The rain fell in bitter sheets, each drop like a dagger against Syrith Kaen Drexil's bare skin. He lay face-down in a narrow gutter beneath the crumbling arches of a collapsed aqueduct, breathing raggedly. Dystyx City loomed around him—towering stone walls stained black by centuries of neglect, windows like empty eye sockets, and lanterns flickering in the fog beyond reach. Here, the sun never rose fully; the sky was a perpetual bruise, and the air tasted of ash and forgotten prayers.
He tried to sit up, but his muscles trembled with weakness. His clothes were rags—once white, now mud-brown, torn at the seams. A dull ache pulsed in his skull, and faint sparks of memory flashed behind his eyelids: thunder rolling across a violet sky, marble halls strung with storm-wyrm banners, the rasp of a dagger blade. But those thoughts receded like tides, leaving him disoriented and hollow.
A guttural groan tore from his throat as he forced himself to rise. Each movement felt like wading through water. He leaned against a broken pillar to steady himself, eyes narrowing on the city's silent silhouette. He did not know this place. He did not know this name—Syrith Kaen Drexil—but something deep within told him he had lived before. Something crowned and immortal. Yet now, he was nothing more than a street urchin, one among thousands scraping for scraps in Dystyx's underbelly.
He stumbled forward, following the gutter's channel until it spilled into a wider alley. Waste water pooled beneath a flickering lamp, its weak glow revealing a scavenger's camp: tattered bedsheets draped over crates, a rusted brazier still smoldering. Syrith blinked. A pair of coal-black eyes stared back from the shadows.
"Oi," rasped a voice. "You alive?"
A gaunt girl emerged, crouching beside him. Her hair was the color of smoldering embers, her cheekbones sharp as broken glass. In her palm, she held a chipped clay bowl of gruel—thin, watery, and steaming. She studied him as though he were a stray dog she'd caught rooting for truffles.
Syrith's throat burned with thirst. He reached out, voice hoarse as dry leaves. "Food."
The girl hesitated, then handed him the bowl. "Eat fast. The Watchers don't like loiterers."
Syrith sank to his knees and drank. The gruel was lukewarm and gritty, but it filled the hollow in his belly like liquid iron. As he ate, he scanned her face: high, arched brows; a crescent scar tracing her left jaw; tattoos of interlocking spirals winding from her collarbone to her forearm. Marks of the Bloodbinders, the city's secret healers—and sometimes their own doom.
She watched him ravenously avoid her gaze. Finally, she said, "You're not from here. You smell of… other realms."
He knew the words made sense, though he could not remember from where. He licked his cracked lips and nodded once.
The girl tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Name's Averith Ylunea Vei. I take in strays like you—once in a blue moon. Rest while you can. This spot's mine." She patted the wet crate beside her. "But at dawn, you move on."
He closed his eyes against the drizzle. In the distance, bells tolled—deep, mournful groans that shook the very stones of Dystyx. Morning had come at last.
When Syrith opened his eyes again, Averith was gone. He rose unsteadily and set off down the alley, guided by the tolling bells. Every step echoed doubts: Who was he? Why did ancient power stir within his veins? And most urgent of all—who had killed him?
Beyond the narrow lanes lay the Grand Bazaar, a sprawl of market stalls roofed with patchwork tarps. Haggling voices rose above the clatter of horse hooves and the rattle of rusted wagons. He pressed through the crowd, senses alight: the tang of rotting fish, the acrid sting of smoke, the metallic scent of blood from a butcher's stall.
A hawker waved a hand-carved dagger. "Blade from the Shattered Isles! Only three crowns! Only three crowns!"
Syrith's gaze sharpened. He watched the dagger's curved blade—etched with spirals of lightning that pulsed under his stare. His knuckles whitened. The blade felt familiar, resonant. He closed his eyes and let a spark flare in his chest: the first tremor of the storm-essence that once answered to his command.
The hawker frowned as Syrith's hand brushed the hilt. The metal felt alive—cold and humming. He yanked his hand back, startled by the memory his own fingertips had conjured: a palace thrumming with magic, courtiers kneeling before him, the roar of a gathered storm.
Shaking his head, he slipped away from the stall. A knot of dread tightened in his gut. In that brief touch, he had sensed the echo of his past power—and with it, the unquenched flame of vengeance.
He rounded a corner into a quieter street. Here, the stones were slick with oil, and wrought-iron grates led to the Underlevels—where bodies and secrets drowned in the dark. Syrith shivered, though the night air was stifling. He should seek shelter before the Watchers came—the city's enforcers, clad in obsidian armor and ruthless zeal.
Up ahead, a battered sign swung on creaking hinges: "The Drowned Raven – Rooms & Rations." Faint lantern light spilled from cracked windows. He climbed the narrow steps, nodding to the innkeeper—a stout man with a perpetual scowl—who counted Syrith's meager coins and pointed him to a small cubby of a room.
Inside, a single cot sagged under dirty blankets, and a barred window offered a glimpse of the bruised sky. Syrith sank onto the cot, exhaustion dragging him under. Yet sleep eluded him as distant thunder rolled through his mind.
He remembered her face—the healer Averith—with eyes like amethyst embers, and the scar that marked her as both savior and suspect. He remembered the crested helm of the masked figure: seven blood-red gems glittering like trapped flames. He remembered his own death—bile rising in his throat as poison gorged his veins, betrayal sharper than any blade.
And he remembered the vow he had whispered in his final breath: "I will return. And I will find you."
A distant howl rose through the night—half-dog, half-wind—echoing off the city walls. Syrith closed his eyes and let the memory bloom: an empire torn apart by lies, the clashing of armies, the crack of lightning. He had been more than a king. He had been a god.
But now he was nothing.
And yet, in the black heart of Dystyx, a spark of storm fire ignited within him. He would reclaim his name. He would awaken his power. And he would unmask the shadow who stole his crown.
Because in this forsaken city, even death was not the end.