The wind in Greenglen had teeth.
Alex Green felt them all—tiny, icy bites pinning his threadbare sleeves to his arms as he trudged up the scrap-iron slope of Deadman's Ridge. Seventeen winters in the same village, ten of them orphaned, and still the cold managed to surprise him, like the world found new ways to say you don't belong. He carried a wicker basket in one hand and a half-rusted lantern in the other. Officially, he was hunting glow-shrooms for the apothecary. Unofficially, he was looking for anything he could sell before the rent-man showed up on Saint Elara's Day and booted him into the snow.
"One copper a shroom," he muttered, breath fogging. "Fat lot of good that does when rent's two silvers."
The Ridge used to be a copper mine, but the veins dried up around the time Alex's mother disappeared. Folks said she'd walked into the fog one night and kept walking. Folks said a lot of things, none of them useful. These days the mine was a scavenger's playground—pits, beams, and the occasional cave-in waiting to fold a kid like paper. Alex knew the dangers, but hunger was a persuasive teacher.
He spotted a cluster of glow-shrooms pulsing sapphire at the lip of a sinkhole. As he knelt, the ground gave a discontented groan. Not the usual creak of timber—more like a giant clearing its throat. Alex froze. The lantern guttered. Then the groan came again, lower, traveling through the soles of his boots.
Great. Either the ridge is settling, or I'm about to star in a collapsed-mine sob story.
He should've backed away. Instead, curiosity—his most expensive and persistent vice—pulled him forward. The sinkhole wasn't empty. A spiral of ancient steps, cut straight into the rock, sank into darkness that smelled of wet iron and something greener, older. A ruin, untouched as far as he knew, because no one in Greenglen was stupid enough to poke the ridge when it started whispering.
Alex, however, had a résumé of stupid decisions.
He dropped a glow-shroom down the shaft. It bounced, shedding sparks, until the blue dot vanished. Still going. His pulse drummed against his ears. Then he shrugged. "If I die, at least I won't owe rent."
He climbed.
The steps were uneven, each footfall a negotiation with gravity. Thirty feet down, the air warmed. The walls changed from splintered shale to smooth basalt etched with symbols—circles within circles, beasts devouring their own tails. Alex traced one with a finger. The stone pulsed, hot as fresh bread. The lantern flickered out.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
And spat him back out.
A breath later, light returned—except the lantern was still dead. The glow came from everywhere: veins of silver fire threading the ceiling, sketching the outline of a chamber. At its center stood an obelisk no taller than his chest, black glass shot through with crimson flecks. It looked like a heart ripped from something massive and frozen mid-beat.
Alex's basket slipped from numb fingers. Mushrooms scattered like coins across marble so polished it reflected his face—gaunt, freckled, a scar across his left eyebrow from a bar-room broom handle. He hated that scar. It made him look perpetually surprised, like life kept jumping out from corners yelling Boo!
The obelisk hummed, a note too low for ears, too high for bones. It tugged him forward until his palms pressed against the surface. Warm. Thumping. A heartbeat, but wrong—syncopated, desperate. The silver veins brightened, racing toward him, sketching a constellation across his skin. Alex tried to jerk away. His muscles locked.
A voice bloomed inside his skull, genderless, amused.
"Host criteria met. Physical threshold: sub-optimal. Mental resilience: adequate. Moral alignment…entertainingly ambiguous."
Alex squeaked—an undignified sound he'd deny later. "Who's—what—?"
"Initializing Beast-Taming Auxiliary System, version 0.9. Codename: Ember."
Words scrolled across his vision like reversed rain:
> [System Boot: 1%…13%…42%…]
[Error: Soul Signature Mismatch – Patching…]
[Patch Source: User Bloodline – Matrilineal Override Confirmed]
Bloodline? Mom. Had to be. She'd vanished clutching that tatty notebook full of circles and chicken-scratch Latin. Alex had burned the notebook last winter for warmth; the pages hissed green flames.
"Host, remain calm. Calibration complete. First binding commencing."
The floor cracked. A sigil flared beneath his boots—three interlocking triangles, beast silhouettes snarling in each corner. Wind howled upward, carrying sparks that smelled of cinnamon and sulfur. Something clawed its way out of the sigil: a bundle of red fur no bigger than a house-cat, eyes like molten gold, tail a living torch. It hit the marble, squealed, and promptly set Alex's pant leg on fire.
He danced, slapping flames. "Off! Off, you flaming weasel!"
The creature tilted its head, tail puffing. Indignation radiated. Alex's skin prickled; the silver veins on his arms shifted, forming a bracelet of light. An icon popped into his vision:
> [Nameless Fire-Type Cub – Potential: Tier ??? – Affinity: 97%]
[Suggested Action: Tame]
[Warning: Refusal may result in spontaneous combustion of host.]
"Refusal isn't on the table!" Alex yelped. He thrust his burning boot toward the cub. "Shake, partner?"
The cub sneezed embers, then licked his ankle. The fire died, replaced by warmth that pooled behind his ribs like good brandy. The bracelet solidified into a coppery bracer etched with the same circles-within-circles. A progress bar filled:
> [Binding Successful – Name Registration Required]
"Name, right." Alex considered. "You look like a living spark. So…Spark?"
The cub trilled, wings—wings?—unfurling from its shoulders. Tiny, bat-like, definitely not standard mammal issue. It launched, landing on his shoulder, tail wrapping around his neck like a scarf that could kill him any second.
"Tutorial quest available: Exit the ruin without dying.
Reward: Starter pack. Penalty: Death (irreversible)."
Alex swallowed. "Figures."
He turned toward the stairwell. The silver veins in the ceiling snapped, raining shards that dissolved into motes. The obelisk cracked down the middle, bleeding light. A roar echoed from somewhere deeper, a sound layered with too many throats. The ruin was waking up, and it was hungry.
Spark's claws dug through his shirt. Alex sprinted, boots skidding on marble. The spiral steps were gone—replaced by a slide of rubble pitching upward. He scrambled, fingers bleeding, Spark's tail lighting handholds like a benevolent arsonist. Behind him, the chamber imploded with a wet thoom, vacuum tugging at his heels.
Daylight appeared—a coin of pale sky shrinking as the sinkhole mouth caved inward. Alex leapt. He caught the lip, knees bashing shale, basket long gone. Spark bit his collar, adding drag, but the cub's weight was just enough counter-balance. He hauled himself over the edge and rolled onto dead grass as the ridge belched dust.
Greenglen's bells tolled sunset. No one came running; cave-ins were routine gossip. Alex lay on his back, lungs shredding frost, while Spark perched on his chest purring like crackling logs.
The voice returned, softer now, almost fond.
"Tutorial complete. Starter pack delivered."
A screen materialized:
> [Inventory: 1× Common Beast Core (Spark), 1× Skill Scroll – Flame Burst, 1× Mystery Egg (???)]
[Next Quest: Pay Rent. Optional: Reveal Mother's Fate. Accept?] [Y/N]
Alex stared at the sky, dust settling into his hair. His fingers found the bracer. Real. The egg—warm, speckled, size of a grapefruit—appeared in his lap. Real. Spark nipped his chin, eyes reflecting the first star.
He should've been terrified. Instead, a reckless grin split his face—the same grin that had talked him onto rooftops, into locked pantries, out of locked cells. Adventure had finally stopped flirting and grabbed his wrist.
"Mom," he whispered, "what the hell did you build?"
Above him, the star pulsed—red, hungry. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a second roar answered, deeper, closer. Spark's tail flared. The bracer grew hot enough to brand.
And in the dust at Alex's side, a single black feather drifted down, smelling of sulfur and distant storms. It hadn't come from Spark.
The feather twitched, pointing toward the village like an accusation.
Alex sat up, heart syncing to the bracer's thump-thump-thump.
Rent could wait.
The night had other plans.