeth and claws. The rchant waved a hand lazily, not bothering to haggle. Rhys sifted through, his fingers pausing on a tooth blackened not by age but by fire. He paid and tucked it away.
The deeper he walked, the more the city seed to lean in on itself. Narrower streets, closer walls, darker corners. The crowds thinned, leaving only the occasional hooded figure moving with the sa purpose as him. Rhys kept to his path, quiet, steady, unshaken.
By the ti he turned back toward the main roads, the bells were ringing again—this ti to mark the changing of the night watch.
Rhys made his way through the glowing streets, the weight of his finds resting heavy in his bag. Small pieces, quiet things, fragnts that others ignored. But with every one he gathered, the picture in his mind sharpened.
When he reached the inn, he didn’t stop in the common room. He went straight upstairs, lit the lamp, and laid the day’s finds on the table.
The shard of iron, the blackened tooth, the etched fragnt. Each different. Each incomplete. But together—they humd faintly.
Rhys sat back in the chair, eyes steady, and listened to the silence.
Piece by piece, the city was giving up its forgotten bones.
Rhys sat there for a while, looking at the fragnts on the table. They didn’t look like much—just scraps of tal, old bone, and worn markings—but to him, they were progress. Each piece ant he was getting closer to what he wanted.
After checking them again, he carefully put everything back into his storage. Then he washed his face with the water jug in the room, blew out the lamp, and lay down on the bed.
The streets outside were still noisy, but the sound no longer mattered. Rhys closed his eyes and let himself rest.
Morning ca early. Rhys woke, packed his things, and left the inn. The streets outside were already busy. rchants were setting up their stalls, calling out prices, and players moved in groups, so heading for dungeons, others to trade.
Rhys didn’t rush. He walked the sa way as before, starting with the smaller markets near the edge of the city. A blacksmith had a box of broken armor. Most of it was useless, but Rhys picked out a dented plate that still had a small claw mark pressed into the tal. He bought it cheap.
Further on, he found a cobbler’s stall with scraps of leather. At the bottom of a pile, there was a strip that wasn’t normal hide—it was scaled, tough, and almost stone-like to the touch. He paid for it without saying much.
The hours passed slowly. He moved from one street to the next, checking stalls that other players ignored. Sotis he found nothing. Other tis, there was sothing worth taking—a cracked horn, a chipped shell, an old carving that looked like it had been made from bone.
By midday, his bag was heavier again. He stopped at a food stall, bought bread and soup, and ate while leaning against a wall. Around him, the city was loud with trade, but he stayed focused on his finds.
It wasn’t about luck. It was about patience. Piece by piece, he was building a collection that no one else cared to see.
When he finished eating, he wiped his hands, stood, and kept moving. There was still more of the city left to search.
The next street was narrower, older. The stones were cracked, and moss had grown between them. Fewer stalls stood here, but they were stranger. One old woman sold jars filled with cloudy water, each holding sothing floating inside—a scale, a claw, a tiny fang. Rhys bought two and slipped them carefully into his bag.
Further down, a cloth rchant had spread out faded banners and temple robes. Most were rotten, but one corner showed symbols that pulsed faintly when Rhys touched it. He paid the asking price without argunt.
As the afternoon went on, the noise of the main market faded behind him. He was now in streets where few players bothered to walk. Locals traded with one another—trinkets, small tools, charms carved from stone. Rhys searched through each one slowly, always checking the forgotten piles. He found a cracked mask that had once been painted gold, a shard of pottery with runes burned into its edge, and a coin that didn’t match the kingdom’s minting.
The bag pulled heavy at his side now, but he didn’t stop. The deeper he went into Golden Fortune, the more it felt like the city itself wanted to hide these fragnts.
By the ti the sun began lowering, Rhys reached a small square where dancers moved to the sound of drums. Their steps were sharp and quick, patterned like rituals. Around the edges, vendors sold charms and half-broken relics. Rhys stood still for a while, watching, then moved closer to the stalls.
It was here, among the scattered goods and echoing music, that he felt it—one of the fragnts calling.
Rhys followed the feeling, moving past the dancers and into the shade of a narrow stall. The rchant there had laid out masks, trinkets, and painted stones. Most were cheap decorations, brightly colored but worthless.
At the far end of the table, half hidden under a piece of cloth, was a small fragnt of carved stone. It was no bigger than his palm, chipped at the edges, but the carvings were sharp—lines that twisted like rivers, crossing into a spiral at the center.
When Rhys touched it, the faint hum in his bag grew stronger. The other fragnts inside answered.
The rchant looked up lazily. "That piece? Broken, no use. Take it if you want, cheap."
Rhys paid without a word and wrapped it carefully before placing it with the rest.
The pull faded once it was safe in his bag, leaving only the steady weight of his collection. But Rhys knew now: these weren’t just scraps. Each one was part of sothing larger.
The music of the drums carried on behind him as he left the square, but he didn’t linger. His eyes stayed on the roads ahead, scanning each corner for more forgotten pieces.
The city was big. Golden Fortune had many faces—bright towers of trade, quiet alleys of dust, and now hidden squares with echoes of old rituals.
And Rhys intended to walk all of them.
Rhys kept walking through the city. The day stretched on, and he slipped in and out of markets the way others slipped in and out of taverns.
At one stall, a woman sold bundles of herbs. Most were common, but tucked at the bottom of her basket was a dried root that glowed faintly in the dark. He bought it, the rchant barely even noticing.
In another alley, he found a jeweler who dealt in scraps. Broken rings, cracked beads, dull stones. Rhys picked out a shard of crystal with a faint mark inside it—like an eye, half-closed.
Each new find made the weight in his bag press harder, as if the pieces wanted to be closer. When he shifted the bag on his shoulder, he thought he could feel them warming against one another.
By late afternoon, his legs ached from walking. He sat on the steps of an old stone building, unwrapping a bit of dried at to eat. Around him, the city moved fast—traders, adventurers, beggars, guards. No one noticed him.
He preferred it that way.
Rhys left the steps and moved deeper into the older quarter of the city. The streets here were narrow, uneven, and lined with stalls that looked like they hadn’t changed in years.
A potter had a tray of cracked bowls and shards. Among them, Rhys noticed one piece with a faint spiral carved along the inside. He bought it without hesitation.
Not far away, a man sold rope, nails, and scrap wood. Hidden under a pile of broken handles was a small bone rod, smooth and polished, with faint burn marks along one end. Rhys picked it up, tested its weight, and paid.
The afternoon light slanted between the roofs, throwing long shadows. The city noise was still constant, but quieter here—less shouting, more muttering trades. Rhys moved from one corner to the next, careful and patient.
At one doorway, he found a box of stones. Most were ordinary, but one had lines that curved like veins of silver. He slipped it into his pouch.
Piece by piece, the collection grew. Nothing complete, nothing whole, but every fragnt held a trace of sothing old.
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