The town of Duskveil was a place that forgot how to dream. Its narrow cobblestone streets wound between leaning houses with peeling paint, and the mist that clung to the alleys made every corner feel colder than it should. Children laughed there, but never with him. Men and women worked, but never looked at him with kindness.
Kael Ardyn moved through those streets like a shadow no one wanted to notice. His frame was thin, his clothes a size too large, stitched and re-stitched from the charity of others. His hair fell in an uneven mess over his pale face, hiding eyes the color of storm clouds—eyes that unsettled people even when he said nothing.
He was an orphan, abandoned at the steps of the old church when he was barely able to walk. The sisters had raised him for a time, but whispers grew louder with the years: that he was cursed, that strange things happened around him, that the air grew heavy when he was angry. Eventually, the church gave him freedom in the cruelest way—they pushed him out, leaving him to fend for himself.
Now sixteen, Kael lived in a half-ruined loft above the town's forgotten library. Books were his only companions, the only voices that didn't judge or ridicule him. By candlelight, he devoured old tales of knights and sorcerers, of wars fought between heaven and hell. Yet when he read them, something stirred in him—a flicker of recognition, like the words weren't stories at all but faint echoes of something he had once known.
But Kael never told anyone. He never told them about the marks either.
Sometimes, when he was alone, faint lines appeared on his chest and arms, glowing with a light that wasn't quite golden, wasn't quite black. They pulsed with quiet rhythm, like the heartbeat of another being hidden beneath his skin. He pressed his palms against them until they faded, trembling with fear that someone might see.
The townsfolk already called him strange. If they discovered the truth, they might call him monster.
That afternoon, as the last sunlight bled across the rooftops, Kael carried a bundle of wood through the marketplace. A group of boys followed him—older, stronger, children of blacksmiths and hunters. They shoved him, mocking the way he stumbled, calling him names that had stuck to him since childhood.
"Ghost-eyes," one sneered. "Don't look at him too long, or he'll curse you."
Kael kept his gaze lowered. His instinct was to shrink, to let the storm pass as always. He whispered apologies he didn't owe, tried to slip past without drawing more attention. His timid nature was his shield; if he acted small enough, maybe they would forget he was there.
But as they pushed him again, his vision blurred. The world tilted, and for a heartbeat the mark on his chest flared beneath his shirt. He gasped, clutching the wood tightly, forcing himself to calm before anyone noticed.
None of them saw the faint glow. None of them noticed the trembling air. But Kael felt it—an echo of something vast within him, stirring like a beast in its sleep.
When the bullies grew bored and left, Kael remained frozen in the street, heart pounding. He dropped the wood and pressed a hand against his chest. His breath came ragged, and in that moment he whispered to the empty air:
"What… am I?"
The question lingered with no answer. Yet deep within, something ancient and waiting seemed to whisper back—too faint to understand, but promising that the timid boy would not remain timid forever.