The next morning, the wind carried the scent of rain and steel. Myrelion moved through the slums with purpose now. He'd cleaned the blood from his clothes and wrapped his daggers in tattered cloth, tucked beneath his oversized shirt. There was only one goal now: escape the slums and vanish into the wider world.
He needed information. He needed money. And most of all, he needed a new identity.
Valewind's adventurers' district—called the Gutterlight Ring—was where mercenaries, sell-swords, and mage-for-hire types gathered before setting off into the wilderness. It was the only place a child like him might pass without question, especially if he claimed to be someone's apprentice.
Orphaned kids in armor weren't rare. Most of them died before fifteen.
He ducked into a noisy square filled with training dummies, clashing swords, and shouting veterans. His keen eyes scanned the area, locking on a figure slicing through wooden targets with terrifying grace.
She was tall, with dark bronze skin, windblown hair braided behind her back, and armor that clung to her curves like tempered flame. Her longsword moved like an extension of her soul—fluid, lethal, beautiful.
People called her Kaelira Duskbrand.
A Rank-A adventurer, known across three provinces.
She finished her last swing and sheathed her blade in one smooth motion.
Myrelion found himself staring.
She noticed.
"You got something to say, rat?" she asked, not unkindly, though her tone was sharp.
"I want to learn," he said flatly.
Kaelira blinked.
"You want what?"
"I want to become an adventurer. I need strength to survive." His tone was unwavering. "You look like someone who doesn't waste time."
Kaelira raised a brow, taking him in. His eyes were too calm for a child. Too focused. She'd seen that look before—in veterans twice her age.
"...Name?"
"Myrelion."
"Too clean a name for a slum brat. You steal it?"
He didn't answer. He didn't flinch either.
Kaelira whistled. "Alright then, Myrelion. Let's see what kind of spine you've got."
She tossed him a dull wooden blade.
"Hit me."
Myrelion caught it. He held it with one hand and slid into a low stance—a motion she recognized as foreign. Efficient. Balanced.
Not something any street kid could do.
He darted forward, striking for her midsection. Kaelira parried effortlessly, but her eyes widened.
That footwork...
He wasn't fast. But he was deliberate. Every move predicted hers.
"You're no slum kid," she muttered, blocking again. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm no one," Myrelion answered.
And in that moment—between strike and parry—Kaelira made a decision.
"Fine. You're mine now."