The city of Duskgrave was alive even in the dead of night. Carriages rattled across cobblestones, street hawkers peddled charms under flickering gas lamps, and in the distance, the spires of the Cathedral cut the sky like knives.
To mortals, it was just another sleepless city.
But to those who knew, Duskgrave was the capital of forgotten gods.
Every shadow had a price. Every whisper carried a name. And every street corner hid someone watching.
Azel Draven walked among them, hood drawn low, gloves covering the sigil that burned faintly against his skin. Mortals looked at him and saw nothing remarkable—a tall man with sharp eyes and a heavy silence about him. But those sensitive to the hidden layers of reality felt it instantly.
They flinched when he passed. They bowed their heads without knowing why. To look at him too long was to feel the pressure of deep water on the lungs.
Azel ignored it. He had learned long ago that power drew attention like blood in the water. And in this city, attention was death.
The Archive Guild, where he had taken refuge, was the only place that offered the illusion of normalcy. A fortress of books and knowledge, guarded by librarians who wore steel masks and treated secrets like currency.
It was here he first met Liora Veyne, a junior archivist with ink-stained fingers and a talent for noticing too much.
"You don't catalog properly," she said one evening, catching him in the restricted section. Her voice was firm, but her hands shook as she held the lantern. "Books don't rearrange themselves unless someone is tampering."
Azel looked at her, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. He hadn't meant to make the books obey him—they simply bent when he willed them to.
Liora swallowed hard, realizing she had stepped into something far beyond her rank. But instead of retreating, she straightened her back.
"You're not like the others, are you?" she asked softly.
Azel almost smiled. Few dared to say it aloud.
That same night, the Guild was attacked.
The invaders came silently—robed figures wearing porcelain masks, etched with fractal patterns that seemed to shift in the lantern light. They were members of the Obsidian Choir, a cult that served forgotten gods with hymns of madness.
"Give us the Ascendant," one of them hissed as they stormed the halls. "We know he hides here."
The librarians drew blades. Sigil-bearers on the Guild's side activated wards, filling the corridors with blue flame and binding glyphs. The battle was brutal, magic clashing against magic, shadows bleeding into the walls.
Azel stood apart, hands in his pockets. He hadn't been discovered—not yet. He could let them fight and slip away.
But then he saw Liora cornered, her lantern shattered, as a masked cultist raised a hooked blade over her.
Something old stirred inside him. The voices in his skull screamed to be unleashed.
He raised his hand.
Reality bent.
The masked cultist froze mid-strike, his body unraveling into streams of ash that dissolved into nothing. The air cracked like glass. Every flame in the hall guttered out, leaving only the glow of Azel's mark.
The fighting stopped. Dozens of eyes turned toward him—librarians and cultists alike. The weight of his presence pressed them to the ground, some kneeling, some whimpering, none able to move.
The cultists dropped their weapons first. Their masks tilted low, voices trembling.
"Master…" they whispered. "We have found you at last."
The librarians stared at him with equal fear. And Azel realized, too late, that he had chosen a side without meaning to.
He was no longer hidden.
He was revealed.