The scent of wilting krysanthemum and damp earth clung to Jaskier Drozd like a shroud. He stood beneath the iron-wrought arch of the Wężowa Necropolis, a forced smile pinned to his lips, watching the last mourners disperse. The wind, sharp and cold, whipped at the black silk of his mourning coat. It was a fine coat, tailored by the city's best, but its elegance felt like a cruel joke, a thin veneer over the crumbling edifice of House Drozd. “My deepest condolences, Jaskier,” Lord Bogdan Sokolov’s voice, a gravelly purr, slithered from behind him. Jaskier turned, the smile tightening. Sokolov, a man whose corpulence was matched only by his ambition, loomed over him, his gaze like a predator’s assessing a wounded fawn. His dark, embroidered tunic seemed to absorb the weak afternoon light. “Lord Sokolov. Thank you for attending.” Jaskier’s voice was light, almost cheerful, a stark contrast to the grim faces of the few remaining relatives. His mother stood a distance away, her frame rigid, her face carved with grief and something else—fear. Sokolov’s lips peeled back in a mockery of a smile. “Such a tragedy, young Drozd. The late count was a man of grand ambition. To think his final venture would be the ruin of his house. The volatile fuel markets are a fickle mistress, aren’t they?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Rumor has it, the Drozd coffers are as barren as the family crypt. A pity. Such a grand estate, so much potential, now naught but a hollow shell.” Jaskier’s cheerful ignorance, a carefully cultivated shield, wavered. A hot pulse of anger throbbed behind his eyes, but he kept his expression serene. “The late count was a shrewd man, Lord Sokolov. House Drozd will endure. It always has.” Sokolov chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Optimism, how quaint. I remember a time when the old count would have silenced such impertinence with a single glance. Now… well, now there’s only you.” He surveyed Jaskier from head to toe, a sneer twisting his features. “And you, my dear boy, seem more suited for a parlor game than the cutthroat world of Brzezina’s politics. A fragile thing, the Drozd legacy, now that its strongest pillar has fallen.” Jaskier’s hands, hidden in his pockets, clenched. He could feel the eyes of his few remaining kin on him, reading their pity and quiet judgment. They saw a pampered boy, a shadow of the man who built this dynasty. They didn’t see the mind that had cataloged every single one of Sokolov’s illicit dealings, every whispered rumor of his schemes. They didn’t see the fury that simmered beneath his placid surface. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Sokolov,” Jaskier said, his voice still infuriatingly calm. “I believe my mother requires my attention.” He offered a slight, dismissive bow and turned away, walking deliberately, his back straight, toward the wrought-iron gates. Each step was an effort, a physical manifestation of the insult. The cobblestones beneath his boots felt cold and unyielding. The burden of an empty title pressed down on him with every stride. Then, as his left foot met the worn stone just past the cemetery’s boundary, an internal shock struck his marrow. An ethereal counter materialized in the upper corner of his sight, translucent and still. [Echoed Steps: 1] He faltered, stumbling slightly, but caught himself. The world around him seemed to sharpen, colors more vibrant, sounds more distinct. He blinked, shaking his head. Hallucination, perhaps, a trick of grief and exhaustion. He took another step, his right foot landing firmly. [Echoed Steps: 2] The sensation was undeniable this time, a surge of latent power, a quiet hum that settled in his muscles, his nerves. It was like a dormant river suddenly finding its current, an awakening of something profound and ancient. He felt… stronger. Not just physically, but a profound sense of intrinsic capability, as if the very act of moving was unlocking a hidden wellspring. He kept walking, faster now, toward the distant gas lamps that flickered like hesitant stars along the grand boulevard. Each step, a rhythmic thud against the pavement, brought with it a renewed jolt. His stride grew lighter, more confident, his shoulders straightening without conscious effort. [Echoed Steps: 10] [Echoed Steps: 50] [Echoed Steps: 100] The numbers climbed at a dizzying rate, an invisible tally of his relentless march away from sorrow and scorn. The power accumulating in his chest was intoxicating. His teeth unclenched, replaced by a strange, almost manic lightness. The air tasted crisp, the gaslit city humming with a newfound clarity. He didn't stop until the grand, if slightly faded, manor of House Drozd loomed before him, its familiar silhouette a comfort and a burden. The heavy oak door, usually opened by a liveried servant, stood ajar. A single, flimsy piece of parchment was tacked to the lacquered wood. Jaskier pulled it free, his fingers trembling slightly. The ornate seal of the City Council. A foreclosure notice. A demand for immediate payment of an impossible debt, due in three days. The name of the creditor, printed starkly below the sum, was Bogdan. He read it again, then a third time, his cheerful mask shattering. This wasn’t just mockery; it was an execution. The magnate had orchestrated this, the funeral merely a stage for his grand announcement of House Drozd’s demise. The anger, held back for so long, burned raw and searing. That night, the old manor was quiet, save for the rhythmic creak of the floorboards in Jaskier’s study. He paced, the foreclosure notice clutched in his hand, then crumpled and discarded across the desk. Outside, the gas lamps cast long, dancing shadows through the rain-streaked windows. Inside, a different kind of shadow stirred. It was small, no larger than his fist, a coalesce of deeper darkness against the already dim room. It had slipped through a crack in the window frame, drawn by the potent resonance now bleeding from the young master of the house. It observed him with pinpricks of light that served as eyes, a tiny, formless wisp of the city’s unseen life, a Murkling. Jaskier stared at the crumpled paper, then down at his feet. The cobblestones of the Wężowa Necropolis had been cold and hard. The dark oak boards of his study were smooth, familiar. He took a step. [Echoed Steps: 1024] A sudden rush of force, stronger than anything before, flooded through him, clouding his sight. He felt a profound shift, a subtle hardening of bone, a tightening of muscle, a sharpening of his senses that went beyond the ordinary. The numbers, once a curiosity, were now a lifeline. He took another step. [Echoed Steps: 1025] The Murkling, hidden in the shadows of a towering bookshelf, pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible glow. It had never encountered such a concentrated wellspring, a beacon in the dull ambient hum of the city. It watched, fascinated, as Jaskier began to pace, back and forth across the study, his footsteps deliberate, relentless. [Echoed Steps: 1026] [Echoed Steps: 1027] The counter climbed, terrifyingly fast, each number striking like a hammer against the world that sought to break him. Each step was a defiance. Each step was a promise. [Echoed Steps: 1028] He would not fall. He would not break. He would march. [Echoed Steps: 1029] The Murkling twitched, its shadowy form growing subtly denser, its pinprick eyes gleaming with an eerie light as it siphoned the ambient wake. The young man wasn’t just walking; he was building a storm, one step at a time. Jaskier didn't notice the creature, his gaze fixed on the ever-climbing numbers, the relentless pace that now defined his existence. He strode across the rug, his breath coming in shallow bursts, the scent of old paper and dangerous ambition filling the room. Three days. Three days to save his family. Three days to become something more than a boy. He needed power. And the city, with every step he took within its sprawling, gaslit embrace, was giving it to him. [Echoed Steps: 1030]

A Thousand Steps in Mourning