The air in Crimsonhold's bazaar pulsed like a living thing, thick with the mingled scents of iron, sweat, and charred herbs. The aroma clawed at the nostrils—smoky, metallic, ancient—evoking memories of firelit rituals and blood-soaked battlefields. The narrow stone streets throbbed underfoot as the crowd surged like a restless tide, bodies pressed tight between leaning stone houses etched with old warding glyphs that glowed faintly, as if remembering some long-ago siege.
Overhead, suspended between crumbling towers on humming energy lines, a colossal screen crackled to life. Light flickered violently across the crowd's upturned faces, painting them in blue-white fire as static gave way to the looming image of General Darius. His face was cut from iron—sharp-jawed, seamed with scars, eyes like twin embers. Behind him, a sky like a rotting bruise boiled with distant thunder.
Then his voice dropped—low, guttural, commanding—and the world seemed to hush, even the wind pausing to listen.
"Hear me, sons and daughters of an unbreakable world!"
The words didn't just echo—they cut, each syllable hammering against the hearts of the listeners like a blacksmith forging purpose on an anvil of fear.
"Two centuries ago, when the heavens splintered and the earth wailed under despair's weight, our kin stood unyielding. Demons—vile, ravenous—clawed from the abyss, their eyes burning with hunger for our souls. But our ancestors forged their hearts into steel, their will into thunder, and roared into the void: This world is OURS!"
The crowd, spellbound, erupted like a volcano awakened—cheers bursting from mouths raw with passion, hands raised in salute, the noise rising like a beast from the depths.
"Built on our blood, anchored by our bones, it will never fall!"
The final word cracked through the sky like lightning, and the screen blinked out with a sizzle. Darkness swept across the bazaar like a held breath finally exhaled.
Among the throng, silent and still as stone, stood Alden. He looked no different from the other boys—tall, lean, cloaked in dust and sweat—but his presence held a quiet gravity. Beneath the weathered fabric of his cloak, muscles rippled like corded rope, sculpted by hardship and years of brutal training. His golden-brown hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his eyes—deep, dark brown—held a storm that hadn't yet broken.
He was not cheering. He was listening—to something deeper. The words of General Darius hadn't stirred patriotism in him. They had awakened something older, colder, waiting beneath the surface.
Then it struck him.
Noon.Panic burst in his chest like a gunshot.
"Damn," he whispered. "I'm late."
He turned, vanishing into the crowd like smoke curling into shadows. The weight of a month's worth of rations on his back would have broken a lesser boy's spine, but Alden moved with practiced grace, slipping through the press of bodies, past merchants hawking relic-blades and dried spell-flowers, through the alleys that bent like broken fingers. The stone houses leaned inward, close and oppressive, as if the town itself wanted to trap him.
Finally, the last of Crimsonhold's walls fell behind him, and the forest rose ahead—a dark, whispering expanse of gnarled limbs and secrets older than language.
He darted beneath the boughs, branches whipping at his cloak, the ground soft with ancient rot. Shrubs clawed at him—thick, twisted things with thorn-like fronds and sap that smelled like blood. Every few steps, the light dimmed more, until the forest was cloaked in a permanent twilight, where only the faintest rays filtered through the suffocating canopy.
There, hidden among roots and shadows, his home appeared—half-swallowed by ivy, its sagging wooden frame groaning with each breath of wind. The one-story dwelling looked abandoned, forgotten by time. But it was alive. Watching.
On the creaking porch sat Grandpa Rowan, slumped in a chair like a monument to some lost age. His long gray hair spilled over his lined face, the color of ash and smoke. Scars riddled his arms and neck—marks left not by time, but by war.
He looked asleep. But Alden knew better.
He crept forward on silent feet, hoping—praying—to reach the door unnoticed.
Then—
Crack.A twig beneath his boot. The sound was soft but sharp, a betrayal in the quiet.
THWACK.Pain exploded across the back of his skull.
"Ouch!" Alden yelped, clutching the spot. "What was that for?!"
Rowan didn't even open his eyes.
"For being late," he growled, his voice like gravel dragged over rusted steel.
"I was listening to General Darius's speech," Alden muttered, wincing.
Rowan's eyelids peeled open slowly, revealing eyes like molten bronze—hard, unblinking, and ancient. "General Darius's speeches don't excuse tardiness," he said flatly.
Alden couldn't help a crooked grin. "It was… captivating. The bazaar was packed."
For a breath, Rowan's eyes softened, just a flicker. Then the steel returned.
"Lunch is ready. Move."
Inside, the house was dim, the walls peeled like flaking bark, the scent of old wood and spice thick in the air. The staircase groaned with age, leading up to two cramped bedrooms and a bathroom. But the real secret was beneath. Tucked behind a pile of firewood, under the stairs, was a barely visible seam in the wall—a door known only to those with reason to fear what slumbered below.
They sat at the rough-hewn table, the clink of cutlery the only sound for several moments. The stew was hot, thick with root vegetables and saltmeat, steam curling like ghostly fingers.
Then Rowan looked up.
There was something in his eyes now. Something hollow. Heavy.
"Two months 'til you're fifteen, Alden," he said, voice low. "Your powers… they'll awaken soon."
Alden nodded, trying to seem confident. "I know. I'm excited."
Rowan didn't smile.
"You're not like other children," he said, his voice cracking. "The pain you'll face…"
His hand trembled. The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against the bowl.
A coldness bloomed in Alden's chest, but he straightened, jaw tight. "We've trained for this, Grandpa. I'll be fine."
Rowan stared at him, and in the silence that followed, Alden could almost hear it again—the General's voice echoing through the marrow of the world.
"This world is ours."
But in Rowan's silence was another truth. One far older. Far darker.
This world is not done fighting back.