The night had fallen, blanketing the Underrealm in a suffocating darkness that seemed to close in on Dorian from every side. The streets, once bustling with the activity of the day, were now empty save for the occasional figure huddled in a corner or making their way through the shadows. The city felt more oppressive under the moonlight, a place where the air itself seemed thick with despair, as if even the very stones underfoot had given up long ago.
Dorian made his way home, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the alleyways. His body ached, the familiar weight of fatigue pulling at his bones. He had spent the day repairing broken streets and hauling refuse to the waste pits. There was no respite, no break. The work never stopped, and neither did the unrelenting reminder of his position in the world. Magic and wealth were the keys to everything—everything except survival.
His family's small dwelling sat nestled between two abandoned buildings, its roof sagging, the walls cracked and crumbling. It was nothing more than a shelter, barely more than a shack. But it was home.
As he approached the door, Dorian heard a faint rustling sound coming from within. He paused, his hand hovering over the worn handle. The noise was familiar—his younger sister, Alira, was likely trying to get her hands on something she shouldn't have. She had a habit of sneaking into their meager stores, looking for anything that might give her a moment of joy in this endless, miserable world.
"Alira?" Dorian called softly, pushing open the door.
The small, dimly lit room inside was cluttered with scraps of old furniture, the air thick with the smell of stale bread and something damp—probably mold. At the center of the room, Alira stood near their dwindling stockpile of food, a half-eaten apple in her hand.
She froze when she saw him, her wide eyes betraying her guilt.
"I didn't mean to, Dorian," she said, her voice trembling, her small frame hunched as if she were preparing to run.
Dorian sighed, his shoulders sagging in exhaustion. "It's fine. You're always hungry." He closed the door behind him, leaning his back against it. "Just don't let Mother see. You know how she worries."
Alira's face softened, and she stepped closer to him, her bare feet silent on the cracked floor. "I'm sorry, Dorian. I didn't want you to feel like you have to do everything for us."
Dorian smiled faintly, though the weight of his life bore down on him like a heavy stone. "Someone has to." He ruffled her messy brown hair and walked to the worn table near the corner of the room. "You should get some rest. It's late."
She nodded, but as she turned to leave, she hesitated. "Dorian… do you ever think we'll leave this place? The Spire is so far away… it feels like it doesn't even belong in the same world as us."
Her words lingered in the air, heavy and forlorn. Dorian didn't answer immediately. He didn't want to lie to her. The thought of the Spire—the shining, unreachable city that stood above them all—had been a constant in his life. A symbol of power. Of everything they would never have. He had never let himself dream of it. Not until now.
Dorian took a deep breath, fighting back the ache in his chest. "Maybe one day. But it's not going to be easy. We're not like them, Alira. Magic and money make the rules in this world, and we—" He faltered, realizing how tired he sounded. "We're not part of that world."
Alira's small hands clenched into fists, her eyes flashing with frustration. "Why not? Why can't we have it? You work so hard, Dorian. You deserve more than this."
Dorian turned away, his gaze drifting to the window, where the faint glow of the Spire could be seen far in the distance, looming like a dark promise. He wanted to tell her that he had dreams, too—dreams of a life beyond the muck and the endless toil. But there was nothing in his world that could bring him closer to those dreams. Not until now.
The voice that had spoken to him in the alley, the strange force he had encountered—it was still with him. It pulsed in his chest, a low hum that seemed to resonate with his very heartbeat. He didn't know what it meant, only that it had awakened something in him. Something that had always been there, but buried beneath years of helplessness and resignation.
"What if there was a way?" Dorian muttered more to himself than to Alira.
Alira, who had been about to slip into her cot, turned back toward him. "A way to what?"
Dorian didn't respond at first. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting for him to continue. The words were right there on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated. The voice had told him that he wasn't like them, that he was meant for something more. But could he really believe that? Could anyone like him—someone born in the depths of the Underrealm, with no magic to claim—really change anything?
Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door.
Dorian's heart skipped a beat. It was late—too late for a visitor. His hand instinctively went to the worn dagger he kept hidden beneath his tunic, but he hesitated. No one came to the Underrealm unless they had a purpose, and usually, that purpose wasn't good.
"Who's there?" Dorian called out, his voice tense.
A soft voice answered from the other side of the door, muffled by the thick wood. "It's me. Open up."
Dorian's brow furrowed. The voice was familiar—too familiar.
"Galen?" he asked, his hand slowly leaving the dagger.
A slight pause, and then the voice answered again, this time tinged with something almost desperate. "Yeah. Just… open the door, Keil. We need to talk."
Dorian exchanged a look with Alira. She didn't move, her eyes wide with uncertainty. Dorian took a steadying breath and approached the door. As his hand gripped the handle, he glanced back at Alira, who nodded, though her face was filled with concern.
He opened the door just enough to peek out, his gaze falling on Galen's disheveled form. The older man's usual sneer was gone, replaced by a look of grave seriousness.
"What is it, Galen?" Dorian asked, his voice low.
Galen stepped forward, his eyes darting over his shoulder as if checking for anyone who might be watching. "I need your help. It's about the Spire. There's something I've learned. Something that…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Look, I don't know how to explain this, but you need to come with me."
Dorian's pulse quickened. "What's going on?"
Galen glanced around again before leaning in closer. "There's a storm coming, Keil. A storm that could change everything. And I think you might be the key."
The weight of his words sank into Dorian's chest like a stone. He wasn't sure what Galen meant, but something about the way the older man spoke made Dorian's skin crawl. This wasn't just some petty squabble or another futile attempt to earn a few extra coins. This was different. And whether he liked it or not, Dorian had a feeling that the voice, the strange power inside him, had something to do with it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Dorian said, but his voice faltered. He knew that deep down, he was already listening.
"You will," Galen replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "You will."
Dorian hesitated. Alira was still behind him, watching silently, but her eyes held an unspoken plea. She didn't want him to go, to risk whatever madness Galen was about to drag him into.
But the pull of something greater, something unknown, tugged at him. And when he looked at Galen's anxious, desperate eyes, he knew he had no choice but to follow.
"Alright," Dorian said, his voice firm now, though the unease gnawed at him. "I'm coming. Let's see what this is all about."
With a last glance back at Alira, he stepped out into the night.
And the air seemed to thrum with the promise of something that could change everything.