The bazaar of Crimsonhold thrummed with life, its narrow stone streets choked with the press of bodies and the acrid tang of smoked herbs. Stallkeepers bellowed over the din, hawking enchanted trinkets and skewers of sizzling meat. Above, tethered to the bruised sky, a colossal screen flickered to life, bathing the crowd in cold light. General Darius's face loomed, his iron-gray eyes piercing through the haze. His voice rolled like thunder, each syllable a hammer striking the soul.
"Hear me, sons and daughters of an unbreakable world!" he roared. "Two centuries ago, when the heavens shattered and the earth groaned under despair's weight, our kin stood defiant. Demons—vile, ravenous—tore through the abyss, their eyes ablaze with hunger for our souls. But our ancestors forged their hearts into steel, their will into lightning, and roared into the void: This world is OURS! Built on our blood, anchored by our bones, it will never fall!"
The crowd erupted, their cheers a primal beast that swallowed the alleyways. Among them stood Alden, a lean figure cloaked in weathered leather, his corded muscles taut beneath the weight of a month's rations slung across his back. His dark brown eyes, nearly black in the dim light, burned with awe. Golden-brown hair clung to his sweat-slick forehead, and his sharp jaw clenched as Darius's words ignited something feral within him. Years of relentless training had honed his body to withstand burdens that would crush lesser men, but today, it was his spirit that felt the strain.
The screen faded to black, and panic jolted through him. Noon. He was late. Grandfather Rowan's wrath loomed like a gathering storm. Alden plunged into the throng, weaving past merchants and zealots, the stone houses on either side leaning inward as if to trap him. Beyond Crimsonhold's walls, the forest waited—a labyrinth of gnarled trees and whispering shadows. He hacked through claw-like shrubs, their sap stinging the air with a metallic bite. Deep in the woods, where sunlight drowned in the canopy's gloom, his home emerged: a sagging, one-story relic, its wooden bones groaning under the weight of time.
On the porch, Rowan slumbered in a creaking chair, his dark gray hair spilling like ash over a face carved by battle. At fifty, perhaps sixty, his tall frame bore the scars of a warrior's life, his brown eyes—now hidden in sleep—sharp as flint when awake. Alden crept toward the door, heart hammering, praying for silence. But a twig snapped underfoot, and a sharp thwack struck his head.
"Ouch! What was that for?" Alden yelped, rubbing the stinging spot.
"For being late," Rowan growled, his voice rough as gravel. "Why?"
Alden's sheepish grin flickered. "I was caught up in General Darius's speech. The bazaar was… captivating."
Rowan's eyes softened, but his tone remained stern. "Speeches don't excuse tardiness. Lunch is ready. Move."
Their home was humble, its peeling walls and creaking staircase betraying its age. The stairs led to two bedrooms and a bathroom above, but beneath them, a hidden door—seamless to untrained eyes—guarded the basement's secrets. Over lunch, Rowan's gaze grew heavy, his fork pausing midair.
"Two months until you're fifteen, Alden," he said, voice low. "Your powers… they'll awaken soon."
Alden's chest tightened, but he forced a nod. "I'm ready, Grandpa. We've trained for this."
Rowan's silence was louder than words, his eyes haunted by memories Alden couldn't fathom.
The basement sprawled beneath the house, a cavernous maze that dwarfed the dwelling above. One chamber housed a library of dusty tomes, their pages humming with forbidden magics—spells that could unravel reality itself. Another held alchemical instruments: vials of liquid starlight, runes pulsing faintly in the dark. The largest chamber, its stone walls scarred from countless clashes, was their training ground. Here, Alden's sword sang against Rowan's, each strike sparking memories of battles neither had witnessed.
Before dawn, Alden trained in the backyard, his breath misting in the chill. The forest watched, its silence heavy with unseen eyes. Mornings honed his body, afternoons fed his mind, and evenings sharpened his blade. This had been his life for years, a rhythm etched into his bones. But for months, a new ritual had emerged after dinner: pain resistance. Rowan would inject him with a potion that brought Alden to his knees, pain searing through him like a thousand needles piercing his soul. It was unimaginable, a torment that left him gasping, yet he never lost consciousness. Rowan's fists clenched at the sight, his jaw tight with guilt, but he pressed on, whispering, "This is for your sake."
In recent weeks, the dosage had increased. The pain grew sharper, more vicious, sometimes stealing Alden's breath until he fainted. Yet he endured, rising each time, his will a flame that refused to gutter. Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months, each moment forging him into something more than human.