The rain hammered against the workshop's tin roof like bullets, each drop a sharp reminder that even the weather in the Undergrowth had teeth. Twelve-year-old Kael pressed his face against the grimy window, watching the water cascade down in dirty rivulets that turned the alley outside into a river of mud and refuse.
"Kael." His father's voice cut through the storm's din, steady but strained. "Come away from there."
Thomas Shadowborn stood hunched over his workbench, tools scattered around him like the remnants of a life half-lived. His calloused hands moved with practiced precision as he assembled another piece of standard-grade mercenary equipment—nothing fancy, nothing that would draw attention from the wrong people. In the Undergrowth, attention was a luxury that could get you killed.
"Da, why do you look so worried?" Kael turned from the window, noting the tension in his father's shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when he thought no one was watching. "You've been acting strange all week."
Thomas's hands stilled on the weapon he was calibrating. For a moment, the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain and the distant echo of voices from the tavern three buildings down. When he looked up, his eyes held a weight that seemed too heavy for any man to carry.
"Sometimes, son, a man stumbles onto things he was never meant to see." Thomas set down his tools and moved to the small stove in the corner, where a pot of thin stew bubbled weakly. "And sometimes, those things change everything."
Kael frowned. His father had always been careful with words, especially since they'd moved to this cramped workshop in the heart of the Undergrowth six months ago. Before that, they'd lived in a decent apartment in the Merchant's Bay district—nothing luxurious, but clean, safe. Then one day, Thomas had packed their few belongings and announced they were leaving. No explanation, no discussion. Just the grim determination that had carried them through the years since Kael's mother died in childbirth.
"What kind of things?" Kael pressed, moving closer to his father.
Thomas ladled stew into two chipped bowls, his movements deliberate and controlled. "The kind that makes powerful people very angry when they're exposed." He handed Kael a bowl, their fingers brushing for a moment. Thomas's skin was cold despite the warmth of the workshop. "Eat up. You'll need your strength."
The stew tasted like water and hope—thin, unsatisfying, but better than nothing. Kael had learned not to complain about food since they'd come to the Undergrowth. Here, even scraps were precious.
"Da, are we in trouble?"
Thomas sat heavily on the wooden crate that served as his chair, suddenly looking older than his thirty-five years. "We might be, son. That's why I need you to listen to me very carefully." He reached under his workbench and pulled out a small canvas bag, already packed. "If anything happens to me—anything at all—you take this bag and you run. You understand? You don't look back, you don't try to help, you just run."
Kael's spoon clattered against his bowl. "What do you mean, if anything happens? Da, you're scaring me."
"Good." Thomas's voice was firm but not unkind. "Fear keeps you alive in this world, Kael. Remember that." He stood and moved to a loose floorboard near the back wall, prying it up to reveal a hidden compartment. From it, he withdrew a small device—primitive tech, but functional. A recording unit.
"Three days ago, I was making a delivery to the Neutral Zone," Thomas began, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Standard job, nothing special. But the client wanted to meet in an abandoned warehouse, and said he needed privacy for the transaction." He turned the recording device over in his hands, as if it contained something poisonous. "I got there early, like I always do. Professional habit. But I heard voices coming from inside—important voices. So I listened."
The rain seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was just Kael's heartbeat thundering in his ears. "What did you hear?"
Thomas activated the device. The sound quality was poor, distorted by distance and interference, but the words were clear enough:
"—the Capital Federation's military will be neutralized within six months. General Veynar has confirmed the timeline."
"And the mercenary groups?"
"Those that serve us will prosper. Those that don't..." A pause, filled with dark implications. "The Crimson Serpents have never failed to clean up loose ends."
"Excellent. The Shadow Council's vision will finally be realized. A new world order, built from the ashes of the old."
Thomas switched off the device, his face pale in the workshop's dim light. "There were seven of them, Kael. Seven people planning to tear down everything—governments, mercenary guilds, entire nations. They spoke of wars, assassinations, and economic collapse. All orchestrated, all planned."
Kael's mind reeled. The Shadow Council—he'd heard whispers of such a group in the taverns, dismissed as conspiracy theories and drunk talk. But his father's expression left no room for doubt.
"The Crimson Serpents," Kael whispered. "Are they real?"
"Real and deadly." Thomas moved to the window, peering through the rain-streaked glass. "Obsidian Tier mercenaries, son. The best killers money can buy. And if they know I have this recording..."
A sound from outside made them both freeze—the splash of boots in puddles, moving with purpose rather than the random wandering of late-night drunks. Thomas's hand went to the knife at his belt, a gesture so quick and natural that Kael almost missed it.
"How many?" Kael breathed.
Thomas held up four fingers, then pointed to the back of the workshop. There, hidden behind a stack of metal sheets, was a crawlspace barely large enough for a child. They'd used it for storage, but now Kael understood its true purpose.
"Get in there," Thomas whispered urgently. "Take the bag, take the recording. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, you stay hidden until they're gone. Promise me."
"Da, I can't—"
"Promise me!" Thomas's voice cracked like a whip, desperate and commanding.
"I promise."
Kael grabbed the bag and the recording device, his hands shaking as he squeezed into the cramped space behind the metal sheets. Thomas arranged them carefully, leaving only the smallest gap for air and sight. Through it, Kael could see a sliver of the workshop—his father standing by the workbench, tools in easy reach, every muscle coiled for violence.
The front door exploded inward with a crash that made Kael's ears ring. Four figures in dark tactical gear swept into the room, moving with the fluid precision of apex predators. Their faces were hidden behind masks, but their leader bore a distinctive tattoo on his left hand—a crimson serpent coiled around a dagger.
"Thomas Shadowborn." The leader's voice was cultured, educated, with the kind of confidence that came from never having been told 'no.' "You've been a very difficult man to find."
Thomas straightened, his hand still resting casually near his knife. "Commander Thorne, I presume. Your reputation precedes you."
So this was Thorne—the man whose name was whispered in fear throughout the mercenary underworld. Kael studied him through the gap, memorizing every detail. Average height, lean build, but something in his posture suggested coiled violence. The serpent tattoo seemed to writhe in the workshop's flickering light.
"My reputation is well-earned," Thorne replied. "As is yours, though in a different way. A simple equipment supplier, living quietly in the Undergrowth. Except you're not quite as simple as you appear, are you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
Thorne gestured, and one of his men stepped forward, producing a small scanner. Advanced tech—cutting-edge level, far beyond anything that should exist in the Undergrowth. The device hummed as it swept the room, and Kael held his breath as it passed near his hiding spot.
"Interesting," Thorne mused as the scanner beeped. "Traces of recording equipment, recently used. And here I thought we were dealing with an innocent bystander."
Thomas's hand moved toward his knife, but froze as three weapons trained on him instantly. The Crimson Serpents moved like extensions of Thorne's will, perfectly coordinated.
"I wouldn't," Thorne advised. "My men are quite skilled, and I'd prefer to have this conversation while you're still breathing. Now, about that recording you made three days ago..."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Thorne sighed, the sound somehow more terrifying than any threat. "Thomas, Thomas. Do you know what I admire most about the mercenary profession? Honesty. When we're hired to kill someone, we don't pretend it's for their own good. We don't dress it up in noble language. We simply do the job." He stepped closer, and Kael could see his eyes now—cold, calculating, utterly without mercy. "So let me be honest with you. You heard something you shouldn't have. You recorded something that could cause my employers considerable inconvenience. And now you're going to give me that recording, or I'm going to hurt you in ways that will make you beg for death."
Thomas straightened, and for a moment, Kael saw the man his father had been before grief and responsibility had worn him down. "And if I give you the recording? You'll let me live?"
"I'll let you die quickly."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Thomas nodded slowly, as if he'd expected nothing else. "Then I suppose we have nothing to discuss."
He moved faster than Kael had ever seen him move, the knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. But the Crimson Serpents were faster. The first shot took Thomas in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second caught him in the leg, dropping him to his knees.
"Search the place," Thorne ordered. "Find that recording."
Kael bit down on his knuckle to keep from crying out as his father collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. The Serpents moved through the workshop like a plague, overturning everything, destroying a lifetime of careful work in minutes. One of them approached Kael's hiding spot, and he pressed himself deeper into the shadows, certain his thundering heartbeat would give him away.
But the metal sheets held, and the searcher moved on.
"Nothing, Commander," one of the Serpents reported. "If there was a recording, it's not here."
Thorne knelt beside Thomas, who was struggling to stay conscious. "Last chance, my friend. Where is it?"
Thomas raised his head with tremendous effort, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, but Kael heard every word: "Go... to hell."
Thorne stood, brushing dust from his knees. "I'm sure I will, eventually. But you'll be there first." He drew a sidearm—advanced tech, the kind that could punch through armor. "Any last words?"
Thomas turned his head slightly, and for one terrifying moment, Kael thought his father was looking directly at him. But Thomas's eyes were unfocused, already seeing something beyond the workshop, beyond the pain.
"Tell my son..." Thomas whispered, so quietly that Thorne had to lean closer to hear. "Tell him that some things are worth dying for."
The shot was surprisingly quiet—a soft pneumatic hiss that seemed almost anticlimactic after so much tension. Thomas Shadowborn crumpled to the floor of his workshop, and the light went out of his eyes forever.
Kael clamped both hands over his mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to tear from his throat. Tears streamed down his face as he watched his father's blood spread across the wooden floor, mixing with the rainwater that dripped through the leaky roof.
"Burn it," Thorne ordered. "Make it look like an accident. And keep searching for that recording—if it surfaces, we'll all answer to the Council."
The Serpents moved with efficient brutality, dousing the workshop with accelerant. But as they prepared to leave, Thorne paused at the doorway, his head tilted as if listening to something only he could hear.
"Commander?" one of his men asked.
"Nothing," Thorne replied after a moment. "Just... nothing."
They left as suddenly as they'd arrived, swallowed by the rain and darkness. Kael remained hidden as flames began to lick at the walls, the heat growing unbearable. Only when the smoke threatened to choke him did he finally emerge from his hiding place.
His father lay where he'd fallen, eyes closed, face peaceful despite the violence of his death. Kael knelt beside him, tears mixing with the rain that poured through the burning roof.
"Da," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Da, I'm sorry. I should have helped. I should have—"
But Thomas's eyes flickered open, just for a moment. Impossible, but real. His lips moved, forming words that only Kael could hear:
"The Shadow Council... seven members... they're planning... to destroy everything..." His breathing was labored, each word a monumental effort. "The recording... hidden in your mother's locket... the one I gave you..."
Kael's hand went to his neck, where a simple silver locket hung on a thin chain—the only thing he had of his mother. He'd never been able to open it, assuming it was broken.
"The catch... press twice, then twist..." Thomas's voice was fading. "Find Marcus Kane... in the Frostpeaks... he'll help you... become strong enough..."
"Strong enough for what?"
Thomas's eyes focused on his son one last time, and in them, Kael saw not just love, but a terrible purpose. "Strong enough... to make them pay."
The light faded from Thomas Shadowborn's eyes, and this time, it didn't return.
Kael sat in the burning workshop, holding his father's hand as the flames consumed everything they'd built together. The rain continued to fall, but it couldn't wash away the blood, couldn't cool the fire, couldn't bring back the dead.
When the roof finally collapsed, Kael was gone, vanished into the maze of alleys that made up the Undergrowth. In his hand, he clutched the canvas bag his father had prepared. Around his neck, his mother's locket seemed to burn against his skin.
And in his heart, a cold fire had been lit—one that would burn for thirteen years, growing stronger with each passing day, until it became an inferno that would consume the Shadow Council and everything they'd built.
The boy named Kael Shadowborn died that night in the flames.
What emerged from the ashes was something else entirely.
Something that would make the Crimson Serpents wish they'd never heard the name Shadowborn.