Sylas

The sun dipped low over Loudwater, casting golden streaks over the rooftops of the bustling riverside town. Perched on the edge of the old stone bridge, Sylas balanced effortlessly on one foot, juggling a trio of smooth river stones. The boy—sixteen, wiry, and perpetually grinning—was well known for his acrobatics. He could scale walls like a spider, run rooftops like a cat, and slip through the crowd like mist on the water.
That particular evening, however, he was not just performing tricks. He was waiting.
Beneath him, two men stood near the dockside warehouse, speaking in hushed tones. One was Councilman Garren Thorne, a fat, beady-eyed politician whose pockets were always lined with gold, even as the poor of Loudwater starved. The other was a merchant, his face pale and uneasy.
“You promised protection,” the merchant hissed. “I paid you for safe shipments.”
Thorne smirked, rubbing his thick fingers together. “You paid for silence. If my men decide to take a little extra for themselves, well… that’s business.”
The merchant clenched his jaw. “This is extortion.”
Thorne shrugged. “Call it what you like, but unless you enjoy broken bones, you’ll keep paying. And if you breathe a word of this, my men will make sure your wares never reach the docks again—if you even wake up to see another sunrise.”
Sylas tightened his grip on the stones, his heartbeat quickening. This was the proof he needed. The people of Loudwater whispered of Thorne’s corruption, but no one had been able to expose him. No one dared.
But Sylas? He had no such fear.
The next morning, the town square was unusually crowded. A strange sight greeted the citizens: a massive cloth banner, strung between the chimneys of two buildings, fluttering in the breeze.
Scrawled across it in bold ink was a confession—word for word, the conversation from the night before.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Who wrote this?” someone muttered.
“A thief,” another voice answered, pointing. “Look!”
There, balanced effortlessly on the edge of the mayor’s statue, was Sylas. He grinned as he flipped off the statue, landing gracefully among the stunned townsfolk.
Councilman Thorne stormed forward, his face red with fury. “This is slander!” he bellowed. “Who dares spread such filth about me?”
Sylas clapped his hands together, his voice carrying over the murmurs. “Oh, I don’t know, Thorne. Maybe the truth?”
The crowd stirred. The merchant from the night before stepped forward, emboldened. “It’s true,” he said. “Everything written on that banner. Thorne’s men stole from me under his orders.”
More voices rose in agreement. Whispers turned to shouts.
Thorne, realizing the tide had turned against him, sneered. “This is an attack on the city’s leadership! Guards, seize this brat!”
That was all Sylas needed to hear.
He spun on his heel and sprinted.
The chase was on. Sylas vaulted over a cart, dodging between panicked townsfolk as armored guards thundered after him. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to—he could hear their boots pounding the cobblestones, their angry shouts rising over the clamor of the marketplace.
He launched himself up onto a wooden awning, flipping midair before grabbing a hanging sign and swinging onto a balcony.
Below, the guards crashed into a fruit stall.
Sylas grinned. Too slow.
He leapt across the rooftops, his bare feet barely making a sound against the tiles. Loudwater spread before him like a playground—gutters, ledges, banners, all tools for his escape. He swung from a tattered clothesline, vaulted over a chimney, and landed in a crouch on the roof of the old apothecary.
But the guards were persistent. More had joined the chase, climbing ladders and blocking escape routes.
Sylas darted toward the docks. If I can just make it to the water…
Then he heard it.
Thorne’s voice, distant but booming. “A hundred gold to the man who catches that wretch!”
Suddenly, the townspeople weren’t just watching. Some were moving toward him, eager for a prize.
Damn. That complicates things.
The only way out was the river. The roaring Greengrass River, fast and merciless. Sylas had swum it before, but never from this height.
A single misstep, and he’d be smashed against the rocks.
A guard lunged for him. He spun, planting a foot against the man’s chest and shoving him backward. With one final breath, Sylas ran straight for the edge of the rooftop—
And jumped.
Time slowed.
The wind howled in his ears.
Then—impact. Cold water slammed into him, dragging him under. The river currents pulled at his limbs, but he fought against them, twisting, kicking, cutting through the water like a fish.
Above him, the guards scrambled along the docks, but he was already too far downstream.
He surfaced, gasping for breath, and let the current carry him beyond Loudwater’s walls.
Hours later, Sylas crawled onto the muddy riverbank, shivering but alive. The city lay far behind him, its lights flickering in the distance.
He sat for a long while, watching the water rush past. Loudwater is no longer safe.
But he wasn’t dead. That was something.
He had no gold, no food, no home. But he had his skills, his wits. And more importantly—he had taken down a powerful man.
Somewhere out there, adventure waited.
Sylas grinned, stretching his aching limbs. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “guess it’s time to see the world.”