The shopping district near the Nalanda Institute bustled with life—vendors shouting over one another, the clatter of horse-drawn carts against cobbled stone, and the constant murmur of people flowing like a restless tide. Yet, amid the noise and color, a lone figure sat still on a weather-worn public bench, almost swallowed by the crowd's indifference.
The boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, hunched forward with his hood pulled low, shadowing his face in a veil of anonymity. Only the faint curve of his mouth, pressed into a hard frown, betrayed the turmoil inside.
Who could it be? The thought gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. That morning, the letter had appeared on his doorstep—plain parchment, no seal, no words save for an address scrawled in quick, almost desperate handwriting. No sender. No explanation. Just this place.
The boy sat stiffly on the bench, hood shadowing his face, the noise of the bustling district a blur around him. His mind was a storm. Who could it be? Why here? Why me?
Then he noticed it.
A figure in the crowd—a man with a slight hunch in his back, walking with unsettling purpose. Like the boy, he wore a hood drawn low, concealing his features. Yet something about him was disturbingly familiar, a half-forgotten memory tugging at the boy's thoughts.
The man's steps closed the distance, slow and deliberate. When he finally reached the bench, he lowered himself onto the seat with a heavy quietness that drowned out the clamor of the street.
The boy's pulse thundered in his ears.
"Kazik Nathan?" The man's voice rasped, low and unmistakable.
The boy froze. He didn't lift his gaze, didn't dare betray himself. His throat tightened, and with a faint, reluctant nod, he answered without words.
Kazik steadied his breathing, forcing down the wild pounding of his heart. His lips parted, voice low and cautious.
"Who… who are you?"
The man tilted his head slightly, as though surprised by the question. A faint chuckle rumbled from under his hood.
"Hm? You don't know who I am?" He paused, as if weighing his next words, then leaned back with a thoughtful hum. "Strange. Didn't he tell you?"
Kazik's brow furrowed beneath his hood. He? The letter he had received carried nothing—no sender, no name, no hint at who had drawn him here. Just an address.
"Who are you talking about?" Kazik asked, curiosity cracking through his guarded tone.
The man turned to look at him directly now, the shadow of his hood shifting just enough for Kazik to sense a pair of eyes fixed on him. Confusion flickered across the man's features—or was it disappointment?
"You really don't know…" he murmured, almost to himself. His voice carried a strange weight, as if each word was a test Kazik was failing. "Then this will be… complicated."
A silence settled between them, broken only by the noise of the market around them—laughter, shouts, the creak of cart wheels. Yet for Kazik, it all seemed to fade into the background. His attention was locked solely on the hooded man at his side, and the unsettling knowledge that someone, somewhere, had meant for this meeting to happen.
The man leaned back slightly, as if deciding there was no further use for secrecy. His voice lowered, calm yet edged with authority.
"So… let me introduce myself first." He lifted his hood just enough for the faintest sliver of his face to be seen, the lines of age carved deep into it. "I'm Rolack Kize, head of the alchemy department at the Nalanda Institute. And…" his tone sharpened, "…my lord has sent me to discuss matters with you."
The name struck like a hammer.
Kazik's breath caught—gasp! His eyes widened beneath the cover of his hood. Recognition surged through him, shattering the fog of uncertainty. So that's why… that's why he looked familiar!
Rolack Kize—the infamous alchemist whose name was whispered through academy halls like a shadowed curse. For five long years, he had vanished from public sight, never once leaving his cabin. Rumors swirled endlessly: that he dabbled in rituals long outlawed, that he had crossed lines even scholars feared to speak of. Forbidden research. Unholy experiments. No proof ever surfaced, yet the weight of his reputation alone had made him a phantom of fear.
And now… he sat right beside him.
Kazik's pulse quickened, his mind racing. But what's this about his 'lord'?
The word clung to him like frost. Who was this lord? And what business could someone like Rolack Kize possibly have… with him?
Could it be?
A thought struck Kazik like lightning, stiffening his spine. His breath hitched, but he forced his voice steady, careful not to betray the storm churning within.
"…Are you talking about the dragon, by any chance?"
Rolack's head turned sharply, the shadows of his hood shifting just enough for Kazik to catch the glint of cold eyes. His tone, when he spoke, was razor-edged.
"Yes. And mind your tongue." His voice carried a venomous weight, each word deliberate, coiled with threat. "He is not to be spoken of so casually. He is our lord, and we serve him. Never forget that."
Kazik lowered his gaze, nodding quickly, his face an unreadable mask. "Understood."
But behind that mask, his thoughts twisted in defiance. Serve him? Revere him? Hah. The corners of his lips almost twitched in a bitter smile. He wasn't here out of loyalty, nor reverence. No dragon, no lord, no shadowy cabal commanded his heart.
No—he wanted power. Nothing else.
And if walking this path, feigning obedience, brought him closer to it… then so be it.
"So why did you ask me to come here?" Kazik shifted on the bench, his voice cool but edged with impatience.
Rolack let out a snort, a rough sound like stone scraping stone. "Hmph. My lord has already told you what must be done. I am here to ensure you understand the next part—to discuss the course ahead."
Kazik inclined his head slightly, eyes still fixed forward. "So… how should we proceed?"
Rolack leaned closer, his tone dropping low, words heavy with gravity. "What we need has already been decided. Our lord has given us permission to gather hatred. That is the essence we require."
Kazik's brow twitched beneath his hood, but he said nothing.
"But," Rolack continued sharply, raising a finger as though warning him, "he was explicit on one matter—you are not to touch anyone from the institute. Doing so would draw suspicion, and suspicion would ruin everything. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Kazik murmured, though his mind burned with questions. Hatred… why hatred of all things?
Rolack's voice hardened further. "From now on, we spread it. Stir unrest in the city. Turn neighbors against each other, ignite small flames until they become infernos. Every whisper, every quarrel, every strike of malice feeds our lord's will."
He leaned back, cloak rustling as he crossed his arms. "That is our task. And failure, boy…" His tone dropped into a chilling growl. "…is not an option."
Kazik swallowed hard, concealing the smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. So that's the game. Hatred, chaos… He didn't care for the dragon's ambitions. What mattered was that through this, he would grasp the power he craved.
The market's clamor swelled again, as if the world had remembered its own noise and color. Vendors shouted prices, children darted between stalls, and the wheels of carts rattled along the cobblestones. Life went on, oblivious to the dark pact being whispered on a weathered bench.
Kazik sat in silence, the hood masking the glint in his eyes. Rolack's words still hung in the air, heavy as chains. Gather hatred. Spread chaos. Feed the dragon.
Hatred as currency, chaos as offering—what a perverse creed to serve. And yet, Kazik felt no revulsion. Only calculation. Each spark of conflict he fanned would not just strengthen their lord; it would sharpen him, raise him higher, closer to the power he desired above all else.
Rolack rose from the bench with a rustle of his cloak, his hunched form blending once more into the tide of the crowd. He did not look back.
Kazik waited a moment longer before standing, his fingers curling tightly at his sides. His path was clear now, clearer than ever. He would play their game, walk the line Rolack and his so-called lord demanded. He would sow discord, nurture hatred, and let the fires spread.
But in the end, when all the pieces were in place and the city was drowning in malice, the dragon would not be the only one to feast.
Kazik would claim the ashes for himself.
And no one—neither Rolack Kize, nor the dragon he worshipped—would see it coming.