The streets of WellBerg stretched before Damian like a labyrinth, a tangled web of alleyways, dilapidated buildings, and soot-streaked walls. His mind was still reeling from the moment he had crossed the gates, but there was no time to process everything—no time to dwell on the enormity of what lay ahead. Survival was a constant beat in his chest, a rhythm he could not ignore.
He followed the guard, now nameless in his eyes, through the winding streets, passing by people who barely looked up from their own struggles. The city was broken, but it was alive, clinging to whatever threads of existence it could. The faint smell of rot lingered in the air, mixing with the stench of woodsmoke and sour sweat. The wealthy quarters, those that housed the nobility and the merchants with wealth enough to command it, seemed like a world apart—a distant dream that belonged to someone else.
The guard led him through the ruins of WellBerg's old quarters, to a place where the desperate and downtrodden eked out what little life they could. It was called The Hollow, a fitting name for a place so devoid of hope. People lingered in the streets, wrapped in ragged cloaks, eyes dull with exhaustion. The buildings here were nothing more than skeletons of their former selves—cracked walls, collapsed roofs, and the ever-present dust of decay.
Damian's stomach twisted as he took in the sight. He had seen poverty before in the forests, but this was something else entirely. It was a place where the city had cast its forgotten souls, where life was traded in the form of scraps and survival instincts.
They approached a building at the edge of the Hollow, one that had once been a grand mansion but now looked like a tomb. The windows were broken, and the door hung off its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale food and sweat.
"This is where you'll be staying for now," the guard said, his voice offering no comfort. "If you want work, this is where you'll find it."
Damian nodded, too tired to speak. He had no choice but to accept the rough shelter the city offered, just as he had no choice but to find his way into the heart of WellBerg's web of power. It was here, in the depths of the city, where everything seemed to unravel.
Inside, the building was dimly lit by the flickering light of a few candles. The floor was covered in straw, the walls cracked and dirty, but it was a roof over his head. The place was full of people—men and women, young and old—huddled in small groups, talking in hushed tones. Some had their faces hidden by shadows, while others simply stared blankly, their eyes vacant.
Damian felt out of place, as if he didn't belong. He had spent his entire life in the forest, far away from places like this, but now, in the heart of WellBerg, this was his reality.
He found himself a small corner, where an older man with graying hair and weathered hands sat sharpening a knife. His eyes flicked up when they entered, studying Damian with an intensity that seemed to pierce right through him.
The old man didn't say anything at first. He simply observed Damian for a moment, his sharp gaze taking in everything—the tension in Damian's stance, the unspoken questions that hung in the air. Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke.
"You're new here, huh?" His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together, but there was something in it that suggested he had seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.
Damian nodded, not trusting his voice to carry his emotions.
"Thought so." The old man gave a small grunt and motioned to the seat next to him. "Name's John, John Walters. If you're looking for work, you've come to the right place. Not that there's much to do in this hellhole, but it's work, all the same."
Damian sat down beside him, watching as John finished sharpening the blade. The older man's movements were slow, deliberate, each one carrying the weight of years of practice. There was an air of confidence about him, even in the face of such bleak surroundings.
"Alright, kid," John said after a moment, glancing at Damian. "You need to know something about WellBerg. There're four sections. First, there's The Hallow—this place. It's where the poorest of the poor are kept, the forgotten souls. Then you've MidTown, where people like me work—barely scrape by, mostly. The Ironway is where the merchants sell their goods, and you can find a bit of wealth if you're lucky enough. And then, there's Highspire—where the nobles live. It's a place you don't get into unless you've got connections, and even then, it's like walking through a den of vipers."
Damian listened intently, trying to make sense of everything John was saying. But it was the mention of the Highspire district that caught his attention.
Damian, keeping his cards close, kept his thoughts to himself, as he wanted to learn how this place worked.
John looked at him, studying him carefully, "Well, anyways, you look like a strong lad, why don't you come with me tomorrow, and I'll introduce you to some people and you can work with me."
The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and John's gaze flicked briefly toward the door. "You'll find your way, kid. Just keep your head down and don't draw attention."
Damian nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. His father's name, his birthright, it all seemed to be a step out of reach, like a dream just beyond the edge of his sight. But he was determined to find it.
After some time, Damian's new daily routine settled into a rhythm. He did menial tasks—cleaning, hauling, whatever jobs came his way. His hands became rough, calloused from work, and his body grew leaner from the constant exertion. But there was no satisfaction in it, no peace.
A couple of weeks had passed, and Damian started to feel the weight of his new life—how distant his past had become, how unrecognizable the world around him had become. Yet, the thought of his father never left his mind. His mother's dying words haunted him. Find your father. Go to WellBerg.
One afternoon, as Damian sat with John during their break, he casually mentioned his last name.
"Damian Wellford," he said, trying the name out in conversation, as if it meant nothing.
John froze, his hand halfway to his mouth, the worn-out mug of water suddenly still in his hand. He stared at Damian, his expression unreadable.
"Wellford?" John repeated, slowly. "Wait… you said Wellford?" He put the mug down, his eyes narrowing.
Damian's heart skipped a beat. "Yes. My name's Damian Wellford. I'm looking for my father."
John Walters sat back, his face pale under the dim light of the shelter. "You... you need to be careful with that name," he murmured. "The Wellford name... it's tied to the Highspire district. Your father... he might be alive, but he's no ordinary man. And you're treading on dangerous ground now, Damian."
Damian's blood ran cold as the weight of those words sank in.
He had no idea what he had just stepped into, but he knew one thing—he needed to go to Highspire.