The city of Eryndell sprawled outward in careful layers, each district built atop the last like a living record of ambition. Kaelis walked its inner ring, where stone replaced dirt and sigils were etched into lampposts as casually as decoration.

  Power was common here.

  Understanding was not.

  He stopped at a vendor’s stall, eyes scanning the trinkets—focus stones, stability bands, cheap imitation glyphs sold to hopeful novices. Most were useless. Some were dangerous.

  “You’re not meant for those,” the vendor said casually.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Kaelis looked up. The man’s eyes were sharp in a way that had nothing to do with combat.

  “I wasn’t planning on buying,” Kaelis replied.

  The vendor smiled. “Good. That one cracks under strain.”

  Kaelis followed the man’s gaze to a thin bracelet humming faintly with unstable energy.

  “Why sell it, then?”

  “Because people want shortcuts,” the vendor said. “And shortcuts always cost more than they think.”

  Kaelis lingered a moment longer than necessary.

  “Do lines matter?” he asked suddenly.

  The vendor paused. “Lines?”

  “Limits,” Kaelis clarified. “The ones people say shouldn’t be crossed.”

  The man studied him carefully. “Most lines exist because someone once crossed them and didn’t survive the lesson.”

  Kaelis nodded, thanked him, and left.

  That night, as he lay awake, the words echoed in his mind.

  Some lines weren’t warnings.

  They were invitations.