Year 932, End of 2nd Month - Aetherwyn Calendar
Imperial Throne Hall, Inner Sanctum of Ael'Sharaan
The chamber was vast, silent, lit only by pale starlight pouring through an open lattice of crystal above. Incense smoldered in brass braziers, curling through the still air like memory. Not even the sound of footsteps echoed in this place—not unless the emperor willed it.
He sat alone on a throne of carved obsidian, veined with gold that pulsed faintly with life. His eyes were shut, hands resting gently on his knees. In the stillness, he felt it—a rupture. A thread that has tethered part of his dominion to his soul has been severed.
The Blood Oath was broken.
His voice rang out, quiet as a whisper but sharp as blade. "Suren."
A breath later, a figure materialized from the shadows, kneeling low. Clad in layered silver and crimson armor, Suren of the Twelfth Flame—Warden of the Emperor's Will, bowed his head.
"Yes, my Emperor."
"There has been a tearing." The emperor's eyes opened—ageless and cold, touched faintly by gold. "The Blood Oath bound to Viremoor has snapped."
Silence lingered. Emperor stood, robes falling like a shadow from his form.
"You will go to Viremoor, Suren. You will find out what has happened. Quietly. No declarations. No banners."
"By your will."
The emperor sat back in silence, eyes closed once more.
Year 932, Beginning of 4th Month - Aetherwyn Calendar
The sun clawed its way over Viremoor's tall walls, painting the sky the color of a fresh bruise. As dusk fell, the city stirred to life instead of winding down. After a long day of toil, people drifted toward taverns seeking warmth, drinks or fleeting pleasure in the red-light district. Others, less fortunate, shuffled toward their makeshift shelters, clutching what few scraps they could afford with the meager coins they had earned.
Though the streets bustled and Viremoor gleamed with prosperity, its corners told another story—one gnawed hollow by rot. There, in the cracks of the city's grandeur, lived the rats. Not vermin—people: nameless, homeless, forgotten. With no family, no coin, no clothes, they lived in a constant shadow of death, tethered to life by little more than hunger and hope.
The sun's dying light barely reached the alley where two street rats crouched, its glow smothered by layers of soot-streaked stone. Nathan's stomach growled loud enough to startle a real rat gnawing on a chicken bone nearby. Half-rotten—but still better than nothing. He eyed it, but Kev slapped his wrist. "Save your hunger for the feast," he muttered, though his own lips were cracked from licking them too often.
The Silver Tankard Tavern loomed ahead, its sign swinging with a creak like a hanged man's rope. Laughter and the stench of burnt fat spilled from its windows. Kev crouched behind a rain barrel, fingers tapping a jittery rhythm on his thigh—tap-tap-tap. Nathan knew that sound. It was the beat of Kev's nerves, the one he made when pretending not to be scared.
He still remembered the day he had been just a step away from starving to death, when Kev had appeared—bringing food, taking him in and teaching him not only how to survive but how to thrive in these unforgiving streets. For a long time, Nathan had wondered why Kev saved him that day. He was nothing but a burden, a burden that his own parents decided to abandon. But living with Kev all these years, he realized the truth: Kev saw himself in Nathan. That realization settled deep, and with it came a promise—he would do anything for his brother.
A sigh escaped him as memory of their harsh lives flickered through his mind.
"Huh—hah," Kev's sharp breath pulled Nathan from his thoughts. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, focused on what lay in front of them, refusing to dwell on the past.
"Remember the plan," he said. "Wait until Harkan's chasing me. Then move."
Nathan nodded, throat tight. He hesitated, then voiced the fear gnawing at him. "But what if they caught us? They'll beat us to death, Kev."
"You'd rather starve?" Kev snapped. "Yesterday, we spent four hours by the river. One fish. One. And you puked it up. The river's poisoned anyway—thanks to the tanneries and piss-filled sewers."
"We could check the Temple," Nathan said quietly. "See if the nobles left any offerings. Or maybe beg at the City Center. I'll do it—you keep watch. It's better than robbing the Silver Tankard. I heard Harkan has ties with the nobles."
Kev scoffed. "The guards will chase us off before we say a word. They'd rather toss us to the hounds than let us taint their precious marble. Besides, they've tightening patrols lately—between the inner and outer city. Caught a couple of rats trying to sneak through yesterday. Word is the City Lord's planning something. Once their plan succeeds for the inner city, they'll start crawling through here too."
He glanced toward the tavern. "This'll be our last heist for a while. After this, we lay low." He licked his dry lips anticipating the upcoming feast.
"That just proves my point," Nathan hissed. "If they catch us hitting a place like Harkan's now, we won't just get beaten—we'll wish we were dead."
Kev leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Simple. Don't get caught. I'll bait Harkan—he's half-blind from all the rotgut anyway. While he's chasing me, you grab the food. Then meet me at the Crow's Nest."
Nathan hesitated, his gut twisting. "Easier said than done," he muttered.
Inside the Silver Tankard, Old Harkan's gravelly laughter boomed. "Another round for the bastards who actually pay!" Glasses clinked. A drunkard broke into an off-key tune.
Kev smirked. "Watch this."
He stepped into the tavern's torchlight, all fake swagger.
"Oi, Harkan! Heard your wife's charging extra for the 'ale' upstairs!"
Silence. Absolute silence!
Then—a snort. A giggle. A merchant with wine-stained teeth burst out laughing.
"Kid got you pegged, Hark! How much for your 'special brew'?"
The tavern exploded in laughter. Harkan's face turned purple, like a plague swelling ready to burst. He roared, "Guards! Catch that rat!"
Kev backpedaled with a grin. "You even got coins to pay guards these days, old man? Or do they drink for free— 'on tap' upstairs?"
"I'll rip your tongue from your rotting mouth and hang you in the city center!" Harkan roared, snatching a cleaver as he lunged. A table flipped, sew splattering across a guardsman's boot.
Kev bolted, his laughter trailing behind him like a taunt. "Catch me, you walrus-bellied piss-cask!"
"GUARDS!" Harkan bellowed, stumbling after him. "Do I need to pray before you chase that shit-eating rat?"
Chairs scrapped. Boot thundered. The guards finally chase, following the blur of Kev vanishing into the street.
Nathan didn't hesitate. He slipped through the door into the kitchen, vanishing into the chaos. A barmaid cursed as she scrubbed up stew, the drunkard still crooning his off-key ballad, cackling about Harkan's wife. No one noticed the small, silent shadow slipping past.
He grabbed whatever he could—sweating cheese, a warm loaf of bread, three smoked sausages tied with twine—and stuffed them under his shirt. The sausages thumped against his ribs as he bolted out the back and vanished into the winding alleys.
Meanwhile, Kev wove through the streets like a sewer rat—under carts, over barrels, slipping through crowds. Harkan's wheezing curses faded behind him.
Kev rounded a corner, boots skidding across cobblestones. His lungs burned, legs ached as he darted through the maze of alleys. He glanced back—no guards, no shouting. Just the thunder of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
A grin tugged at his cracked lips. "Almost there." The Crow's Nest was just a few blocks away—
A meaty hand shot out from the shadows and slammed him into the wall.
Kev gasped, the air knocked clean from his lungs. Before he could recover, thick fingers clamped around his throat.
"You thought you could humiliate me?" Harkan growled. His sweat-slick face pressed closed, twisted with rage. "In my own tavern, you little shit-eating rat?" With a grunt, Harkan hurled Kev toward the guards. They caught him hard, fists like iron around his arms. Kev kicked and thrashed, but it was no use.
Harkan wiped his brow, flexing thick arms as he stepped forward. He gave a nod—and the guards shoved Kev back toward him like a discarded sack.
The first punch came without warning. A fist crashed into Kev's nose with a sickening crack. "Agh!" he cried out, staggering.
Bu Harkan wasn't done.
He rained down blows—fists, elbows, knees. Kev dropped to the cobbles, but the beating continued. Harkan grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his face into the ground.
Even the guards flinched.
They remembered the boy's voice, the mockery, the laughter echoing through the tavern. And they remembered how they had stood there, dozing, while the whole thing happened.
Harkan barked, "Laugh now, you little shit! Where's your laugh?"
Kev groaned, barely conscious—but his cracked lips curled into a smirk.
Then he spat.
The glob hit Harkan's cheek and slid down his jaw.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then fury.
Harkan's next punch shattered Kev's nose completely. Blood poured freely as Kev slumped, unmoving but still breathing.
"You'll wish you died tonight," Harkan hissed.
He turned to the guards, who instinctively stepped back. His voice was low and vicious.
"Put him in a sack. Drag him to the back of the tavern after midnight. No one sees him. Far as anyone knows—he got away."
Then, he grinned—wide, wild and full of hate.
"You know what I mean."
The guards exchanged glances and nodded.
…
Nathan crouched in the dark corner of the Crow's Nest; their hideout nestled in the rafters of a half-collapsed bell tower overlooking the outer city.
Kev was late.
Too late.
Nathan sat curled with his knees drawn up, arms around them, listening—hoping. Every creak of the rotting wood, every gust of wind sent his heart leaping. But it was never Kev. He stared as the small pile of stolen food beside him—cheese, bread, and the three sausages still tied with twine. Kev should've been here by now, grinning, bloodied maybe, but still laughing all the same. That was how it always went.
But not tonight.
Nathan rubbed his arms, suddenly cold. His fingers found the old scar beneath his shirt—the one Kev had dressed himself when they were just boys barely old enough to beg. That memory twisted like a knife in his gut.
"He's fine," he whispered to himself. "He's just taking the long way. Lost the guards. He'll be back."
But the words tasted like lies.
He stood up, paced the small space, then sat again. Over and over. Each time, the silence grew heavier. He gritted his teeth and finally, the silence broke him.
"I can't wait anymore."
Grabbing a sharp iron from under a loose stone, Nathan shoved it into his belt. He wrapped the stolen food in cloth, tucked it under a loose floorboard and stepped into the night.
The streets were quieter now. He kept to alleys and gutters, weaving like Kev had taught him. All the while, a knot tightened in his gut, twisting with every step closer to the Silver Tankard.
Then he saw it.
A shape lumbering down the road. Broad. Slumped. Harkan.
Alone.
Nathan's blood ran cold. He tightened Kev's old cloak around his body. He circled toward the tavern, sticking to shadows, his bare feet silent on the slick stone. He found a vantage behind a cracked wall across the street, a place where the torchlight didn't reach.
The Silver Tankard was alive again—muffled voices, chairs scraping, mugs clinking. Harkan stood by the bar, bruised and sweating, like a bear fresh from a fight.
Nathan crept closer, hugging the outer wall. A half-broken window let sound leak through.
Inside, a bloated merchant leaned over. "Harkan, that ratty boy—what happened? Thought you had him cornered."
Harkan turned slowly, bloodied knuckles wrapped in a bar rag. "Slipped through my fingers," he growled. "Bastard dove into the piss-drains near the old bell tower. Guards nearly lost their boots trying to drag him out. I'm not chasing sewer scum through shitwater."
Polite laughter followed, but Nathan knew that wasn't Harkan's real voice—it was his story voice. The one he used when hiding something.
Then Harkan stood up, towering over the tavern floor. "You lot had your laugh tonight. Mocked me in my own house." He raised his tankard and slammed it on the counter. "So, here's the deal—next round's still on me. But tonight, costs double."
Grumble rolled through the tavern.
"You'll think I'm joking?" Harkan snapped. "Then you can drink somewhere else. Every one of you are already drunk enough to forget what real shame tastes like."
The room fell quiet. Coins were passed reluctantly.
Harkan smiled and continued. "Before you all go, thinking Harkan is a money eating bastard. Here is an offer. Whoever brings that shit-eating rat to me will get ten Imperial Coins not gold coins but Imperial Coins. Have a good night, everyone."
The crowd erupted in excitement but Nathan, hidden in the shadow of a nearby alleyway, had heard enough.
He slunk back from the window, heart pounding, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Harkan lied. Kev hadn't gotten away. Nathan knew that grin. That fake, smug grin he'd seen Harkan use when he twisted knives behind backs.
Kev was still in danger—or worse.
Nathan turned and vanished into the night, following his instincts, retracing the route Kev might've taken. He ran and looked for clues, anything that might help him find Kev. He searched till dawn, he ducked through alleys, crossed narrow rooftops. His breath hitched with every step and his stomach grumbled due to starvation. Then he saw it, a narrow lane, tucked between two crumbling brick walls. The ground was dark, muddy—and stained.
Nathan's stomach turned. He stepped closer, careful. His foot nudged something lying in the muck.
A knife. Kev's knife.
Nathan knelt, finger trembling as he picked it up. His reflection, pale and wide-eyed, stared back from the wet steel.
He looked down the alley. Footprints, dragged unevenly toward the far end.
Nathan stood, slipping the knife into his belt.
His body trembled; his heart was anxious but he could do nothing.
…
Year 932, Beginning of 3rd Month - Aetherwyn Calendar
The oil-lamp flickered as the door creaked open. Faint incense smothered the stink of mildew and dried blood. Scrolls littered the tables, many crumbling to dust, others inked in a language long dead. In the far corner, hunched over a tome whose spine was bound in scaled leather, sat Rosil.
Once a scholar of the Imperial City. Now forgotten.
The man who entered wore nothing ornate. A threadbare coat over tailored black. No guards. But Rosil knew power when he saw it. The arrogance in posture, the weight of every pause. His voice confirmed it.
"Still breathing, Rosil?"
"How rare," Rosil said without looking up, his voice dry as parchment. "The dog of the emperor visits the leech of the gutter."
Algren's lip twitched. "I expected less poetry from a merchant."
Rosil finally raised his eyes—sharp, unreadable. "And I expected less desperation from the Lord of Viremoor. Yet here we are."
Neither smiled.
Algrean stepped forward and placed a weathered scroll onto the table with deliberate care. Dust billowed from it.
Rosil's eyes narrowed, but he didn't touch it.
"You remember the expedition," Algren said. "A months ago. The eastern forest. I found a ruin. Deep beneath the bones of the old temple. This scroll was sealed. It speaks of a ritual. A way to undo the Blood Oath."
Rosil snorted, slow and cold. "And you think this changes anything?"
"I think it's a key. Key to my freedom."
"I think it's a key to your grave." Rosil finally stood, his frame wiry but coiled. "Even if the ritual works—and that's a laughable if—do you believe the emperor will simply let you walk away? You wear his leash around your soul, Algren. The moment it snaps, he'll burn you and your lineage to cinders."
"I'm not offering a request," Algren said, stepping closer, voice quiet but iron-hard. "I'm offering power. Survival. Freedom. For both of us."
His eyes glinted like obsidian under torchlight.
"I know what they did to you, Rosil. Just like they did to me. The main branch exiled you to rot here, to wither in a dying city among the desperate and forgotten. But if you help me, we can become much more than what they cast aside."
Rosil said nothing. He turned his back on Algren and stared out over the crumbling scrolls strewn across his chamber. His voice cam at last, slow and measured.
"I understand enough. But it seems you do not."
A pause.
"Fear the Old Blo…"
The words died in his throat.
Algren moved.
Too fast. Too close.
The blade drove deep—just beneath Rosil's ribs, angled upward. The old scholar gasped, a sputter of blood bubbling past his lips. But Algren didn't let him fall. He held him close, almost gently, as if cradling an old friend.
Then Algren opened his mouth.
And from within—something crawled out.
An insect. Six-legged. Its carapace shimmered purple, with golden stripes along its upper back. Chitin clicked softly as it emerged, inch by inch, unnaturally slow, as though savoring the air.
Rosil's eyes widened in raw horror.
Algren gripped his jaw and forced it open.
The insect walked forward—calm, deliberate—and disappeared into Rosil's mouth.
He tried to scream. No sound came.
His limbs spasmed. His eyes bled. He felt it inside him—biting, tearing, feeding. Not just his flesh, but his soul. It gnawed through his memories, drank the essence of who he was strip by strip. And still he remained conscious. Still, he felt.
Every moment of agony.
Until his eyes shattered like glass, and the insect burst free through the ruined sockets, blood trailing behind it.
Only Rosil's skin remained—folded neatly, like clothing discarded after a bath.
The insect hovered, wings humming like soft laughter.
It turned its golden-glinted head toward Algren and spoke in a voice that was not quite sound.
"Do not worry, my child," Algren whispered, his tone warm and pleased.
"I'll feed you again. Soon."