Prologue: The Saint of Slums
There was a certain kind of silence that blanketed the slums after midnight—a silence not born of peace, but of exhaustion. Metal roofs creaked under the weight of old rain, thin walls trembled at the bark of distant dogs, and yet within it all, a strange reverence lingered.
They called him the Back Alley Saint.
A boy with tired boots, a threadbare cloak, and hands always stained with someone else's blood. Not his. Never his. He never bled.
People whispered of miracles—a child healed from a wasting sickness with a word; an abusive father found hanging, smiling, with his bones twisted backward; a merchant's daughter rescued from being trafficked, the perpetrators never found.
No one ever saw him come or go. But everyone in the Fifth Quarter knew: if you prayed long enough, if your story was dark enough, he'd arrive.
Tonight, he sat on the edge of a broken fountain, elbows on his knees, watching a feral cat lap from the cracked marble bowl.
His face was forgettable by design. Dust-colored hair just long enough to hide his eyes, plain green irises that flickered like old emeralds in torchlight. Clothes patched with the precision of someone who could afford better but chose not to. His body language—loose, unreadable—belonged more to a lazy thief than a living myth.
He was humming under his breath. A lullaby from a country no one remembered.
Behind him, footsteps. Deliberate. Heavy. Two pairs. He didn't turn.
"You're late," Lyren said, voice light, cheerful. "You were supposed to kidnap me yesterday."
A shadow loomed—taller than most men, bulkier too. The sort of silhouette people had nightmares about after hearing stories in prison. The larger of the two figures stopped just short of the fountain, while the other leaned against a nearby post with casual elegance.
"You knew we were coming?" the smaller one asked, voice rich with amusement and steel.
"I knew someone was coming." Lyren finally turned, and the smile he wore didn't reach his eyes. "You, though… well, I'll admit. I was hoping for someone taller."
The tall one bristled. The lean one grinned.
"I'm called Ashkar," the smaller one said. "He's Gaerth. We're messengers."
"Cultists." Lyren corrected, standing slowly. "Let's not pretend."
Ashkar gave a slight bow. "Indeed. And we've come with a gift. An opportunity, if you like. A chance to rise."
"To be more precise," Gaerth rumbled, "We're here to drag your arrogant little ass to the Academy."
Lyren blinked. Then laughed. "Academy? Oh no. No, no, no. I don't do formal education. It's bad for my image."
"Your image is already being burned into church notice boards, boy," Gaerth growled. "You're lucky we found you first."
"Please," Lyren said with a dramatic sigh, "I've been arrested by better men than you. And tortured by worse. You'll need more than empty threats to convince me to share a dorm with nobles and murderers."
Ashkar stepped forward. His eyes glinted under the hood.
"You're not being asked, Saint."
And there it was.
The tone shift. The drop in warmth. The cult didn't make requests. They made offers. One-time only.
"You're dangerous," Ashkar continued. "But you're raw. You don't know politics. You barely understand war. And you're still young enough to be shaped into something that won't destroy everything we've built. The Academy's the best place to teach you what kind of monster you're meant to become."
Lyren tilted his head. "And if I say no?"
Gaerth stepped forward. "Then we cut off your legs, throw you in a sack, and carry you in."
"…Charming." He looked between the two men. "But how do you know I won't disappear again?"
"You could," Ashkar said, almost kindly. "But then the rumors would spread. That the Back Alley Saint ran from school like a scared child. That he wasn't a real saint. Just a coward with a parlor trick."
That made Lyren pause. Just a fraction of a second.
"…You're good at this," he muttered. Then louder, "Fine. You want me to go play student? Learn about imperial politics and proper spoon etiquette?"
Ashkar smiled.
Lyren's smile sharpened in return. "Then I'll need a new face. A new name. And a wardrobe."
"Done."
"Oh, and one more thing…" He turned toward the cat. It looked up at him, ears twitching.
"I want to pick my roommates."
Ashkar laughed. "We'll see."
The deal, unspoken and sharp as glass, was struck.
Lyren von Ettal—last child of the fallen elves, wielder of broken tales—stood on the cusp of a world far more dangerous than his alleys. A world of crowns and blades and stories told with smiles sharp as razors.
He was going to the Academy.
And for the first time in a long while, he wasn't entirely sure whether he was excited… or afraid.