Light was a currency in Daska District—and the poor had none to spend.
The sun rarely touched the slums. Thick smoke poured from the tower-factories day and night, blotting out the sky with a permanent gray haze. Radiant Drains buzzed on every rooftop, sucking energy from the air, the ground, and the bodies of the people.
Machines fed the walls. The walls fed the Dons.
The system was perfect.
For them.
Solas stood alone on the roof of a cracked tenement building, overlooking the rusted sprawl of Zone Twelve. His eyes weren't on the broken houses or the market fights. They were locked on the distant skyline—where gold towers pierced the clouds and shimmered with a stolen glow.
The Core.
A gleaming city inside a city, protected by concentric rings of steel, light, and blood. The further in you went, the richer the air smelled. The cleaner the water. The brighter the power.
And the crueler the people.
He could still hear the recruiter's voice in his head, calm and cold as it explained the quotas. Every citizen was expected to contribute a certain amount of Radiant energy each month. No exceptions. Those who failed were "recycled."
His mother had failed.
Solas hadn't even been home when they took her. He'd gone out to scavenge a spare filter for their purifier. The water had been tasting like metal again.
When he came back, the door was open. The lights were out. The bed was still warm.
But she was gone.
They said she went willingly. That she'd offered herself for the sake of the district.
Lies.
She had collapsed three days earlier from overwork. Her Radiant signature had been flickering. Solas knew because he had seen the mark on her wrist dimming like a dying star.
He clutched the edge of the rooftop, knuckles white.
She had always tried to protect him. She kept him hidden when inspectors came. Smiled even when they had no food. Hummed old lullabies when she thought he was asleep.
And now she was ash in the Core's belly.
He pulled his shirt over his shoulder. On his back, glowing faintly even in the smoky light, was the mark she never knew about.
A blazing sun with six jagged rays:
The Dawn Ape.
A Divine Animal-class Radiant Mark—a legendary bloodline, long thought lost.
It wasn't supposed to appear in the slums. Not in someone like him.
But it had.
And it burned.
He took a deep breath as the light from the mark flickered, then faded beneath his shirt.
"I was born in chains," he whispered, the words like a promise etched into his soul. "But I won't die in them."
The streets of Zone Twelve groaned with life.
Vendors shouted half-lies about fake fruit and meat paste. Old men argued over scrap prices while children darted between them, barefoot and hungry. A broken sound system played a glitchy pop song from ten years ago, looping endlessly with static.
A patrol passed through, clad in armor that shone too bright for these dirty streets. They didn't stop the thieves. They didn't help the sick. They only paused when they saw a new face, scanning each one with handheld readers. Measuring Radiance.
Solas kept his head low and moved fast.
He wasn't worried about the scans. The Dawn Ape didn't flicker like lesser Marks. It burned deep—hidden and steady. Almost undetectable unless he called on it directly.
But the city had ears. And he was already making noise.
He turned into an alley, ducking behind a row of rusted pipes, and made his way toward the old filtration plant near the canal. It had long been abandoned by the government—but others had moved in.
People who hadn't given up yet.
A cracked wall bore the symbol of a sun carved by hand—faded and worn.
The Ember Tongue.
Whispers called them rebels. Anarchists. Light thieves.
Solas had seen them hand out food in secret. Patch wounds. Share real news when the state lied. They were messy, scattered, and far too small.
But they were trying.
And that was more than most.
He stepped through a hidden entrance beneath a scrap pile and into the shadows of the station. The air inside was thick with oil and dust, but cooler than the streets. Lanterns flickered along the walls. A few people nodded at him as he passed—some young, some scarred, none fully trusting.
They didn't know who he was.
Not yet.
In the central chamber, a broad-shouldered man sat beside a fire barrel, sharpening a heavy knife. His right arm was fully mechanical—an old military prosthetic retrofitted with welding tools and a dart launcher.
He glanced up as Solas entered.
"You look like you've made a choice," the man said.
Solas didn't answer immediately. He walked to the far wall, looked at the old Core map pinned there, and then turned back.
"I'm going in tonight."
The man raised a brow. "To the Core? Alone?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To burn it."
There was a pause.
The knife stopped scraping.
"You'll be dead before you reach Ring Three," the man said. "You know that, right? The drones alone could vaporize you before you even get close to the outer gate."
"I'm not just some street kid," Solas said, his voice calm but firm. "I have something they don't."
The man narrowed his eyes. "You planning to show me?"
Solas turned around. He loosened his shirt. Light spilled from his back like a quiet explosion.
Golden. Fierce. Ancient.
The mark of the Dawn Ape glowed through the fabric—six jagged rays in motion, pulsing with a heartbeat.
The room went still.
The man stared, expression frozen. Even the fire seemed to dim for a second.
"...That's a Divine Animal-class Radiant Mark," he said quietly. "Only Don bloodlines carry those."
Solas looked over his shoulder, eyes like burning gold coins.
"I know."
"I was one of them."