Kael stepped off the back of a merchant cart just as dawn's first rays crept over the bay, staining the clouds orange and blood-red. The sea crashed in steady rhythm beyond the docks, and gulls wheeled above with lazy hunger. Ships groaned in the harbor, their sails like tired wings folded in.
Kael's hood was drawn low, shadowing his face. The cloak he wore had holes and frayed edges, but it served its purpose—to make him invisible.
To the world, he was just another orphan drifting toward the edge of survival.
To himself, he was something different now: a fuse waiting to be lit.
The map his mother left had been folded a hundred times already, its corners soft with wear. A crimson "X" marked a place deep inside Driftpost's underbelly: The Third Lantern, a tavern buried within the lower port quarters.
He clutched it in his hand as he moved through the marketplace.
Driftpost buzzed with life—sailors shouting over crates, children darting between carts, a street bard singing a tune about a girl who vanished into mist. But beneath the laughter and chatter, there was tension—an air of caution. As if everyone feared stepping on a landmine that might smile back and slit their throat.
Kael didn't speak to anyone. He didn't need directions.
He followed the smell of mold and sour ale.
By midday, he found it.
The Third Lantern wasn't a tavern—it was a hole. Nestled between a collapsed watchtower and a burned-out smithy, its only sign was a rusted iron lantern hanging by a frayed rope, its flame long dead.
Inside, the room was low-ceilinged and dim, with a dozen mismatched tables. Shadows clung to the corners like rats. The patrons were rough—mercenaries, smugglers, a few quiet men in red coats who didn't drink but watched everything.
Kael stepped through the threshold.
No one turned. No one greeted him.
Perfect.
He took a seat at the far end of the room, near a cracked window, and waited.
The letter had told him: "Find the man with the scar over his lip. Ask for 'Ash Root.'"
An hour passed. He nursed a chipped mug of stale water.
Then the door creaked open.
A man stepped in, tall and lean with hair like iron filings and a jagged scar running from the right side of his lip to his jaw.
Kael's heart leapt. That had to be him.
He waited until the man sat at the counter, then stood and approached.
"Excuse me," Kael said, quiet but clear. "Are you the one who knows where to find Ash Root?"
The man froze mid-pour.
Then he turned his head slowly, eyeing Kael like a knife ready to be drawn.
"Who's asking?"
Kael swallowed. "Kael. Son of—"
"I know who you are."
The man stood. Every muscle in his body seemed wired for violence.
"Follow me. Now."
Kael didn't hesitate.
They moved through the tavern's back door into a narrow alley. The man didn't speak as he led Kael through winding streets, down three stairwells, and into a locked stone chamber beneath a fishmonger's stall.
The room was bare—no windows, only one flickering lamp. It smelled of metal and ink.
"You're alive," the man finally said.
Kael nodded. "You knew my parents?"
The man sighed. "Knew them. Fought beside them. Hid with them. Watched them disappear, one by one."
He sat on a stool and stared at Kael with something between guilt and awe.
"You were just a baby the last time I saw you. Didn't think I'd ever see you again. And certainly not here."
Kael's voice sharpened. "Who was that man? The one who killed them. With the mark on his back."
The man's jaw clenched. "The Marked Man."
"You know him?"
"I know of him. Everyone who's ever opposed the World Crown does. He's not just an enforcer. He's a hunter. When they send him... it means you're not just a threat. You're a reminder. A warning."
Kael felt his fingernails digging into his palms. "Why us?"
The man hesitated, then said: "Your father was part of something big. Something dangerous. He wasn't just a rebel—he was one of the Founders of the Ash Root."
Kael blinked. "Ash Root is... a group?"
"A network," the man nodded. "Of spies, ex-soldiers, truth-singers, mapmakers. People who saw what the World Government was doing—stealing Radiant Bloodlines, rewriting history, branding dissenters—and decided to fight back."
"And my mother?"
"She was our messenger. She knew how to disappear, how to lie with a smile. And she loved you more than anything."
Kael looked down. "They didn't tell me any of this."
"They were protecting you. And now... they're gone. Which means you're on your own."
Kael looked up sharply. "I'm not alone. I have this." He pulled the pendant from beneath his shirt.
The man stared. For a long time.
"...It's waking up," he whispered.
"What is?"
"That pendant isn't just a keepsake. It's a key. A seal. A Radiant Core."
Kael froze. "Radiant...?"
"You haven't awakened yet, have you?"
"I don't know what that means."
The man stood, strode to a crate, and pulled out a faded tapestry. He spread it across the floor, revealing a design of twelve symbols—each radiant, glowing faintly.
"These are the Twelve Great Radiant Marks," he said. "Inherited powers. Blood-bound gifts. Each tied to a bloodline the government either controls... or destroyed."
He pointed to one shaped like a burning eye.
"This one was called The Starseer's Insight. Lost... or so we thought."
He looked at Kael. "Your mother carried the dormant gene. Your father—he awakened it."
Kael touched the pendant again. "Then I have it too?"
"Maybe. Or maybe you're something new."
Kael closed his eyes. "Then help me awaken it."
The man didn't speak for a moment. Then, quietly:
"Training begins tonight."
That Night
They met on the roof of a forgotten warehouse near the water. Storm clouds brewed overhead. The moon was gone.
The man—who finally told Kael his name was Ryke—tossed him a wooden staff.
"No blades," he said. "Not until you stop flinching."
Kael caught it awkwardly. "I don't flinch."
Ryke smirked, then lunged.
Kael flinched.
The staff struck his shoulder and sent him sprawling into the gravel.
Ryke didn't wait. He swung again, forcing Kael to roll, block, and scramble to his feet.
"Your parents taught you how to run. I'll teach you how to stand."
They sparred for hours.
Kael bled. Bruised. Fell more times than he could count.
But he got up. Every time.
By the time Ryke called for a break, Kael could barely lift the staff.
"You learn fast," Ryke admitted.
"I don't have time to be slow."
Ryke nodded approvingly. "You've got fire. That's good. But fire alone gets you killed."
Kael leaned against a beam, breathing hard. "What now?"
Ryke glanced at the sky. "Now we find the second name on the map."
Kael looked up. "There's more?"
"Seven names. Seven marks. Seven truths the government tried to bury. Your parents didn't die just to protect you. They died to buy you a head start."
Kael clenched his fists. "Then I'll finish what they started."
Ryke stared at him for a long moment, then turned away.
"Sleep while you can. The next one won't be as kind as me."
Far Across the Ocean...
In a palace of white marble and obsidian mirrors, the Marked Man kneeled before a throne.
A woman sat upon it—her face veiled, her voice calm as still water.
"You failed to kill the boy."
The Marked Man didn't raise his head. "He survived by chance. But I saw the mark. He carries the core."
The woman tilted her head. "Then the old bloodline isn't extinct."
"No, Empress."
"Then let it awaken."
A pause.
"Let him find the names. Let him gather them."
Another pause.
"And then bring him to me."
The Marked Man nodded once. "Yes, Empress."