THE ILLUSIONIST OF ELDRALITH

THE SPARKS THAT BURNS

The sun broke pale and cold over Caldre, but the city did not wake with its usual rhythm. The marketplace still bustled, the river still carried barges of timber and grain, but beneath it all was tautness, like a bowstring drawn too tight.

The Veyran envoy had passed through, yet their shadow lingered. Soldiers in crimson cloaks still patrolled the streets. Merchants still spoke in hushed tones. The name Veyrik was on every tongue, though no one dared say it too loud.

Kaelen rose from the hard ground with sleep crusted in his eyes and the weight of fire still in his chest. He rubbed his hands together; as though he could scrub away the memory of what he’d conjured yesterday, the blazing hawk, the gasps of the crowd, and the cold, unreadable stare of the Iron Hawk himself.

Orin crouched near the ashes of their campfire, his gnarled hands steady as he ground herbs into a pouch. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“You’ve been noticed.”

Kaelen froze, and then forced a grin. “Everyone notices me, old man. That’s the point.”

Orin’s hand stilled. His eyes lifted, sharp despite his age. “Not like this.”

Dalia muttered from where she sat oiling her blades, “He’s right. You should’ve left it at coins and smoke. You showed too much. They’ll remember.”

“They’ll forget,” Kaelen said, though his voice lacked conviction. “Caldre is a city of a thousand distractions. By noon today, they’ll be gossiping about which nobleman drank himself blind or which merchant’s wife ran off with a peddler.”

But even as he spoke, he knew the words rang hollow.

Soen plucked a lazy chord on his lute, breaking the silence. “Well, if we’re doomed, let’s at least make coin before they hang us. Nothing draws a crowd like danger, eh, Kael?”

Dalia shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, but Kaelen laughed, relieved for the excuse. “Exactly. The city loves a good story, and we’ll give them one.

The troupe moved back into the market by midmorning, carrying their crates and banners. The air was heavy with a nervous kind of excitement. Perhaps it was only Kaelen’s imagination, but the people seemed more eager than usual, more desperate for distraction.

He climbed the makeshift stage, swept his arms wide, and called out, “Come one, come all! For copper, for silver, for a breath of wonder before the weight of the world drags you back to earth!”

The crowd gathered. Children pressed close, eyes shining. Farmers lingered with baskets of onions and wheat, merchants with purses heavy from morning sales. Kaelen felt their hunger for joy, their need for something brighter than crimson cloaks and iron boots.

He gave them what they craved. Coins multiplied in midair. A scarf turned into a dove, which took flight to gasps of delight. Smoke coiled into the shape of a stag, Eldralith’s crest, which leapt once before dissolving into nothing.

The crowd roared. For a little while, Caldre forgot its fear.

But the world is cruel to joy.

It began with a shout. A boy; no more than ten darted too close to the stage, chasing a rolling coin. His foot slipped. He toppled into the path of a merchant’s wagon.

The oxen bellowed, the cart lurched.

The boy’s mother screamed.

And Kaelen moved.

Without thinking, without weighing the cost, he spoke the words. The old words.

Light flared around his hands. The wagon wheels froze as if mired in stone. The oxen reared but could not move forward. For one impossible heartbeat, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

Kaelen darted forward, hauling the boy upright, pushing him back into his mother’s arms. The crowd erupted — not in fear, but in thunderous cheers.

“A blessing!” someone cried.

“Magic!” another shouted.

“The gods sent him!”

Hands reached for Kaelen, not with weapons, but with gratitude. The boy’s mother clutched him, sobbing thanks. Children stared at him with wide, adoring eyes.

And Kaelen felt it like a rush unlike anything he had ever known. To be more than a trickster. To be something real.

But then he saw them.

Crimson cloaks, pushing through the crowd. Veyran soldiers, their eyes sharp and searching. One pointed directly at him.

“There! The magician!”

The cheers faltered. Fear swept through the crowd as quickly as joy had bloomed. People stepped back, unwilling to stand between Kaelen and the soldiers. The mother pulled her son away, vanishing into the press of bodies.

Kaelen’s heart pounded. His troupe was already moving. Orin gathered their props with shaking hands. Dalia slid a knife into her sleeve. Soen slung his lute over his back, muttering a curse.

Kaelen forced a grin, bowing low as though it were still part of the act. “You honor me with such… swift interest.”

“By order of Commander Veyrik,” the soldier barked, “you will come with us.”

The crowd held its breath.

Kaelen’s mind raced. He could obey. He could walk into their hands; hope to bluff his way free. But the cold memory of Veyrik’s eyes told him what waited: not coin, not stage, but chains.

His grin sharpened. “I prefer my own company.”

And with a snap of his fingers, he vanished in a burst of smoke.

The crowd screamed, scattering as soldiers cursed and shoved through the haze.

Kaelen landed hard in a side alley, the smoke still curling around him. He staggered, breath ragged, heart hammering.

“Kael!” Dalia hissed, grabbing his arm as the others tumbled after him. “What in all hells are you doing?”

“Living,” he gasped, pulling her forward. “Run!”

They bolted through the maze of Caldre’s alleys, boots striking stone, shouts echoing behind them. Crimson cloaks gave chase, steel flashing in the sun.

For the first time, Kaelen’s illusions were not a show but a shield. Smoke to blind pursuers, sparks to startle horses, false walls to buy seconds of escape. Each trick cost him sweat poured down his back, his voice hoarse from whispered words.

Yet even through the fear, a part of him exulted. This was what his craft had always been meant for. Not sleight-of-hand, not tavern tricks. Power. Freedom.

But freedom had a price.

As they ducked into a hidden passage beneath the tannery, Orin seized him by the shoulders. The old man’s face was pale, furious.

“You’ve doomed us,” Orin spat. “Do you understand? The Iron Hawk will not let this go. You are marked, Kaelen. Hunted. No stage will ever be safe again.”

Kaelen tried to speak, but his chest was heaving too hard. He saw it in their faces , Dalia’s fear, Soen’s shock, Orin’s fury. He had not just endangered himself. He had endangered them all.

Above, the tramp of boots drew nearer. Soldiers calling, torches flaring.

Kaelen closed his eyes, pressing his hands to the cold stone. The echoes of the old words still burned in his throat.

Illusion can bind you, or set you free.

But this was no longer illusion. This was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

When he opened his eyes, his grin was gone. His voice was steady.

“Then we run,” he said. “And we don’t stop.”