"Now, we’d like to know your background." One of the prefects pulled out a wrinkled parchment, scanning its lines with deliberate slowness.

  The beggar had heard this speech a thousand times before—though each iteration was phrased slightly differently. It always began with a cold assurance that he was valued, followed by a monotone recital of how his past experiences could prove useful to them. A hollow formality. He knew it meant nothing. Yet, he sat there, enduring the tedious rambling, knowing exactly what the next question would be.

  Or so he thought.

  "You are quite an... unusual candidate. I take it you’re not from here?"

  The overseer chose his words carefully. Asking someone’s birthplace was a legal gray area in Ljóseoree. As the city’s bureaucracy bloated at an exponential rate, new administrative rules were proposed daily——not for civilians, but for those within the governmental affair itself . More rules meant more reviews, more debates, and more factional in-fighting. Many proposals remained in limbo—suggested, but not ratified.

  But within the system, no one dared risk misinterpretation. It was always safer to assume a rule had passed and follow it blindly, rather than exercise personal judgment and risk disciplinary backlash. It was not uncommon for someone to be reprimanded for “violating” a regulation passed only minutes prior—whether they were at lunch, in a meeting, or simply not looking at the right bulletin board.

  “Halgricstead,” the beggar said slowly.

  The prefects exchanged glances—disbelief, then scorn.

  “You’re delusional,” one snapped. “You think we’re all fools? If you were truly from that backwater, you wouldn’t look like this.”

  “What do you know about Halgricstead?” the beggar shot back, unable to contain his rising emotion. “Other than what happened thirty years ago. Before the city ever prospered under the hero –”

  “A coward,” sneered the prefect seated at the periphery, “You must have made a pact with that devil. You, sir, are the only person I’ve met from that pit who looks as fresh as the morning dew—if a bit rough around the edges.”

  “What did you say?” the beggar’s voice quivered. Anger rippled through his body, just barely contained.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “The devil,” the prefect repeated, with measured contempt. “What hero? Are you blind to what happened to the people there?”

  “Prefect Grisomond,” the Civic Overseer cut in sharply. “That’s enough. You’re crossing a line.”

  Grisomond turned to him, silent. Then cast a last glance at the beggar and leaned back, quiet once more.

  “Shall we move on to the next round—”

  But the sentence was never finished.

  The beggar stood up. His chair gave a painful screech against the floor. His blue eyes filled with disdain.

  “I came here to show you I can light some lamps,” he said coldly. “Not to listen to your opinion about my background.”

  “Indeed,” replied the Overseer in an unshaken voice. “Then show us.”

  Without hesitation, the beggar flicked his fingers.

  A thin spark ignited from his palm. The rune stone before him burst into flame—burning bright, burning fast. The red blaze devoured it in an instant, and with a dry snap, the stone shattered, falling in a pile of smoldering charcoal.

  Gasps filled the chamber—not at the spell, but at the ruined artifact.

  “Insolence! Disgrace!” one of the prefects cried out. The Civic Overseer fell into stunned silence. “The sacred gift from the goddess…” he murmured. “Oh, great Athena, what shall I do…”

  Grismond and another prefect rushed forward, scrambling to recover what little remained—hands trembling as they sifted through the debris beneath the beggar’s seat, brushing every corner in a desperate attempt to recover whatever was left.

  The beggar watched them with cold detachment. Bureaucrats kneeling where he had just sat. Had he stayed a moment longer, they might have wiped his shoes.

  He was already at the door.

  One last glance—at their panic-stricken faces, at their reverent handling of the charred fragments.

  He smiled.

  And then the great doors slammed shut.

  Outside, a young man was already pacing in tight, nervous circles. His fine robes brushing the dusty floor.

  “You’ll be waiting a while, friend,” the beggar said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s a madhouse in there.”

  He turned to leave—then staggered.

  A sudden force twisted through him, jerking his insides with a sickening pull. His stomach, already clenched, flipped with nausea. This was a teleportation spell—but an unrefined one.

  A proper spell leaves no trace, no sensation. This one felt like being yanked through a keyhole.

  “Thank you for your time,” a disembodied voice said, just as he vanished.

  He reappeared a hundred yards away—outside the building, now sealed and locked. The archway he stood in was narrow, tucked behind crates and stone ramps—an exit used for cargo, not people.

  He looked back.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  He already knew the result.