"Faster, boy! Move faster or I'll grind your bones into the slag!"
The cloaker's voice cracked through the smoke like a whip. His cloak, black and stitched with the bleeding sun sigil, dragged across the ash floor as he barked again, "You think this is a playground? Carry the ore, now!"
A boy darted past him, barefoot, his hair matted with soot, his cheeks glowing with the wild heat of the furnaces. He was no taller than the cloaker's waist, no stronger than the baskets he half-dragged, half-carried across the floor. Yet he ran—not with fear, but with reckless abandon, a grin flashing like firelight across his face.
The workers nearby lowered their eyes, hammers striking dull iron on stone. None dared laugh. To laugh would invite the lash. But still, some lips curled with the ghost of a smile as the boy—Kael—zigzagged past the overseer's reach.
"Kael…" A whisper escaped from a woman hunched over a heavy slab of ore, sweat streaming down her temples. Her hands were cracked, red with burns from the endless heat. She paused, only for a heartbeat, to watch her son's small body weaving through the haze of firelight and smoke.
Her lips parted into the faintest smile. But then, as always, the smile dimmed.
Her mind slipped back, years before, to the night the boy first came screaming into the world.
Ash had rattled the roof of their hut, falling like black snow. Inside, the air reeked of smoke and blood. She had clutched her belly, biting down on a rag, while a woman's steady voice cut through her cries.
"Breathe, Elira. Don't lose yourself to the pain," Neris urged, her hands firm, her face streaked with soot and sweat. "He's stubborn, this one, but so are you."
"I… I can't—" Elira groaned, writhing as another wave of agony tore through her.
"You can," Neris snapped, as though daring her to argue. "The sun doesn't set on us yet. Now push."
At her side, Elder Thalos leaned on his staff, muttering prayers older than the furnaces. His voice was low, gravelly, carrying the cadence of a prophet.
"The child comes not by man's seed," Thalos intoned, "but by fire and ash. Remember this, Elira. His birth is no accident."
Whispers had gathered at the doorway. A handful of women peered in, their eyes wide, their tongues sharp.
"No man claims him," one hissed.
"Then who? A cloaked lord?" another scoffed.
"Or worse… the Serpent's shadow?"
Elira had clenched her teeth. "Silence! He's mine, that's all that matters."
Neris had glared at the women, wiping blood from her hands. "Enough of your gossip. You'd rather curse a babe than bless him? The sun still shines, even when hidden. And perhaps it shines here, now."
Some of the women had bowed their heads, murmuring quick prayers. Others had laughed bitterly, spitting into the ash. But Elira had fixed her gaze on Neris, clinging to that voice of steel.
"Again, Elira," Neris commanded. "Bring him into this cursed world, and let him scream against it."
And scream he had.
A cry sharper than the hiss of the furnaces split the night. Small, furious lungs announced themselves, as if daring the whole kingdom to silence him.
Elira had sobbed, half in relief, half in terror, while Neris lifted the blood-slicked infant high. "See? The sun's gift. Mystery or not, he breathes. And he will live."
The roar of the furnaces slammed back into her ears. The vision dissolved. Elira's hands tightened on the slab of ore before her. She blinked the sweat from her lashes, but her heart raced, her body trembling as though still laboring on that bed.
Kael.
Her gaze snapped back to the work floor. For a moment, panic seized her. The boy—her boy—was nowhere in sight. The furnace smoke swallowed everything. Cloakers shouted, workers strained, hammers pounded, but she could not see him.
Her breath caught. "Kael?" The name slipped from her lips, barely a whisper. She rose, craning her neck, searching the smoke, fear gnawing at her ribs.
"Where—"
The cloaker barked again, his voice slicing through the haze. "Get back here, whelp! You can't hide from me!"
The overseer's shout echoed against the walls of the furnace hall. But no boy answered.
Elira's heart slammed harder. She set the ore aside, her hands trembling, and whispered again into the firelit haze, "Kael…"
---
"Where is he?"
Elira's heart thundered as she scanned the choking haze. Only a moment ago, Kael had been darting between the furnace carts, chased by the barking Cloaker's voice. Now he was gone, swallowed by ash and shadow.
Her hands trembled around the ore hammer. Stay calm, she told herself. But her eyes betrayed her, sweeping the furnace yard again and again.
"Kael!" she hissed under her breath. "Kael, where—"
But her voice was drowned in the roar of molten fire.
---
Kael was already far from her sight.
He slipped between stacked slag-heaps, ducking beneath broken scaffolds where the Cloakers never bothered to look. The smoke burned his throat, but he grinned as though it were all a game. His bare feet slapped against hot stone, weaving into the narrower alleys where children hid when they could escape work.
A sound reached him — not the hammering of forges, not the hiss of fire.
Crying.
He slowed. Ahead, in a corner shrouded by leaning walls, three older boys had a younger child pinned to the ground. Dust clung to the smaller boy's hair, and in his fist he clutched a precious thing — a fruit. Its skin was pale gold beneath the ash, impossibly fresh, impossibly rare.
"Give it!" one of the older boys snarled, prying at the child's fingers.
"Stop— it's mine!" the smaller boy cried, twisting, desperate. "My uncle gave it!"
"Your uncle's a drunk fool," another spat. "Food this sweet doesn't belong to gutter-rats."
The third boy smirked, boot pressing down on the child's chest. "Hand it over, Bram, or we'll break your hand for you."
Kael's jaw tightened. Bram… so that's his name.
He stepped forward, ash crunching beneath his heel. "Leave him alone."
Three heads snapped toward him.
"Well, well," the smirker sneered. "The mystery brat."
"The boy with no father," another jeered. "Crawled out of smoke, didn't you?"
"Maybe the Serpent spat him out," the third laughed. "Or maybe his mother spread her legs for a Cloaker."
Kael's face did not flinch. He repeated, slower this time: "Leave him. Alone."
The bullies exchanged looks, then burst into laughter.
"And what are you going to do?" one jeered. "You don't even know who made you. You think you can stop us?"
"Maybe he'll cry at us," another said. "Like a little bastard sun-child."
"Or maybe he'll pray and hope the real sun shows his face."
Kael's voice was quiet. Almost too quiet. "I said… stop."
The boy called Bram gasped as the bullies twisted his wrist. The fruit slipped, rolling across the ash toward Kael's feet.
Kael bent, picked it up, brushed the soot away.
One of the bullies growled. "That's ours—"
Kael didn't answer. Instead, his eyes darted to the ground. Coals still glowed faintly near a cooling slag pit. He moved quickly, scooping one in his hand, ignoring the sting.
He looked up.
The bullies hesitated.
"You're crazy," one whispered.
Kael hurled the coal.
It struck the smirker across the cheek, bursting sparks. The boy screamed, clutching his face. The others stumbled back in shock.
"Run!" the burned boy howled.
And they did. All three, cursing, scrambling into the smoke. Their laughter replaced by panicked shouts.
Silence fell, broken only by Bram's ragged breaths.
Kael crouched. "You all right?"
Bram sat up, clutching his chest, his eyes wide. He looked at Kael as though he'd just seen a demon — or a savior.
"You… you're mad," Bram whispered. Then, softer: "But thank you."
Kael handed him the fruit. "It's yours."
Bram hesitated. Then, slowly, he broke the fruit in half. Its flesh glistened pale gold, juice dripping onto ash. He held out one piece.
"Share it," Bram said.
Kael blinked. He'd never tasted such a thing. For a moment, he almost refused. But Bram shoved it into his hand, and Kael bit down. Sweetness flooded his mouth, cutting through the taste of smoke and ash.
"Good, isn't it?" Bram grinned, teeth flashing beneath soot.
Kael swallowed. "Better than ash bread."
"Everything's better than ash bread."
For a moment, the two boys just sat there, chewing, breathing, alive.
Then Bram's voice grew quieter. "They'll be back. They always come back. They don't like me. My uncle… he tries, but he can't stop them."
Kael tilted his head. "Your uncle?"
"Only family I've got," Bram muttered. "My father was… not worth speaking of. My mother too. They left me to him. He's rough, but at least he doesn't let me starve."
Kael studied him. There was something in Bram's eyes — a toughness carved by hurt. He knew that look. He'd seen it in his mother's reflection.
Bram nudged him. "So what about you, mystery boy? Everyone says you don't belong to anyone. No father. Just smoke."
Kael didn't answer. He stared into the haze, fruit juice sticky on his fingers.
Bram smirked. "Fine. Don't tell me. But… you fought for me. No one's ever done that."
From the distance, a voice pierced the air, cracked with fear.
"Kael!"
It was Elira.
Bram glanced toward the sound. "That your mother?"
Kael nodded slowly.
"She sounds worried."
"She always is."
Bram grinned. "Then go, before she skins you alive."
Kael stood, brushing ash from his knees. He hesitated. "Will you be all right?"
Bram snorted. "I've survived worse. But… if they come again…" He trailed off.
Kael extended his hand. "Then I'll be there."
Bram blinked. Slowly, he clasped Kael's hand.
"Deal."
The boys released, and Kael darted back toward the furnaces, Elira's voice growing louder. Behind him, Bram watched, fruit pit clutched in his hand, as though holding proof that not all battles ended in loss.
---
The Cloaker's barks echoed again in the distance, and smoke thickened overhead. Somewhere deeper in the city, bells rang — sharp, metallic, foreboding.
And as Kael slipped back into the shadows of the furnace yard, unseen eyes watched from the higher walkways.
---
The hiss of the furnaces never died, not even as the workers staggered back from their short meal breaks. Ash drifted in a constant veil, and the black banners of the Serpent's Priest fluttered above the scaffolds like reminders of who owned every breath they took.
"Move, dogs!" a Cloaker's voice tore through the smoke. His whip cracked, the sound like lightning splitting the iron-dark sky.
Kael, dirt-streaked and breathless, had just slipped back to his mother's side after disappearing. Elira caught his arm, eyes narrowed in both fear and relief.
"Where were you?" she hissed.
"Helping," Kael whispered.
She didn't press further; she couldn't afford to—not with the Cloaker striding through the rows of workers, eyes hidden beneath his hood, whip dangling like a serpent's tongue. The man stopped in front of a woman whose pace had slowed.
"You think you can slack?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"I—I can't feel my arms, lord," the woman stammered. "Please, just a moment—"
The Cloaker's whip lashed. Flesh split. The woman screamed and collapsed to her knees.
Around her, hammers faltered, shovels stilled, but no one dared step forward. The sound of her sobs filled the furnace yard, a sound sharper than steel.
Kael froze, heart hammering. Beside him, Bram whispered: "They'll kill her."
Another voice, softer but brimming with restrained fury, cut in: "We can't just stand here."
Kael turned. A girl—tall for her age, maybe twelve—clutched a younger boy's hand. The boy's eyes were wide, lips trembling.
"Lyra," the boy whispered, tugging her sleeve. "Don't—"
"They'll kill her," Lyra repeated. Her dark braid swung over her shoulder as she clenched her fists.
Kael's breath caught. He didn't know her, but he knew that look—defiance, like fire refusing to die.
"You'll get yourself beaten too," Bram warned.
"Better me than her." Lyra took a step forward.
Kael moved before he thought, grabbing her arm. "Wait."
She spun, glaring. "Let go."
"You'll just make it worse."
Her jaw tightened. "And you'll do nothing? Is that what you are, mystery-child? A shadow with no courage?"
The insult burned, but Kael didn't flinch. Instead, he scanned the furnace yard—the ash, the scaffolds, the Cloaker's looming figure.
"Not nothing," Kael said quietly. "We make it a game."
Lyra blinked. "What?"
Kael's eyes darted to Bram. "The coal trick. We did it before, didn't we?"
Bram's eyes widened. "Kael—no—"
But Kael was already moving. He darted toward a pile of loose ore, grabbed two chunks of coal, and tossed one to Lyra.
"Throw it where I throw mine," he whispered. "On my mark."
The Cloaker raised his whip again. The woman cowered, blood streaking her back.
"Mark!" Kael shouted.
Two pieces of coal flew—one clattering against the iron scaffolds, the other bouncing near the Cloaker's boots. The sharp cracks echoed like an explosion.
The Cloaker jerked around, whip lashing the air. "Who dares—?"
Before he could finish, Kael scooped a handful of ash from the ground and hurled it. The cloud burst across the Cloaker's hood, coating his mask and stinging his eyes.
The man stumbled, blind, choking. His whip lashed wildly, striking the scaffolds instead of flesh.
"Now!" Kael yelled.
Workers burst into laughter—first one, then many, relief spilling into hilarity. Their voices rose, defiant, almost joyous.
"Look at the serpent stumble!" someone shouted.
"The sun has ash in its eyes!" another cried.
Even as they laughed, tools struck harder, sparks flew brighter—their pain eased for a moment by mockery.
Lyra stared at Kael, astonished. Then a slow grin spread across her face. She grabbed her brother's hand. "Come on, Joss!"
Together they darted after Kael and Bram, weaving through the scaffolds while the Cloaker bellowed curses.
"Stop them! Find those brats!"
But by the time other Cloakers stirred, the children were gone, slipping into a maze of shadows behind the slag heaps.
---
They didn't stop running until the clang of hammers dulled to a distant hum. In the narrow alley between two collapsed forges, the four children collapsed against the soot-streaked wall, panting.
"You're insane," Bram gasped.
"You're welcome," Kael shot back.
Lyra was still grinning. Her little brother, Joss, clung to her sleeve, eyes darting nervously.
"They'll remember," Joss whispered. "They always remember."
"They remember everything," Lyra said. "But so do we."
Kael tilted his head, studying her. She wasn't afraid. Not like the others.
"You could've ruined everything," Bram muttered.
"Or saved her life," Lyra countered. She looked at Kael. "What's your name?"
"Kael."
Her smile widened. "Lyra. And this is my brother, Joss."
Joss shrank behind her, scowling. "We shouldn't talk to him, Lyra. Mother said—"
"Mother said not to talk to anyone," Lyra interrupted. "And Father says a lot of things that aren't true."
Joss lowered his voice, glaring at Kael. "They say you're mystery-born. No father. That you carry the Serpent's blood."
The words stung, but Kael didn't look away. "Do I look like a Cloaker to you?"
Joss hesitated, then muttered, "No. But that doesn't mean—"
"It means he's different," Lyra cut in. "And different might be what we need."
Kael frowned. "Need for what?"
Lyra's eyes gleamed in the dim light. "To remember. To hope."
Bram groaned. "Hope doesn't feed us."
"No," Lyra said. "But it keeps us alive long enough to eat."
There was a silence. Then Kael asked, "Do you believe in the true Sun?"
Lyra's grin softened. "The one hidden by smoke? Of course. My grandmother whispered about Him. She said He still shines, even when the Bleeding Sun tries to blind us."
Kael's chest tightened. His mother had said the same.
Joss tugged her arm, nervous. "Don't talk like that. Someone will hear."
"No one's here," Lyra said. She turned back to Kael. "What about you, mystery-child? Do you believe?"
Kael met her gaze. The memory of his mother's whispered prayers stirred within him—the promise of a light beyond the furnaces.
"Yes," he said simply. "And if the true Sun still watches, He hasn't forgotten us."
For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. Then Lyra smiled again, but it wasn't mocking this time. It was something fiercer, steadier.
"Then maybe," she whispered, "He hasn't forgotten to send someone either."
Kael blinked. "Send who?"
Her eyes glimmered like coals in the dark. "His son. To deliver us."
The words hung in the air, dangerous, impossible, yet burning with something Kael couldn't name.
Bram shifted uneasily. Joss muttered a prayer under his breath. But Kael felt something tighten in his chest, something like a spark waiting to catch flame.
In the distance, a voice rose over the furnaces—sharp, searching, desperate.
"Kael!"
It was his mother.
The moment shattered. Fear rushed back in.
"We need to go," Bram hissed.
Lyra's grin faded, but her eyes still burned with defiance. She leaned closer, voice low, meant only for Kael.
"If you really are mystery-born… maybe the true Sun hasn't abandoned us after all."
---
The furnaces hissed low, choking their last fumes into the twilight air. The shift had ended, but the Cloakers didn't let silence take hold.
"Slag rats!" one barked, his mask muffling the roar but not the venom. "Think you can mock us? Think you can humiliate a Cloaker? We'll drag every runt from the gutters until the culprits scream for mercy."
Another Cloaker slammed his spear on the stone road, sparks leaping like angry fireflies. "Find them. Find those brats, and I'll roast their eyes out. No rat escapes the Bleeding Sun."
The workers kept their heads low, scattering like ants into the alleys that led to their shacks. But behind the downturned faces, whispers slithered.
"Did you see? That Cloaker flat on his back—"
"Ash in his teeth!"
"It was the boy… the mystery-born…"
"The Sun hasn't forgotten us. Maybe He sent him…"
Some laughed under their breath, bitter and hopeful at once. Others muttered prayers, hands trembling as they clutched their rations. For a fleeting moment, amidst the ash and fear, the people carried a spark.
---
Elira spotted him at the bend in the road — Kael, cheeks flushed, standing with Bram, Lyra, and little Joss. The four huddled close, still snickering like children who had stolen fire itself.
"Kael." Her voice cracked the air, sharp enough to slice through their laughter.
The boy froze. Bram took a step back. Joss's eyes darted for escape. Lyra stiffened, jaw set.
Elira strode forward, ash crunching underfoot. Her face was stern, shadowed by exhaustion, her hand already raised as if to cuff him. The children braced.
Then she saw their faces. The glow in Kael's eyes. The rare light in Bram's. Lyra's chin lifted in defiance, and Joss clung to her sleeve.
Her hand trembled, then fell. The scowl melted. A tired smile flickered. "So… these are your companions?"
The children bowed awkwardly, voices stumbling over greetings. "Good evening, ma'am—" "Sorry if—" "We weren't—"
Elira waved them off. "Go on, then. Run. You've worked enough mischief for one night."
They scampered into the alleys, still laughing.
---
Back at the hut, Kael sat with his head bowed. "Mother… are you angry with me?"
Elira sighed, brushing soot from his cheek. "Angry? No, Kael. For years, they've whispered you're cursed, that you don't belong. Yet tonight, you come home with friends. I am not angry. I am grateful."
Kael's lips quivered into a grin. "So… I can keep them?"
She laughed softly. "Friends are not things to keep, child. But hold them close while you can."
A knock rattled the door. Elder Thalos shuffled in, stooped and pale as ash. "Evening, Elira. Evening, boy."
Elira quickly set what little food she had — half a loaf, some watered broth. "Sit, Elder. Eat."
Before he could answer, the door slammed open again.
Neris staggered inside, her sleeve charred, the flesh beneath raw and blistered.
"By the Sun—Neris!" Elira leapt up, grabbing her arm. "What happened?"
"The farmland," Neris panted. Her voice trembled. "The one we carved back from ash. Hidden for seasons. The Cloakers found it. Burned it. Families—gone. I barely escaped."
As if summoned by her words, others stumbled in. Men with smoke in their lungs. Women with skin blistered by fire. Children hollow-eyed with hunger.
One collapsed against the wall, wheezing, "They torched the wheat. The last of it. We have nothing."
Murmurs swelled like a storm in the cramped hut.
"I can't take it anymore." A man slammed his fist against the floor. "This life is no life. Better death on the road than this furnace prison."
"They'll catch us," another argued, fear thick in her tone. "No one escapes Pyrrathis."
"My grandfather strayed too close, generations ago," an old woman muttered. "We were swallowed by this place. Born in chains, die in chains."
"Not all," came a rasp. Elder Thalos straightened, his cloudy eyes glinting. "There is a way. A secret route. I have seen it. Some have made it out. Few, but enough to prove it exists."
Hope and terror collided in the air. Voices overlapped, pleading, cursing, praying.
Elira gripped Thalos's hand. "Elder… can we make it?"
His answer was low, steady. "If we do not try, we are already dead."
---
The people began to pack, frantic, clumsy, stuffing scraps of bread, worn blankets, and tiny keepsakes into bundles. Children clung to mothers. Men sharpened rusted knives.
Kael rushed to the door to fetch his satchel. In his haste, his hand scraped against the splintered frame.
"Ah!" Blood welled bright against his skin. He shook his hand, droplets spattering onto the ash-stained floor.
They hissed.
The people froze.
Where the blood fell, the ash shimmered. Colors rippled — violet, emerald, sapphire — before collapsing into crimson, burning like coal.
"What—what is that?" someone whispered.
Elira's eyes widened. Fear and awe wrestled in her chest. She grabbed his hand, tearing a strip from her silver dress to wrap the wound. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Pay it no mind!"
But the people had seen. And though they turned away, whispers hissed anew.
---
Far away, in the Temple of the Serpent, stone eyes blazed red.
The idol of the great coiled beast trembled as a hiss split the chamber.
"He is here," the Serpent's voice thundered, rattling the bones of the priests prostrate below. "The son of the Sun walks among them. His blood burns My prison."
The High Priest bowed low, forehead to stone. "Tell me, Lord. Who? Where?"
"Find him," the Serpent snarled. "Bring him. Hope will bleed. The boy is mine."
---
That night, Cloakers and priests stormed the worker's quarters. Their torches cut the darkness, their voices slicing the air.
"Where is the family? The woman and her brat?"
Silence. The people shrank into shadows.
Then a voice rose — sharp, eager. The woman who had mocked Elira months before. She stepped forward, chin raised.
"What will I gain if I tell you?"
The High Priest's mask glinted red. "Promotion. No more furnaces. No more ash. You'll serve in the nobles' kitchens."
Her eyes gleamed. "Then I'll tell you. They're fleeing. East road. Past the slag pits."
"Good." The priest gestured, and two Cloakers seized her arms. "Take her."
She smirked, already tasting her escape from misery. "At last. At last, a place of honor."
They dragged her toward the temple steps. She lifted her chin high, striding as though into paradise.
The priests raised their hands. Color ignited. Flame burst.
Her scream tore the night. Flesh melted from bone, her body collapsing in a heap of
char.
The High Priest's voice echoed cold as iron: "There is no hope in Pyrrathis."
---
Far beyond, on the darkened road, Kael pressed close to his mother's side as the refugees hurried east. His bandaged hand throbbed. The night carried the echo of screams.
And above, hidden by ash, the true Sun burned unseen