The streets of Oryn-Vel were alive with chaos and celebration alike.
Yet here, in a forgotten alleyway, there was only silence.
Felix collapsed against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his legs aching from the sprint away from the outpost. His boots scuffed against the dirt as he slid down to the ground, his head falling into his hands.
His chest ached, but not from exertion.
It was everything else.
The weight of the past crushing him like a stone slab.
His fingers dug into his scalp, trembling.
Why is this happening?
Why did it feel like the very foundation of what he believed in was crumbling before his eyes?
Varrel had called for destruction.
Varrel had orchestrated this.
The very man Felix had trusted—had followed with loyalty and conviction—had spoken about obliterating the city as if it were nothing more than a piece in a grander game.
And Felix… had just stood there.
Watching. Listening. Doing nothing.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
It hadn't always been this way.
He had once believed in the Syndicate.
Not as some bloodthirsty cult of destruction, but as a means of survival—a way to escape the gutter they had all been abandoned in.
He had been ten years old when he lost his family.
A fire.
A mob.
Why?
He had never learned the reason.
He still remembered the screams, the heat licking at his skin as he had watched his childhood home-his fortress-go up in flames.
His mother's voice crying out.
His sister's hands pressed against the glass from the other side.
And then—
Flames.
Gone.
The streets had been unforgiving.
He had learned quickly that orphaned children did not survive long unless they made themselves useful to someone.
He had stolen to eat.
Fought to keep what little he had.
But it had been that night—
The night he had stumbled into a gang war, bloodied and starving, and killed a man with his own blade—
That was the night he had met Varrel.
"You've got instincts, kid."
Varrel had seen potential in him. Had taken him in, taught him how to sharpen his anger, how to turn pain into power.
At first, it had been about survival.
Then it had been about revenge.
And then…
It had been about loyalty.
Felix had believed in the Syndicate because, for the first time since that fire, he had belonged somewhere.
It had been their Syndicate.
Not one built on chaos and destruction.
But on survival.
The Syndicate had been a means for those forgotten by the city to rise up, to claim what was denied to them.
Smuggling. Trading. Information brokering.
They had been criminals, yes, but they had been more than just thugs.
But this?
This wasn't survival.
This was slaughter.
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.
This is wrong.
Maybe he hadn't admitted it to himself until now, but every fiber of his being told him the truth.
Varrel wasn't the same man who had taken him in.
Something had changed in him over the years—something that had only deepened ever since he had gotten his hands on that damned book.
The Book of Ashes.
Felix had seen the way he obsessed over it, the way his eyes darkened, the way his conviction became something… twisted.
At first, Felix had ignored it.
He had told himself that Varrel was just planning ahead, that he was playing a long game.
But that had been a lie.
Because if he had truly believed that—if he had truly trusted that Varrel was still the man he once followed—
Then why was he here, alone, running?
A sharp breath left his lips.
Felix raised his head.
His body still trembled, but there was something else now.
Something colder.
Something steadier.
He had been wrong to stay silent.
He had been wrong to let it come this far.
But he wasn't about to let this city burn.
Because if he did nothing now, then what was the difference between him and the people who had set fire to his home all those years ago?
Felix pushed himself up.
His legs were still shaking, but he forced them to steady.
His hands curled at his sides, fingers flexing as he inhaled sharply.
There was no more time for doubt.
The bombs were set to go off in mere hours.
The streets would run red with blood.
Unless…
Felix turned sharply, his cloak billowing behind him as he broke into a sprint.
He knew where Varrel would be.
The hidden chamber beneath Keep Valcian—the place he had been retreating to more and more often, pouring over the Book of Ashes.
That's where he'd be.
And Felix was going to confront him.
He didn't know if he could convince him to stop.
But he had to try.
And if Varrel didn't listen—
Then Felix would do whatever it took to stop this himself.
Even if it meant turning his blade against the very man he had followed for fifteen years.
Even if it meant betraying the only family he had left.
Even if it meant dying.
Because if the Syndicate he once knew was already gone—
Then he wasn't going to let it become this.
He vanished into the misty streets, running toward the fate he could no longer escape.
*
Ten years ago, the sky above Oryn-Vel stretched wide and endless, dark but speckled with stars. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and rain-soaked stone, the rooftops still damp from the afternoon drizzle.
Atop a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, two figures sat in the quiet glow of lantern light from the streets below.
One was young, his face still bearing the softness of adolescence, though it was quickly hardening into something sharper. Felix, fifteen years old, perched on the ledge with his arms draped over his knees, his sharp eyes reflecting the flickering cityscape under his glasses. His dirty blonde hair was unruly, tousled from the recent scuffle.
Beside him, Varrel sat with his usual unshakable calm, his silver hair tied loosely at the back, a cigarette balanced between two fingers. He exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl and dissolve into the night air, his gaze fixed on the skyline.
They had just come from a job well done—a smuggling operation that had gone flawlessly, a rare thing in their world. No deaths, no alarms, no betrayals. Just a clean exchange of goods and a pocket full of coin.
And yet, Felix couldn't shake the feeling sitting in his chest.
He tilted his head back, looking up at the stars. "Do you ever wonder, Varrel?"
Varrel exhaled another stream of smoke, cocking an eyebrow. "Wonder what?"
Felix hesitated, fingers curling against the rooftop's edge. "What it all means?"
A silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the distant sound of drunken laughter from a nearby tavern.
Varrel let the question settle before answering. "Life?"
Felix nodded.
Varrel hummed, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Life doesn't mean anything on its own. It's what we carve into it that gives it weight."
Felix frowned. "But isn't that just… making up an answer because we don't have a real one?"
Varrel chuckled, low and dry. "Maybe. But who's to say that's wrong? People need reasons, Felix. Some pray to gods, some fight for their country, some chase riches. It's all the same in the end—we're just grasping for something to hold onto."
Felix shifted, his boots scraping against the stone. "And you? What do you hold onto?"
Varrel took another slow drag of his cigarette, considering.
Then he looked at Felix, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. "Control."
Felix blinked. "Control?"
Varrel nodded. "When you grow up with nothing, you learn how small you are. How easily the world can take everything from you in a single moment. Control is the only thing that makes life bearable. The moment you start leaving things to fate, you're as good as dead."
Felix stared at him, absorbing every word.
He thought of his family—the fire that stole them from him, the mob that burned his world down in one night. He thought of the hunger, the cold, the endless cycle of stealing, fighting, running.
He had never had control.
Not until now.
Not until Varrel.
Felix swallowed, his throat tight. "Is that why you built the Syndicate?"
Varrel exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Part of it."
Felix frowned. "And the other part?"
Varrel smirked, a rare thing. "Because people like us? We don't get happy endings, Felix. The world isn't fair. No one's coming to save us. So we save ourselves."
Felix let those words settle in his mind, rolling them over, feeling their weight.
He had never trusted anyone before Varrel.
But here, now—
This man made sense.
He was strong, not just in body but in will. He wasn't afraid to look at the world for what it was, to carve something out of the darkness instead of pretending it didn't exist.
Felix clenched his fists.
"I want to be like you."
Varrel turned to him, raising an eyebrow.
Felix met his gaze, his voice steadier now. "I want to understand. To have control. To make my own rules, like you do."
Varrel studied him for a long moment.
Then, to Felix's surprise, he chuckled. "You remind me of myself at your age."
Felix blinked. "Yeah?"
Varrel nodded. "Angry. Hungry. Not for food—but for something bigger. A place in the world."
Felix's throat felt tight.
Because it was true.
That's all he had ever wanted.
A place to belong.
A place where he wasn't just another forgotten orphan in the gutter.
Varrel sighed, flicking away his cigarette. "It's not easy, you know. Holding power. Keeping control. It's a weight most people can't bear."
Felix squared his shoulders. "I can."
Varrel studied him again, and then, finally, he nodded.
"Then prove it."
Felix swallowed. "How?"
Varrel stood, stretching his arms. "Not with your fists. Not with a blade. With your mind. With the choices you make. With the way you handle yourself when the world pushes back. Power isn't just about strength—it's about knowing when to wield it and when to hold back."
Felix watched him, something burning in his chest.
Varrel offered a small, knowing smirk. "If you want to walk this path, Felix, then you walk it with me. But there's no turning back. Understand?"
Felix didn't hesitate.
He stood, meeting Varrel's gaze head-on.
"I understand."
A breeze swept through the rooftop, carrying the scent of rain and distant embers.
And in that moment, Felix made a silent vow.
To follow this man.
To learn from him.
To carve his own place in this world, no matter what it took.
Because for the first time in his life, he wasn't lost.
He had a direction.
A purpose.
And that purpose was Varrel.