Chapter One : Ashes of Vaelborn
The city of Greywick did not sleep.
Even under the bruised colors of a dying sunset, merchants shouted from their stalls, gamblers crowded dice tables in smoky taverns, and cutpurses moved like shadows through crowded streets. It was a place where gold bought loyalty for a day, and betrayal for half the price. In this city, Kairo thrived.
Perched atop the slanted roof of an abandoned bell tower, the boy watched the streets below with sharp, hawk-like eyes. He was lean, quick, and dressed in scavenged leather armor too big for him, patched together with mismatched straps. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and the faint smudge of ash on his cheek made him look even younger than seventeen.
The pouch hanging at his side was nearly empty—just two bronze coins rattling inside. The day had been slow. People were careful with their pockets lately; rumors of war had tightened every fist around the little wealth they had left. Still, Kairo wasn't looking for ordinary coin tonight.
Tonight, he was hunting something rumored to be priceless.
Rumor had brought him here: a merchant from the northern provinces had arrived, carrying "a jewel that burned like the sun beneath the sea." Every cutthroat in Greywick had their eyes on it, but Kairo had the advantage—he'd overheard the merchant's guards complaining in a tavern about how heavy the thing was, and how they couldn't wait to unload it tomorrow morning.
That meant it was here.
In the city.
Probably locked away in the merchant's caravan, now stationed behind the guarded gates near the marketplace.
Kairo's lips curled into a grin. "A caravan means wagons. Wagons mean weak locks."
With the nimbleness of a cat, he dropped from the bell tower and slipped into the restless marketplace. Night was settling in, and lanterns were being lit—soft orange globes glowing against the cold wind that swept through the streets. The scents of roasted meat, burning incense, and sour ale mingled together, but the air carried something heavier too: tension.
From where he stood, he could hear the iron-march rhythm of soldiers moving through Greywick's outer roads, preparing for departure. War was coming soon. Everyone knew it, though no one said it out loud.
Kairo avoided the torchlight and crept toward the merchant's caravan. He spotted it easily—bright crimson wood, gilded hinges, and so pristine it looked wildly out of place among the cracked cobblestones and weather-beaten houses.
Two guards stood in front of the central wagon, their armor polished to a mirror shine. They were chatting about something, and Kairo caught a single word: tear.
It was enough to make his heartbeat quicken.
Just as he angled to slink behind the wagons, a voice stopped him cold.
"You've got sticky fingers, boy," it said—a woman's voice, smooth and calm, but with an edge sharper than glass.
Kairo froze. Slowly, he turned to see a figure leaning in the shadows of a nearby alley. She was tall, wearing a hooded cloak stitched with silver patterns that shimmered faintly in the lamplight. Her eyes… her eyes glowed faintly gold, like twin fragments of dawn.
Before he could speak, she tilted her head. "The thing in that wagon isn't meant for thieves, no matter how quick their hands. It's meant for kings. And for those strong enough to bear its weight."
Kairo let his grin return, masking his wariness. "Good thing I'm strong enough."
The woman smiled like someone who knew a secret—and in a blink, she was gone.
Shaking off the encounter, Kairo pressed on. He waited for the guards to step away for a patrol change, then slipped toward the back of the crimson wagon. His picks were ready, clicking inside the lock until it gave way with a soft snap—too soft. Was it really that easy?
Inside was darkness… and a single chest, small enough to carry in one arm. It looked ordinary, oak and iron-bound. But when Kairo opened it, the world seemed to *inhale.*
Nestled within was a shimmering sphere of light, liquid and fire all at once. It swirled with colors of blue so deep they looked like fragments of sky, and gold flashes that danced like embers. It was warm—warm enough that his fingertips tingled as he lifted it.
The Dragon's Tear.
The moment his hands closed around it, something ancient stirred.
A sound—more like a distant roar than wind—echoed in his ears. His vision blurred, and for an instant, he saw a colossal shape coiled in the darkness: scales like molten glass, and eyes like twin suns gazing directly into his soul.
The vision vanished. Torches flared outside. Shouts filled the air.
He had seconds before the guards returned.
Kairo shoved the Tear into his pouch and darted into the maze of back alleys. Lanterns streaked past him as he ran, boots slapping against stone, breath sharp in his throat. The roar from before still echoed in his mind—and somehow, he knew this wasn't just a jewel.
It was a key.
And it had just chosen him.