No one truly knows how long ago it happened.
Many records have been lost, but if one had to speculate, they would say it was roughly a millennium ago.
No one knows why the gods did it or what drove them to such a decision, but they cursed the planet of Hal'Iro—a world once brimming with magic and marvels.
On that fateful day, the sky split open, the earth cracked apart, and the oceans raged, swallowing entire lands and drowning millions.
Celestial extraterrestrial creatures descended from the heavens, but their forms had been warped, as if they themselves had been cursed to bring only ruin.
From the depths of the earth, monstrous beings known as the Elemental Tyrants emerged, laying waste to the lands untouched by the raging seas.
But the eight great races did not stand idly by. They fought back—the dragons, the elves, the demons, the beastkin, the dwarves, the giants, the fairies, and the humans.
Thus began the Celestial War, a conflict that raged for tens of thousands of years. It was a miracle that the mortal races endured for so long, yet in the end, no mortal could stand against the gods.
One by one, the races were driven to extinction. No one knows the exact order in which they fell, but by the time the war reached its final days, only humanity remained.
Hope had all but vanished.
This was the end.
And then, something changed.
One god refused to stand with the others. The God of Games, Arcade, turned against his kin, slaying a few of them and stealing their power.
With it, he granted humanity a fighting chance. He created a force known as El'tham, a power that allowed humans to inherit the powers of beings that existed beyond their world.
They awakened as Heroes—warriors capable of defying fate itself. With their newfound strength, humanity carved out an existence in a world where even the greatest races had perished.
But mere survival was not their goal. The power bestowed upon them was not just a gift—it was a weapon. And with it, they vowed to one day slay the gods themselves and return their planet to peace.
...
...
Year 536 of the hero calender.
Ah, the slums of Vel'Tharn. A place where dreams wither like frostbitten fingers in winter, where the air stinks of desperation, and where children sharpen their wits—or their knives—if they want to see another sunrise.
And among those scrappy survivors were two boys: one with pure white hair and blood-red eyes, Thorn, the pragmatic leader of their little band of misfits. The other? Elias, golden-haired and blue-eyed, carrying the unfortunate burden of nobility in his soul—an odd trait for someone starving in the gutters.
Tonight, they were on their sixth attempt at swiping food. Why? Because winter was coming. And if their stash wasn't big enough, it wouldn't be a question of whether they suffered—it'd be a question of whether they saw spring at all.
Thorn crouched low behind a pile of discarded crates, eyes locked on a group of adults hunched over their spoils—a half-loaf of stale bread, a few dried fish, and what might have once been a decent apple before life decided to beat the hell out of it. Not much, but better than nothing.
Elias, beside him, whispered, "Maybe we should try asking."
Thorn turned to him slowly, his expression the sort of deadpan that spoke volumes. "Yes, Elias. That's a great idea. 'Excuse me, sir, but might I trouble you for a piece of your incredibly limited food supply? No? Ah, well, I'll just die quietly in this corner, then. No hard feelings.'"
Elias frowned. "You don't have to be mean about it."
"I do, actually," Thorn said, eyes shifting back to their targets. "Keeps me warm at night."
Elias sighed but said nothing. He was used to Thorn's cynicism, and truth be told, Thorn was used to Elias's ridiculous optimism. Somehow, their opposing personalities hadn't gotten them killed yet.
Not yet, anyway.
Elias peeked over the crate. "What if we wait until they're asleep?"
"And risk them eating everything before then?" Thorn shook his head. "We need to act now. I'll grab the bread. You distract them."
Elias groaned. "Why do I always have to be the distraction?"
"Because you look like someone who still believes in kindness. People trust that. Me?" Thorn gestured vaguely to himself. "I have 'untrustworthy street rat' written all over me."
Elias huffed but didn't argue. Thorn wasn't wrong.
Taking a deep breath, Elias stepped out of their hiding spot and into the dim firelight. He put on his best hopeful smile—the one that, on a better day, might have belonged to a noble son rather than a slum rat.
"Excuse me," he called, voice warm, inviting. "I—I was wondering if you could spare anything. Even just a little."
The adults snapped their heads toward him, eyes gleaming with suspicion. One of them, a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek, sneered. "And why should we?"
Thorn, still in the shadows, rolled his eyes. Ah, yes. The kindness of strangers. Always such a heartwarming thing to witness.
Elias hesitated but held firm. "We—we have children. Younger than us. They won't make it through winter without food."
Scar-cheek scoffed. "Ain't my problem."
Elias clenched his fists. "Please."
Scar-cheek and his group exchanged glances. Then, a slow, cruel smile stretched across the man's face. "Sure, kid. Come closer. We'll see what we can 'spare.'"
Thorn tensed. Here we go.
Elias took one step forward. Then another. He wasn't an idiot—he knew the look in Scar-cheek's eyes. It was the same look all desperate people had when they saw someone weaker than them. But Elias trusted Thorn.
Just as Scar-cheek lunged, Thorn moved. Fast, silent. A blur of pale hair and sharp reflexes.
By the time Scar-cheek's fingers closed around nothing but air, the half-loaf of bread was already in Thorn's hands.
Elias bolted. Thorn was right behind him.
"HEY! YOU LITTLE SHITS!"
The chase was on.
Feet pounded against the cracked stone of the slums as Thorn and Elias darted through the narrow alleyways, laughter bubbling up between them even as they ran for their lives.
Elias shot Thorn a sideways grin. "Sixth time today. Think we'll break our record?"
Thorn smirked. "Let's find out."
And just like that, the two disappeared into the night, their stolen bread still warm in Thorn's hands.
Winter was coming. But for tonight, at least, they had won.
For tonight, they would eat.
There were a few rules to surviving in Vel'Tharn's slums. One: Don't get caught. Two: If you do get caught, make sure you can outrun the consequences. Three: Never, under any circumstances, let Elias be the one making plans.
Thorn and Elias had, somehow, managed to abide by all three rules tonight. Barely.
Ducking into a gap between two crumbling brick buildings, they sprinted through the labyrinthine alleyways, feet pounding against the uneven stone. Behind them, Scar-cheek and his merry band of malnourished thugs had given up the chase, either too tired or too angry to continue. Probably both.
Thorn slowed his pace only when he was sure they weren't being followed. He shot Elias a dry look. "So, how'd your little 'let's ask nicely' experiment go?"
Elias, panting, wiped sweat from his brow. "Could've gone worse."
"We could be dead."
"Exactly. Worse."
Thorn snorted but didn't argue. He had more important things to focus on—like making sure their stolen loot got back to the others before Elias had another brilliant idea that would get them killed.
Navigating the slums wasn't hard if you knew what you were doing. It was a tangled mess of half-collapsed shacks, broken carts, and dark corners that smelled of things best left unidentified.
It was also home to plenty of people who would slit your throat for half a loaf of bread—which, coincidentally, was exactly what Thorn and Elias were carrying.
Fortunately, they had their own little safe haven. Well, "safe" was a strong word. Let's go with "less likely to be murdered in your sleep."
The hideout was an old warehouse—or at least, what was left of one. It had probably been used for storing grain once upon a time, but now it was just a skeleton of wooden beams and rusting metal, with holes in the roof big enough to let the rain in but not quite big enough to let hope out.
Inside, three more kids sat around a weakly burning fire, their faces flickering in the dim light.
First, there was Mira—black-haired, sharp-eyed, and too smart for her own good. If Thorn was the leader, she was the strategist, always coming up with ways to keep them alive just a little longer.
Then there was Jace—quiet, cautious, and built like a starving wolf. He didn't talk much, but when he did, people listened. Mostly because if they didn't, he had a habit of proving his point with his fists.
And finally, there was Lutz, the youngest, barely seven years old. He was the only one among them who still had some baby fat on his cheeks, mostly because they made sure he ate first. If there was any innocence left in this group, it was currently clinging to Lutz's tiny frame, desperately trying to survive.
Mira was the first to notice them. Her gaze flicked to the bundle in Thorn's arms, and her expression remained perfectly neutral. "Let me guess. Elias tried talking, and you saved his ass."
Elias groaned. "I am right here."
Jace smirked. "And yet, Mira's still correct."
Thorn dropped the bread and dried fish onto a ragged piece of cloth in the center of their little circle. "We got lucky."
Mira raised a skeptical brow. "Or you stole from someone dumber than you."
"Same thing."
Lutz, who had been half-asleep, suddenly perked up at the sight of food. He rubbed his eyes, his voice still groggy. "Is that... bread?"
Thorn crouched next to him, ruffling his messy brown hair. "Yeah, kid. You get first bite."
Lutz didn't need to be told twice. He reached for the bread with small, grubby fingers, tearing off a piece like it might disappear if he hesitated.
Elias sat down with a huff. "You know, one of these days, we won't have to steal to survive."
Jace gave him a sidelong glance. "Yeah? And what fairytale told you that?"
Elias crossed his arms. "Just saying. Maybe we could find work. Something honest."
Mira snorted. "Honest work? In Vel'Tharn? Sure. And maybe the nobles will come down here to hand out free gold while they're at it."
"I'm serious!" Elias insisted. "Maybe there's something out there. Something better than this."
Thorn leaned back, resting his arms on his knees. His red eyes glowed faintly in the firelight. "There isn't." His voice was calm, final. "There's no 'better' for people like us. No one's coming to save us. No one cares if we live or die." He glanced around at them. "So we save ourselves."
The warehouse fell into silence. Not the awkward kind—just the kind that came when the truth was too heavy to argue with.
After a moment, Mira broke the tension by ripping the dried fish in half and passing pieces to the others. "Enough depressing talk. We eat now, we plan later."
Lutz chewed happily. "It's so good."
Elias gave him a fond smile. "You'd probably think dirt tasted good if you were hungry enough."
Lutz blinked at him. "Wouldn't it?"
Jace chuckled, shaking his head. "Kid's got a point."
As they ate, the wind howled outside, rattling the warehouse's broken beams. Winter was coming.
And with it, new struggles, new dangers.
But for now, they were fed.
And in Vel'Tharn, that was a victory worth celebrating.