The world tasted of ash and despair. Vaerin Solborn had learned that truth with his first breath, a ragged gasp stolen from a rain-slicked alley where the dying outnumbered the living. Beneath a sky bruised purple and black, where broken moons cast skeletal shadows, he arrived unwanted, a burden upon a mother whose last strength ebbed with his cries.

  They whispered he was cursed, a child touched by darkness. Some claimed the very sun had recoiled at his birth, hiding its face behind a veil of perpetual twilight that clung to Cindervale like a shroud. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps the flickering torchlight that painted the alley walls in shades of ochre and fear should have warned them sooner.

  The Gutter District, Cindervale – Thirteen Years Ago

  The rain that night was a weeping wound upon the city. Soot, churned from the endless foundries that choked Cindervale’s lungs, bled into the downpour, turning the broken cobblestones into slick, black veins. In the distance, the arrogant glow of noble fires painted the sky – the Houses feasting, plotting, their auras flaring like arrogant beacons, utterly indifferent to the festering rot at their foundations.

  In the suffocating darkness, a woman’s breath hitched, a fragile butterfly against the storm’s fury. Her grip tightened on the infant clutched to her breast, a desperate shield against the cold. Around her, like carrion birds drawn to a fresh kill, shadows stirred. Filth-encrusted hands, gnarled and grasping, reached for the bundled child.

  “Another gutter-spawn,” a voice rasped, thick with the stench of cheap liquor and decay. A boot nudged the woman’s still form. “Won’t last the night. Strip the rags and leave him for the teeth.”

  A chorus of guttural agreement rippled through the shadows. Greed, sharp and ugly, glittered in their eyes. They lunged.

  Then, the child’s wail ceased.

  A profound silence descended, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain. The infant, no older than a handful of heartbeats, stared up at the encroaching figures. There was no infantile fear in his gaze, no desperate plea. Only a raw, untamed intensity, an ancient knowing that belied his tender years. His eyes, the color of molten gold flecked with earth-brown, held them captive.

  And for a heartbeat – a suspended breath in the storm’s fury – the rain above the alley seemed to falter, the relentless drumming softening to a hesitant patter. The distant noble fires pulsed with an unnatural intensity, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed like startled serpents. A tremor, faint but undeniable, ran through the grimy cobblestones.

  Every man in that alley, hardened by years of scavenging and survival, felt a primal unease crawl beneath their skin. It was as if something vast and unknowable, something that slumbered beneath the grime and despair of Cindervale, had momentarily stirred, peering out through the innocent eyes of the newborn.

  The gravedigger, his face suddenly ashen beneath the grime, stumbled backward, his calloused fingers fumbling for a protective sign against the unseen.

  “Leave it,” he hissed, his voice a choked whisper. “Bad omen. Let the cursed gods deal with it.”

  A wave of superstitious fear rippled through the group. They recoiled, their avarice momentarily quelled by a deeper, instinctual dread. They melted back into the shadows, leaving the infant and his still mother alone once more.

  The woman’s chest rose and fell one last time, a shuddering sigh that whispered into the storm. Then, she was still.

  The baby – slick with rain and blood, utterly alone, nameless – stared up at the bruised canvas of the night sky. The world had already abandoned him.

  The world… and something else, vast and ancient, hidden behind the weeping clouds, its gaze lingering on the forsaken alley.

  The Present – Sixteen Years Old

  Vaerin’s calloused fingers pried a rusted nail from a splintered plank, the metal groaning in protest. He slid it into the hidden seam of his tattered cloak, the sharp point a familiar comfort against his skin. One day, he thought, his jaw tight with a simmering resolve, I’ll forge a weapon that can carve stars from the heavens. Today, however, this crude sliver of iron would suffice for gutting the scavenging dog who’d dared to snatch his meager rations yesterday.

  Survival was the only god he acknowledged. Glory was a distant, flickering ember he’d fan into a raging inferno later.

  The sprawling markets of Cindervale were a daily battle for scraps. A chaotic labyrinth of elbow jabs, whispered deals, and the constant threat of a hidden blade. Vaerin moved through the throngs like a phantom, his senses honed to the subtle shifts in weight, the nervous flick of an eye, the telltale bulge beneath a threadbare tunic. His hair, a wild tangle the color of sun-baked earth streaked with fiery gold, was kept hidden beneath a patched hood. His boots, relics of a forgotten life, offered little protection against the unforgiving cobblestones.

  He caught fleeting glimpses of the noble youths who swaggered through the chaos, their pristine robes untouched by the grime, aura-forged blades glinting at their hips, the clinking of coins in their silken pouches a blatant, arrogant symphony to the gods of envy.

  He felt the chasm that separated them, a gulf forged by birth and privilege. They exuded an effortless power, a tangible aura that hummed around them like a protective shield, fed by generations of cultivation and inherited wealth.

  He was nothing in their gilded world. A shadow clinging to the edges, a stain to be scrubbed away without a second thought.

  And yet… a flicker of something akin to amusement touched the corners of his lips.

  Because he knew a secret they remained blissfully ignorant of. Their strength had been gifted, a birthright they took for granted. His would be forged in the crucible of survival, hammered out by hunger, pain, and relentless will.

  And when that day arrived – when his power bloomed – he would seize everything they held sacred and watch their complacent world crumble.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The Gathering – Underground Fight Pits

  Tonight held a different kind of desperation. Tonight, Vaerin had bartered favors owed in blood, repaid debts with stolen trinkets, and endured a week of gnawing hunger to secure a coveted spot in the Ashen Pits – a clandestine arena carved into the city’s underbelly, where the desperate and the brutal sought fortune in broken bones.

  Winner claimed all: stale bread, tarnished coins, and the coveted, shimmering shards of raw aura that pulsed with nascent power. Losers offered only their broken bodies to the indifferent earth.

  The torch-lit cavern reeked of stale sweat, spilled blood that had long since dried to a rusty crust, and the cloying scent of old fear. Rings of shadowy spectators, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames, jeered and tossed gnawed bones into the sandy pit, their voices a guttural chorus of anticipation.

  In the center of the makeshift arena, two figures circled each other like wary predators. One, a hulking youth with a crudely sharpened sword, its edge dull with neglect. The other, lean and wiry, his fists wrapped in stained rags, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

  The swordsman lunged, a clumsy but vicious thrust aimed at the other’s chest.

  The fist-fighter moved with surprising speed, a blur of motion that belied his ragged appearance. He sidestepped the clumsy attack, his calloused hand snaking out to seize the swordsman’s wrist. A sickening crack echoed through the cavern as bone snapped, followed by a guttural cry of pain. Before the swordsman could react, a brutal knee slammed into his face, the impact sending a spray of crimson across the blood-soaked sand.

  A roar erupted from the crowd, a primal wave of bloodlust and excitement.

  Vaerin stepped forward, his heart a cold knot of anticipation.

  A wiry man, his skin a canvas of faded tattoos, a crooked grin splitting his scarred face, blocked his path.

  “Fresh meat?” the man sneered, his eyes raking over Vaerin’s gaunt frame. “Got an offering for the butcher, rat?”

  Vaerin reached into the depths of his tattered cloak and produced a single object that stole the light and held it captive: a shard of Lesser Solarite. It pulsed with a faint, inner warmth, the crystallized essence of a long-dead star, worth more than the tattooed gatekeeper and half the rabid spectators would likely earn in their miserable lives.

  The man’s eyes widened, his crooked grin faltering. “Where in the blazes…?”

  He caught himself, his greed warring with a flicker of caution. He snatched the Solarite shard, his fingers closing around its warmth. He shoved Vaerin roughly towards the pit.

  “NEXT!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the cavern. “A scrawny whelp from the gutters dares to challenge! Vaerin… No-House!”

  A wave of boos and mocking laughter washed over Vaerin. He ignored them.

  His breath hitched in his throat, then slowed, evening out. His heartbeat, which had been a frantic drum against his ribs, settled into a steady, measured rhythm. His vision sharpened, the chaotic scene around him narrowing, focusing into a single, perfect point.

  The opponent.

  A brute of a man, easily twice Vaerin’s size, his thick arms corded with muscle, a jagged axe resting on his broad shoulder. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer danced around the man’s hulking form – a nascent aura, clumsily awakened but undeniably present.

  Advantage? The brute possessed raw power.

  Odds? Heavily stacked against the nameless gutter-rat. Death before the next minute bled away.

  Plan? A desperate gamble. Burn everything.

  Vaerin exhaled, the stale air tasting of iron and dust.

  For a fleeting moment, the bruised and forgotten slum-boy vanished. The hunger in his eyes sharpened into a predatory gleam. Beneath the grime and desperation, something else stirred, something ancient and potent.

  Something vast. Something golden. Something coiled and furious.

  The brute roared, a guttural bellow that shook the cavern walls, and charged, the jagged axe swinging in a wide, deadly arc.

  Vaerin moved.

  Faster than thought, his body a coiled spring unleashed.

  His bare foot scythed through the loose sand, kicking up a blinding spray that momentarily obscured the brute’s advance.

  The brute cursed, his massive axe whistling blindly through the air where Vaerin had been an instant before.

  Too slow.

  Vaerin ducked beneath the wild swing, the rusted nail he’d concealed in his sleeve flashing out like a viper’s fang, scoring a crimson line across the brute’s thick thigh.

  Not deep enough to cripple. Not yet. But the scent of blood, thick and metallic in the air, was a promise. A taste of victory.

  The brute stumbled, a surprised grunt escaping his lips. His clumsy aura flickered, a confused response to the sudden pain.

  Vaerin pressed his advantage. He planted his bare foot firmly in the sand, driving forward with his entire weight, and slammed the rusted nail deep into the brute’s unprotected side. He twisted the makeshift weapon, a searing pain lancing through the larger man.

  He leaned in close, his voice a low, dangerous whisper against the brute’s ear. “Strength without mind is just meat for the slaughter.”

  Then he ripped the nail free, the sudden withdrawal causing a fresh torrent of blood to spill onto the sand. The brute’s eyes rolled back in his head, his massive body collapsing like a felled tree.

  Dead before a minute had passed.

  A stunned silence hung over the cavern, broken only by the ragged gasps of the remaining fighters and the dripping of water from the cavern ceiling.

  Then, a roar erupted from the spectators. A brutal, savage cheer, fueled by bloodlust and the thrill of the unexpected. Tarnished coins rained down onto the sand, scattering like fallen stars around Vaerin’s bloodied feet.

  The tattooed gatekeeper approached, a grudging respect flickering in his eyes. He tossed a small, heavy pouch at Vaerin’s feet.

  “A deal’s a deal, gutter-rat,” he spat, his voice still laced with disdain. “But don’t get any grand ideas. That was beginner’s luck.”

  Vaerin said nothing. He simply stood amidst the scattered coins and the cooling corpse, his chest heaving, his body screaming in protest. A slow, dangerous smile stretched across his bloodied lips.

  Because deep within the marrow of his bones, in the hidden furnace of his soul, he felt it.

  The first spark.

  The first whisper of the sun within him, stirring from its long slumber.

  More.

  More pain endured. More victories stolen. More blood spilled.

  He would rise from the ashes of the gutter. He would claw his way out of the darkness. And he would never, ever kneel again.