Chapter 1: The Calling
The night was deadly silent, which was strange for the outskirts. Usually, you would hear drunkards walking, the stumbling of trash, or even the barking of stray dogs. But not on this night. This night was special.
It was the night of The Calling — or as the noble sects preferred, the Invitation. But names didn't matter. Tonight, the Mist would call out to frightened children, extending its informal summons.
Tonight was the night Kael and Lyra hoped they were not on the guest list.
"Can you hear anything?" asked Lyra, a slim girl with jet-black hair cascading down her back. Her eyes were like deep-cut emeralds, flickering with the firelight from the oil lantern — delicate as a ballerina dancing on a summer field. Her thin black eyebrows knitted together, betraying her concern. She was scared, but dared not show it in front of her twin brother.
No, not yet," Kael replied, hope barely masking the tremor in his voice.
They huddled together on a thin mattress on the floor of their small but comfortable room. The rough wooden walls seemed to press in tighter tonight, shadows leaning close.
Kael sat quietly, his lean frame folded into the corner. At sixteen, he still carried the fragile look of youth, but the sharp lines of his face betrayed a hardness born from years surviving the outskirts. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the flickering lantern light, veins faintly visible beneath the surface like roots beneath dry earth.
His jet-black hair, shorter and messier than Lyra's, fell across his forehead, framing a face often shadowed by silence. His eyes — deep emerald like his sister's — held a cautious intelligence, sharp and observant, yet guarded. Those eyes were his most striking feature: clear, alert, always watching, yet revealing little. The soft curve of his jaw and gentle slope of his nose reminded Lyra of their mother — a ghost of kindness in a harsh world. His lips were thin and usually pressed tight, betraying his shy nature, but when pushed, they could curl into a rare, quiet smirk.
Despite his slight build, Kael moved with quiet confidence — an alertness that said he was always ready to react, to fight if necessary. His clothes were simple and worn: a threadbare grey tunic and dark trousers, practical for slipping unseen through shadowed streets. Beneath the surface, there was fire — slow-burning, steady, yet capable of erupting without warning. It flickered in the way he held himself, in the subtle emotion behind his guarded eyes.
Beside him, Lyra was a stark contrast. Slightly taller, with long jet-black hair that flowed like a river down her back, catching the lantern light and shimmering with hints of blue. Her eyes, the same deep emerald as Kael's, sparkled with a restless energy — fiery and determined, like a dancer poised on the edge of motion. Her thin black eyebrows often lifted in curiosity or furrowed with stubborn resolve.
Lyra's face was more open, her high cheekbones flushed faintly even in the dim light, with a soft roundness that softened her sharp wit. Her lips were fuller, quick to smile or bite back a sharp remark, her presence both warm and commanding. She wore a simple dark dress, patched and worn from years of wear, but she carried herself with a headstrong grace, the kind that could rally friends or challenge foes without hesitation.
Together, they were a balance — quiet cunning and fierce spirit, survival and hope wrapped in the fragile skin of two outskirt children bound by blood and fate.
Lyra shifted to face him, noticing his hands trembling. She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him closer. His breath slowed; his shaking eased.
"Hey, I'm not a kid, you know?" he huffed.
Lyra smiled softly. "You're still a kid too..." Her voice trailed off as the room's temperature dropped.
The fire in the oil lamp flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows that slowed, stretched, then stillened.
"It's here," Kael whispered, eyes wide as they darted around the room.
The Calling had arrived