The stink of rot and urine crawled up Rayon's nose, filling his lungs with the city's filth. He crouched low in the alley, knees scraping the stone, fingers clawing at a discarded piece of stale bread. His stomach growled so loud it almost masked the distant shouts of men chasing him.
Three days without proper food. Three days of gnawing emptiness in his chest. Three days of surviving by whatever scraps he could steal or fight for.
Rayon had learned the truth early: the world owed him nothing. And if he wanted to live, he had to take. Every. Fucking. Thing.
A baker's boy stumbled past, dragging a heavy sack of bread. Rayon's dark eyes—hollow, black, unblinking—fixed on it.
The world narrowed to the weight of that sack. Hunger was a beast, gnawing claws through every thought. Rayon's hand shot out. One clean, practiced swipe, and the sack tumbled to the ground.
The boy's scream was high-pitched, shrill, and pitiful. Rayon didn't care. He bolted.
Bare feet slapped the wet stones. He didn't look back. He couldn't.
"THIEF! STOP HIM!"
The voices of the slum rose behind him. The echo of boots pounding on stone, the harsh cries of men and women he had wronged or simply outrun, chased him down narrow alleys. Rayon ducked into a corner, pressed his back against the wall, and tore into the bread. Stale, hard, dirty. He shoved it into his mouth anyway, gnawing like an animal.
Then, something happened.
It started as a twitch at the edge of his vision. Shadows bent strangely, edges of the alley stretched, then snapped back. His skin prickled with a sensation he had never felt—like invisible threads brushing against him.
Curiosity overcame hunger. Rayon's fingers reached out instinctively—and brushed a single thread, fine and glowing faintly, weaving through the air like smoke.
A shiver ran through him. He flinched, expecting pain, punishment, death. But there was nothing. Only the thread, quivering at his touch.
Then, the world erupted.
A flash of heat in his chest. A scream that wasn't his. The sensation of being pulled apart, stretched, and slammed back together. He saw men fighting—blood everywhere, bodies torn open. Smelled it. Felt it. And then it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
Rayon gasped, his body trembling. The bread fell from his hands. The shard of glass he'd picked up for protection cut his palm open. Blood dripped, warm and sticky, but he didn't care.
Because the threads… they were still there. Hanging in the air, trembling, waiting.
He didn't understand yet. Hell, he barely even knew he was alive. But he understood one thing instinctively: this was his. His alone.
A smile spread across his lips. Not childish. Not weak. Cold. Hollow. A predator's grin in a boy's body.
For the first time in his miserable life, Rayon Veynar felt power.
And in the gutters of Veynar city, power was the only god.