What the City Never Saw
Silvermoon shimmered beneath him.
Not the polished promenade most visitors admired, but the city as it revealed itself to those who climbed above it. Arcane lights caught in crystal spires, banners shifting in heated drafts, magic humming beneath stone like a restrained pulse; Silvermoon displayed a special type of beauty.
Allidash preferred the city from this vantage point. The floating terraces drifted in slow, deliberate arcs along the upper skyline; fragments of architecture suspended by arcane will. Most citizens trusted the enchantments implicitly.
He trusted his footing.
His boots were silent against polished stone, he crossed one suspended platform and gauged the distance to the next. The drop beneath these terraces was not fatal, merely inconvenient.
And then he moved…
A running step.
A precise leap.
Fingers catching the lip of carved marble.
He swung, boots finding purchase along the vertical surface before he pushed upward, hauling himself onto the next terrace in one fluid motion.
The city never looked up. That was its first mistake.
The second was assuming that what glowed brightest demanded attention.
Fel fire cracked below, disturbing his thoughts.
His gaze shifted.
In the outer training courtyard, half-shadowed by silver trees and arching crystal, a female elf stood alone.
She wore training leathers and had her dark hair bound high. Her eyes were focused and her shoulders set as though the training dummy had personally insulted her lineage.
He did not know her name. Not yet. But he would.
He stilled atop the terrace and watched her captivating movements.
The spell sequence formed cleanly at first: sigil, breath, ignition. But then it collapsed in the final beat.
She had forced it too soon. Her jaw tightened. She reset her stance.
The fire flared hotter this time, but impatience fractured the rhythm. The second sigil destabilized and dissolved into embers that drifted harmlessly across the stone.
She did not curse. Nor did she look around to see if anyone had witnessed the failure.
She simply tried again. And that, more than anything, interested him.
Allidash lowered himself to a crouch at the terrace’s edge, forearms resting loosely on his knees. From here, he could see the exact tension in her shoulders. The subtle flex of her fingers before ignition. The way her weight shifted when the spell collapsed was frustration mastered, not indulged.
She was not performing. She was refining.
He adjusted his position and leapt again — not downward this time, but laterally, crossing the narrow gap between floating structures until he reached a columned platform closer to the courtyard. From there, he descended the outer wall, boots braced against stone, hands guiding his drop in controlled intervals. Halfway down, he released entirely. He caught the lower balcony rail without a sound. The courtyard lights flickered briefly, but she did not glance in his direction.
He did not announce himself. Rogues who rush are not rogues for long. A faint smirk crossed his lips as she failed again.
This time she stepped back, inhaled slowly, and began the sequence once more. Her movements seemed more deliberate now, measured. The ignition anchored deeper. The second sigil held.
The dummy split cleanly down its centre. Embers scattered like dying stars.
Silence returned, and she exhaled in satisfaction, not pride.
He watched the way her shoulders lowered — not in relief, but in evaluation.
There are few things capable of holding his focus. But she held it.
Allidash leaned back into the shadows, unseen. There would be time. He had never rushed or competed for anything worth keeping; He waited, and he took what he desired when the time was right.
