Kaelen stepped through the shattered arch of Crimson Spire into the damp night, every breath echoing the molten core's heartbeat in his chest. His new six-foot-four frame felt both alien and inevitable—muscles swelling beneath torn leather, sinew humming with raw power.
He paused at the lip of the courtyard, recalling the distant tremor that had guided him here—the dying pulse of the city's Aether Wells, still whispering beneath the earth. Now that same acrid tang of Aether-tainted smoke and muffled shouts drew him toward Dragon's Teeth, the sprawling slum where magic and misery shared every gutter.
Around a toppled column, a lone figure rammed a rusted gate with savage resolve. Jonah's shoulder bore fresh bruises from smashing steel time and again. He'd slipped past guard rotations to scavenge calibrator shards—anything to buy medicine for his fevered sister, Mara—and always kept a blade for desperate roof-looting runs. Yet the echo of tearing metal hinted at treasure worth far more than shards.
With a final roar, the bar snapped free. Jonah tumbled through, knife raised, heart pounding in his ears. He froze at Kaelen's approach—towering, silent, amber eyes glowing gold.
Kaelen regarded him a heartbeat, then sheathed his bone-keratin claws with a soft click and extended a massive hand. Jonah hesitated—Mara's pale portrait in his locket urging him—before seizing the offer. Kaelen hauled him inside and slammed the gate shut with a single shoulder shove.
"I… thank you," Jonah panted, hand pressed to a fresh bruise. "Thought I'd end under those bars."
"Not tonight," Kaelen rumbled.
They slipped into Dragon's Teeth, where narrow alleys twisted between soot-blackened huts and collapsed carts. Lanterns swung on rusted hooks, puddles glimmered with oil, and a drunk's gravelly argument rumbled in the distance—proof the slum's savagery never slept.
Jonah let his knife drop. "Name's Jonah. I'm no merc—just a scavenger for shards until I heard metal tearing worth more." He touched his locket. "Mara's sick."
Kaelen inclined his head. "I'm… alone."
Jonah studied his towering form. "So… what now?"
Kaelen's gaze drifted to a faint lantern glow ahead. "Learn."
They found themselves in a small square, centered on an ancient lion-carved well. The marble lions' mouths were chipped, their stone bodies stained by centuries of rain. Kneeling beside it, hands weaving unseen sigils, was Liora—her silver hair threaded with tiny aether-beads that pulsed like captive stars. A floating lantern hovered at her side, its runes glowing in time with the Well's faint heartbeat.
Liora rose as they approached. Though her eyes were milky white, she seemed to see them both perfectly. "Two kings stand here: one who heals the Wells, one who razes them," she intoned, voice echoing like distant bells. "I prayed for the first… yet feared the second."
Jonah's eyes widened—this prophecy matched the pulse Kaelen had felt beneath the Spire. Liora laid a gentle hand on Jonah's bleeding side and murmured a rune-song. Warm, golden light flowed from her palm, knitting sinew and skin in seconds. Jonah gasped, flexing his side.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Power given is power owed," Liora said softly. She stepped back, lantern dimming to a steady glow.
Jonah straightened, breath steady. "Why help me?"
Kaelen's amber eyes held him. "I survive."
Jonah considered, then nodded. "Then let's survive together."
Liora inclined her head. "You're Tier I, Level 1. Paths remain hidden until the Rite at Level 4." She turned her lantern toward Kaelen. "And first, you must learn your claws."
She led them to a deserted backlot behind the tavern, where broken barrels and discarded crates formed a crude training ground. Jonah watched as Kaelen flexed his knuckles—bone-keratin talons gleaming in lantern light.
"First," Liora said, "feel the Aether in your claws. It responds to intent." She handed him a splintered crate. "Cut through its core—focus intent on precision, not just force."
Kaelen nodded and slashed the crate's center. The blade-like talons tore through wood as if it were paper, splinters spiraling outward. He paused, surprised, then tried again: a controlled downward arc that split the crate neatly in two.
"Good," Liora murmured. "Next…" She pointed to a stone slab. "Ground Smash, but with claws."
Kaelen crouched, planting his fists on the slab. He channeled Aether into his wrists and drove them down. The stone cracked in concentric circles, shards chipping away. He rose, heart pounding, marveling at how his raw strength now bore magical resonance.
Jonah cheered quietly. "Damn, you're a storm."
Kaelen allowed a ghost of a smile. "Then let me learn the downpour."
Liora guided him through Tiger's Step: a blur of movement that let him phase past a swinging lantern pole and reappear behind it. His claws drummed the post in a rapid stutter of taps—testing speed and control. Each step cost Aether, but Kaelen felt only a gentle hum, no drain yet.
Finally, she directed him to frosted glass leftover from a shattered lantern. "Claw slash—speed and finesse." He extended his talons and flicked a wrist. The glass "sang" as a clean arc carved a crescent, the shards falling away in glittering arcs.
Kaelen breathed out slow and steady. His heart thundered, chest heaving. In moments, he had tested iron, stone, wood, and glass—each cut a lesson in balance.
Jonah approached, awe in his stance. "You learn fast."
Kaelen sheathed his claws. "If I don't master this soon…" He let the thought trail off.
Liora nodded. "Power without control is ruin."
As the first pale finger of dawn light sliced above the rooftops, they returned to the Rusted Wheel Tavern. Inside, smoke curled under low beams; patrons murmured over ale. Jonah slid into a corner booth and ordered three waters—one for each of them.
Kaelen drank deeply, the cool water grounding him. Jonah leaned close. "Your squad—why not stop after the Spire?"
Kaelen's gaze darkened. "They sold loyalty for coin. I did what I had to survive." He tapped his chest. "But this…" He traced a finger over his heart. "…this demands mastery."
Jonah exhaled. "Walking that edge… it cuts deep."
Kaelen nodded. "I'll bleed if I must."
A hush fell as Velora slipped in like a shadow. Velvet robes whispered over the floor, raven hair framed a pale face, and crimson runes coiled along her arms. She paused at their table, fingertips tracing a rune that flared bright.
"Legends speak of Ironclaw—a Weaver reborn in blood and bone," she purred. "Whispers on the ley-winds guided me here. Your roar shattered stone; I offer mastery. Meet me in the Arena at dawn. Or remain a beast of the night."
Jonah's breath hitched; Liora's lantern flared. Kaelen rose, every muscle coiled.
"Dawn," he replied, voice steady as oath.
Outside, the moon faded as dawn crept over Phoenix City. Kaelen stepped into the new day—claws sheathed, resolve forged in practice—and prepared for the Rite that would shape his destiny.