A Banner Torn (Book 1 Complete)

Rannek:

The roar hit him first, a wave of sound crashing against the city walls and echoing down the wide avenue leading to the arena. He grinned, the noise a physical thing, vibrating in his chest, a stark contrast to the relative quiet of Aldermere or even the bustling market streets they'd navigated earlier. This was different. This was raw energy, the collective voice of thousands focused on one thing: spectacle. Kaelid could have his dusty library; give him the clash of steel and the roar of a crowd any day.

He quickened his pace, easily weaving through the slower-moving throng of people heading in the same direction. The air thickened with smells – roasted meats dripping fat onto coals, sugary pastries, cheap ale, and the underlying tang of sweat and anticipation. Merchants hawked cheap wooden swords, brightly colored ribbons favoring one fighter or another, and dubious-looking amulets promising luck. He ignored them, his focus entirely on the massive stone structure looming ahead, its arched entrances swallowing streams of people. Highpass Arena. Even the name sounded solid, promising excitement.

Finding a spot on the tiered stone benches wasn't hard; the preliminary bouts were still underway, designed to warm up the crowd and perhaps discover raw talent among unknowns. The main events, featuring seasoned gladiators or perhaps even exotic beasts, wouldn't start until later. He settled onto the cool stone, halfway up, giving him a good view of the sandy pit below without being too close to the inevitable spray of… well, whatever might get sprayed.

Below, two fighters circled each other. One was burly, bare-chested save for a leather harness, wielding a heavy, double-bitted axe that looked like it could cleave a log in one swing. The other was leaner, clad in studded leather, quicker on his feet, armed with a standard short sword and a small, round buckler strapped to his forearm. The crowd cheered for the axeman, roared insults at the swordsman. Rannek found himself automatically dissecting the wall of noise, his enhanced hearing picking out individual threads – a woman two rows down frantically urging the swordsman to "stick him!", a man behind him placing a hefty bet on the axeman lasting less than five minutes, the rhythmic stamping of feet from a section across the arena.

He tried to focus purely on the fight, to feel the thrill he'd expected. The axe wielder charged, a predictable, bellowing rush, the heavy blade whistling through the air in a downward arc. Too slow. The swordsman easily sidestepped, the axe biting harmlessly into the sand. Darting in, the swordsman landed a quick, shallow slash across the axeman's thick arm. A trickle of blood appeared, drawing a roar from the crowd – some in approval, some in anger. He felt a flicker, a faint premonition, a sense of *knowing* the next exchange before it happened – the axe man would feint low, a clumsy attempt to draw the sword down, then bring the heavy haft around in a wide, horizontal arc aimed at the head. He watched it unfold, a slow-motion replay of what had just flashed through his mind. The swordsman, perhaps overconfident after the first hit, fell for the feint, moving to parry low. The haft swung around. The swordsman reacted late, barely managing to get his buckler up in time. The impact echoed through the arena, a solid *thwack*, and the swordsman stumbled back, shaking his head, his shield arm momentarily numb.

It was impressive, undeniably. The raw strength, the speed of the swordsman, the roar of the crowd – it was everything he'd imagined. But the flicker of knowing, that unwelcome guest in his senses, stole the surprise. He saw the next feint before it fully formed, anticipated the desperate parry, felt the inevitable conclusion of the bout settling in like dust long before the final blow landed. The swordsman, faster, smarter, and now wary, danced around the tiring axeman, landing quick cuts, until a final, decisive thrust slipped past the axe and ended the fight. The axeman went down, clutching his side, and the crowd exploded.

Rannek remained seated, the noise washing over him. He watched another bout – two women with spears, quick and deadly – and then another, a chaotic melee involving four fighters with mismatched weapons. Some were skilled, displaying techniques that reminded him faintly of Brannic's precise instructions. Others were just brutal, relying on strength and aggression. But the edge was gone. The precognitive flashes, sometimes just feelings, sometimes clear images of the next few seconds, made it less a spectacle and more an exercise in waiting for the inevitable. It wasn't like sparring with Brannic, where every move was a lesson, a complex puzzle of strategy and instinct unfolding in real-time. This felt… hollow. Predictable.

He shifted on the hard stone bench, the initial excitement completely evaporated, replaced by a growing restlessness. The sounds of the crowd grated now, the individual threads lost in a meaningless roar. The smells of sweat, spilled ale, and roasting meat turned cloying. Kaelid was probably deep in the library by now, surrounded by silence and the scent of old paper. Maybe Kaelid had the right idea after all. At least his discoveries felt earned, not just… foreseen.

He stood up, stretching legs gone stiff from sitting. The arena, which had seemed so full of promise minutes ago, now felt loud and pointless. He slipped out of the stands, unnoticed in the general commotion, leaving the roar behind, and headed back towards the heart of the city. He wasn't sure where he was going, just away. Away from the noise, away from the predictable violence.

He found himself wandering through a district alive with the sounds of creation. The rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer shaping hot metal, the whir of a spinning wheel transforming fleece into thread, the scrape of a woodworker's plane, the low murmur of negotiation between merchants and suppliers. It was a different kind of energy than the arena's frenzy or the market's chaos. This felt purposeful.

He paused outside a shop filled with strange glass vials, retorts, and bubbling contraptions, the air thick with a curious blend of scents – sharp minerals, sweet herbs, something vaguely metallic. An alchemist, a woman with ink-stained fingers and intense eyes, meticulously measured powders onto a scale, her movements precise and economical. It reminded him vaguely of Elder Myra's hut, the way she handled her herbs and poultices with such focused intent. But Myra's work felt tied to the earth, to growing things; this felt different, more about transformation, breaking things down and rebuilding them in new ways. He watched for a few minutes, intrigued by the quiet intensity, before moving on.

Further down the street, a cartographer's shop drew his eye. Maps spilled from shelves and tables, tacked onto the walls, showcasing coastlines, mountain ranges, and sprawling cities rendered in meticulous detail. He peered through the window, fascinated by the intricate lines, the careful lettering naming rivers and forests he'd never heard of. That was a skill – capturing the vastness of the world on a piece of paper. He imagined journeys to the places shown on those maps, adventures far beyond Aldermere's familiar valley. For a moment, he considered going in, just to look more closely. But the shop looked quiet, expensive, the kind of place where they expected customers with specific needs and heavy purses, not a dusty village boy with idle curiosity. He sighed and walked on.

He let his feet carry him, turning down narrower side streets, away from the main thoroughfares. The sounds became more muted, the crowds thinner. He passed workshops specializing in fine leatherwork, the scent rich and earthy; a fletcher carefully aligning feathers on arrow shafts; a baker pulling fragrant loaves from a stone oven. As he turned a corner onto a particularly quiet lane, paved with uneven cobblestones, a sudden jolt went through him – a sharp, prickling sensation at the back of his neck, a split-second certainty that something was about to happen *right there*. He stopped abruptly, instinctively flattening himself against the cold stone wall beside him.

A heartbeat later, a heavy wooden crate, carelessly carried by two sweating, arguing laborers, swung wildly around the corner, scraping against the very spot where he would have been. Splinters flew. The laborers cursed, stabilized their load, and moved on, their argument resuming, completely oblivious. Rannek stood frozen for a moment, his own heart pounding. That flicker again. Faster this time, more urgent, a definite warning. Useful, undeniably. But the feeling of being pulled by strings he couldn't see, reacting to things before they happened, left a strange, unsettling residue.

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Shaking his head, trying to dismiss the feeling, he kept walking, his senses perhaps a little too sharp now, noticing the faint cracks in the cobblestones, the way moss grew in the shaded crevices, the distant sound of a crying child from an upper window. The street opened into a small, sun-dappled square lined with more specialized artisans. Gem cutters squinted through loupes, carefully faceting tiny stones that flashed in the light. Weavers displayed textiles in vibrant hues he couldn't name. And one shop, tucked between a potter displaying sturdy earthenware and a woodcarver whose sign showed intricate animal figures, worked with stone and metal in a different way.

Intricate carvings adorned this shop's sign, depicting complex knots and stylized animals worked into pendants, rings, and brooches. Inside, visible through the clean window, polished stones gleamed under glass – river agates smooth as water, mountain quartz shot through with glittering veins, dark obsidian catching the light like frozen smoke. Seeing them, smooth and shaped, Rannek's hand instinctively went to the rough, heavy fragment of Petrakharn stone tucked securely in the pouch at his belt. Kaelid had the other one.

They were just rocks, really. Heavy, dense, strangely resonant rocks they'd been gifted by the pulse-keeper after their mine hunting trip. They didn't *do* anything, not like the shards that had melted into their chests, the source of the unsettling flickers and sharpened senses. But they felt… important. Connected. A tangible link to that pulse thrumming through the earth beneath them unfelt. Carrying them loose, bumping against coins and other odds and ends, felt clumsy, almost disrespectful.

An idea sparked, solidifying quickly. Maybe… maybe he could get them set? Made into something they could wear, keep close without worrying about losing them. Nothing fancy, just protected. A reminder.

He hesitated outside the shop, suddenly self-conscious again. The polished work inside looked expensive. He didn't have much coin, just the small amount Marta had given them for errands and perhaps a treat. Would it be enough? Would the artisan even work with strange, unidentified rocks? He took a breath, pushing down the uncertainty. It felt like the right thing to do.

He pushed the door open. A small, clear bell chimed softly overhead. The interior was quiet, cool, smelling faintly of metal dust, polishing compound, and something sharp like acid. Tools lay neatly arranged on several workbenches – tiny hammers, files of every shape, pliers with delicate jaws, small crucibles. Display cases lined one wall, showing finished pieces: silver wire wrapped elegantly around smooth, sea-green stones; bronze settings holding pieces of carved bone; simple leather cords threaded through perfectly drilled river pebbles.

Behind a sturdy wooden counter at the back, an old man looked up from his work. He had a fringe of wispy white hair around a liver-spotted scalp, spectacles perched low on his nose, and incredibly gnarled, stained fingers that looked surprisingly nimble as they manipulated a small, intricate piece of silver wire. His eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, were sharp and assessing, taking in Rannek's dusty clothes and village origins in a single glance.

"Help you, lad?" His voice was quiet, raspy, like stones rubbing together.

He approached the counter, the polished wood cool beneath his fingertips. "I… I was wondering about getting some stones set. Into pendants, maybe?"

The old man put down his wire and pliers with deliberate slowness. "Depends on the stones. And the setting. Got something specific in mind? Or just browsing?"

"Something simple," He said quickly, feeling the need to manage expectations. "Just… protected. Maybe on a leather cord?"

"Aye, can do that. Simple is usually best for good stones. Lets them speak for themselves." The artisan gestured towards the counter. "Let's see the stones, then."

Carefully, heart thumping a little faster now, He reached into his pouch and pulled out his Petrakharn fragment. He laid it on the smooth, worn wood of the counter. It looked even duller here, unassuming compared to the polished gems in the cases, just a chunk of dark, heavy rock with faint, almost invisible crystalline veins running through its depths.

The artisan picked it up, his eyebrows rising slightly, clearly surprised by the unexpected weight. He turned it over and over in his calloused fingers, rubbing a thumb across the strangely smooth-yet-rough surface. He brought it closer to his spectacles, peering intently, tilting it to catch the light filtering in from the window.

"Hmm. Unusual. Very dense. Not like any mountain stone I know from around here." He tapped it lightly with a metal scribe. The sound was a dull thud, flat and unresonant, yet He felt a faint, sympathetic vibration deep in his chest, a quiet hum from the shard hidden there. Did the artisan feel that? Sense anything?

The old man just grunted, still examining the stone. "Feels old. Ancient. Got a strange… resonance to it, though. Quiet-like. Where'd you come by this, lad? Not something you just pick up by the roadside."

Rannek's mind raced. He couldn't exactly say 'a gift from a living rock creature after absorbing a slime crystal and fighting in a mine'. "Found it," he mumbled, trying to sound casual. "Exploring near home. Up in the mountains, near the old mine workings. There were two of them, looked almost the same."

The artisan nodded slowly, accepting the vague explanation without pressing. City folk probably heard all sorts of stories from travelers. "Alright. Simple setting, you say? Leather cord." He considered the stone again. "Could cap the top with a bit of bronze, drill a hole through that for the cord. Or wrap it in sturdy wire. Wire's probably better for an irregular shape like this. Less chance of cracking it, and keeps the stone itself whole. More secure too."

"Wire sounds good," He agreed quickly. Keeping the stone whole felt important.

"And you said there were two?" the artisan asked, placing the stone carefully back on the counter.

"Yes. The other one's about the same size. It's for my friend." Kaelid would like this. It felt right, keeping these reminders of their shared secret safe, turning them into something intentional.

"Alright. Two wire-wrapped pendants, sturdy leather cords." The artisan picked up a piece of chalk and scribbled something on a slate tablet behind the counter. "Gotta source the right gauge wire, something strong but pliable enough. Take a couple of days, maybe three if the supplier is slow." The Jewler looked back at him. "Cost you…" He named a price. It was more than Rannek had hoped, stretching his small fund thin, but less than he'd feared given the custom work.

He carefully counted out the coins Marta had given them. He had almost enough for one, certainly enough for a solid deposit. "I can give you this much now," he said, pushing a stack of copper and a few small silver pieces forward. "And pay the rest when they're done?"

The artisan eyed the coins, then his earnest face. He scooped up the money with surprising speed. "Aye, that'll do for a deposit. Keeps you honest." He gave a slight, dry chuckle. "Need to leave the stones, though. Both of 'em, if you want 'em matched."

He hesitated again. Leaving the fragment felt strange, like leaving a part of himself behind. But he needed Kaelid's stone too. "My friend has the other one. I can bring it later today? Or tomorrow morning?"

"Tomorrow morning's fine. Bring it by before midday." The artisan carefully wrapped his Petrakharn fragment in a soft, dark cloth and placed it in a small wooden box beneath the counter. "Name?"

"Rannek."

"Right then, Rannek. Bring the other stone tomorrow. Pendants ready in three days." The artisan turned back to his workbench, picking up his wire and pliers, already dismissing him.

He felt a pang of separation from the stone, but also a surge of satisfaction. He'd done something useful, something concrete. He thanked the artisan, though the old man barely seemed to hear him, and stepped back out into the bustling square, the bell chiming softly behind him.

The sun was noticeably lower now, casting long, sharp shadows across the cobblestones. He'd been gone longer than he thought. Kaelid was probably still in that library, lost in his books, maybe finding something useful, maybe just getting frustrated like he usually did with books. And Marta… she'd told them to meet back at the caravan staging area near the West Gate before dusk.

He should probably head that way. He wondered what Kaelid had found. Anything about slimes? Anything useful? Or just more dusty old stories that got everything wrong? He smiled faintly. It would be good to surprise Kaelid with the pendants. Another secret, just between them. For now. It felt good, having a plan, taking care of something important.

He turned his steps towards the merchants' district, towards the agreed meeting point, the sounds and smells of the city seeming less overwhelming now, filtered through his sense of accomplishment. The strange energy of Highpass still hummed around him, a low thrum beneath the noise, but for the first time since arriving, he felt like he had a small anchor in the chaos, a task completed, a promise made.