Ashveil wasn't the kind of city to let a rainy night slow its plans—not when the crowd wanted a show with blood in it. By the time dusk slipped past the crooked buildings, the plaza looked as packed as a Friday night train. Everyone in the city seemed to have turned up: old uncles with leaky umbrellas, kids snacking on fried pakoras, market women arguing for the best view, and street boys ready to cheer or boo depending on the drama.
Right in the center, under a flickering lantern and sheets of soaking rain, Arin Veylor waited, wrists locked tight in soulsteel cuffs. His life had taken a sharp turn in just three days—one moment he was hauling sacks at the river docks, the next he was standing on a black wooden stage built exactly for "uncomfortable endings."
Two Black Fang Guild enforcers shoved him forward. If they recognized him from the market—where he used to bargain for mangoes and crack jokes about local cricket—they didn't show it now. To them, all prisoners looked alike: tired, scared, and somewhere deep inside just hoping for a miracle.
Arin tried grinning at the crowd. Maybe today wasn't as unlucky as he'd expected. Some faces even looked sympathetic. "Evening, folks. If this goes badly, make sure someone feeds my pet lizard back home," he joked quietly. One of the guards rolled his eyes and nudged him harder.
The Black Fang Guild ruled Ashveil with the kind of grip that could make even the bravest merchant sweat. No king, no queen, and definitely no kindly judges. Here, power belonged to whoever had the biggest knives or the cleverest trick. At least, that's what everyone learned by age twelve.
The stage felt slippery beneath Arin's old boots—the kind he'd saved up for last Diwali. Above him, lantern light bounced off puddles, making the square look like it was wrapped in silver strings.
The executioner stood waiting: Draev Tharn, massive, scarred, wearing a half mask so old the black paint had chipped in weird patterns. The man leaned on a glaive as long as a bus seat—reputed to cut through thieves and traitors like butter chicken on Eid. His eyes were cold, but Arin swore he spotted a small twitch in one brow. Maybe Draev was just tired of his job, or maybe Arin's messy hair reminded him of someone he used to know.
Another voice boomed from above—a drama that every Ashveil gathering required—a Magister!
Magister Rythen stood on a balcony, bronze stitched robe shining, scroll clutched tight.
"Arin Veylor," Rythen called, as if announcing the latest cricket scores. "Convicted of sabotage, arson, and theft against the Black Fang Guild. Here, before all, you face Unbinding—Guild justice."
Arin tried not to laugh at the word "justice."
"Sir, honestly, I only burn my toast, never warehouses. If you want an apology, you can ask my mum," he replied, voice just loud enough for the closest listeners.
A couple of street boys snorted, one woman looked shocked, and Draev's grip on his weapon tightened.
Rythen didn't even blink. "Any last request?"
Arin thought for a moment. Visibility was good, and the samosa stand looked tempting.
"Yes," Arin said, "I want one last plate of Balmaji's samosas—the spicy kind. You can even skip the chutney."
Someone up front burst out, "Chutney's the best part!"
Another whispered, "Waste of a good meal, if he's gone in two minutes."
Draev stepped closer, tilting the glaive. "We're not here for snacks," he rumbled.
Arin's knees were pressed to the wet wood, head lowered. The drums from the old tower started—a slow, heavy beat—like the city was reminding everyone how fragile life could be.
But beneath the drumbeats, something stranger stretched in Arin's chest: a heartbeat not his own. Deep, slow, almost as if an ancient drum inside him was keeping time separate from the world.
He shivered. The cuffs around his wrists felt even colder now. Arin tried to breathe slow, remembering how his father used to tell him, "No matter how bad the day, keep your head up and your jokes ready, son."
It worked, for a moment.
Then, out of nowhere, weird images flashed in his mind:
A training yard at sunset, the swing of a heavy weapon against a charging beast, a woman's laughter echoing through old stone halls, and smells—leather oiled all night, steel ready for violence—none of which belonged to Arin.
He tried to shake it off, but the feeling grew. For an instant, Arin swore he could sense exactly how Draev was standing—all weight on his left foot, favoring a scar along his right ankle, arms ready for the next move.
What on earth was happening? Arin wondered. Was this what the old city healers meant by "visions," or was he losing his mind just in time for the main event?
Suddenly, one guard bent down, muttering, "You see that? Fellow's shaking like Baba's old scooter. Hope he doesn't faint—makes my job harder."
Arin tried to smile, but the pressure inside him built and built, until it burst.
CRACK!
The soulsteel cuffs shattered, as if struck by lightning. Metal shards scattered across the stage, steam rising as if the chains were angry at being touched the wrong way. The crowd gasped—some cheered, some panicked, and Draev stepped back in honest shock.
Arin's body moved before his brain caught up.
His hands shot out—mirroring Draev's combat stance, the grip and angle perfect. He grabbed the glaive, twisted it in a move that had no business being in his remembered life, and for a few seconds, it felt like Draev's memories filled his muscles.
Draev's eyes flashed anger, surprise, and even a hint of respect. The two grappled—a fight so quick, the watching kids could barely follow. Arin struck, blocked, pivoted—every motion echoing Draev's long years of training.
The rain became a waterfall, thunder rumbling deep in the plaza. The crowd stopped shouting, suddenly unsure who was the real criminal. Even Magister Rythen looked ready to flee.
Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the power drained from Arin's body. He felt weak again—normal, human, nothing left but the ache in his wrists and the pounding fear in his heart.
Draev faltered, landing on his knees, weapon wrenched away.
Everything went silent—Ashveil had never been that quiet in Arin's whole life.
Then the chaos resumed, harder and louder.
"Somebody grab him!"
"No magic tricks!"
"Cut him off at the alley!"
Arin didn't hesitate. He jumped off the side of the stage, rain splattering his face like a hundred cold slaps. He dodged past startled market vendors (one tried to stop him, but Arin swooped in a movement borrowed from Draev, slipping through like water in the gutter).
The city roared to life behind him, shouts mixing with bell-towers clanging the "wanted" code.
Arin ducked past an old fruit stall, nearly tripped on a pile of half-rotten guavas, and shot down the narrowest lane he could find.
His heart was still racing, but inside, that foreign heartbeat had faded—leaving a weird emptiness.
He could hear the Magister's voice still ringing in the distance:
"Bring him back! The bloodline must be tested!"
Bloodline—what did that mean? Mum never told him their family had anything special except strong tea.
He skidded to a halt under a sagging awning, chest heaving. Rainwater poured down his face, mixing with sweat and spit.
"Crazy night," he whispered. "If this is destiny, maybe I'd prefer something less dramatic."
A stray dog wandered by, sniffed Arin's boots, then barked twice and trotted off, as if to say, "Good luck, mate. Even I wouldn't swap places."
Ashveil's narrow lanes were perfect for escape, but even better for getting lost.
Arin kept moving, sticking to shadows, ducking under hanging laundry and through alleys so crammed he had to sidestep like he was dodging rickshaws at the morning bazaar.
He remembered old city tales about bloodlines—stories of people who could borrow skills or strength when the moment demanded. Mostly, those stories ended badly. Arin preferred the versions that ended with the hero opening a sweet shop and marrying someone clever.
But as he crept past shuttered tea stalls and upended carts, one thing was clear:
Tonight, something strange had absolutely entered his bones.
A group of guild boys almost caught him at Chandi Crossing. He dodged, heart thundering and breath short, slipping past an old bakery where the owner yelled, "Oi! Who's running in the rain? This isn't a kabaddi match!"
Arin grinned, even as he ducked around the corner. For all its dangers, Ashveil still felt like home. Even on a night like this, people had time for jokes.
He found shelter under a collapsed balcony and listened to the city hunt for him. Guards stomped past, calling out his name and descriptions that got more ridiculous with every retelling.
"He's got glowing eyes!"
"He changed into a crow and flew away!"
"Baba, I'm telling you—my friend saw him run faster than a taxi!"
Arin shook his head. "If I'd changed into a crow, I'd be sleeping in a nest right now," he muttered.
After half an hour, the streets were more empty—fear and excitement had pushed most regular folk back indoors. Arin peered around, and found a broken mirror discarded near a rubbish heap. For a second, he stared at his own reflection—muddy, drenched, but alive.
Maybe surviving counted as a kind of miracle tonight.
Above, he saw the old Magister's tower silhouetted against the night. He remembered Rythen shouting about "bloodlines," something about "Veilborn" needing testing.
The words hit him like old stories. Was he Veilborn now? If so, he'd need to figure out what the power was and how to not let it eat him alive—or worse, let the Guilds turn him into their next new weapon.
He turned the corner, thinking about his old life: slow mornings, spicy samosas, laughing with neighbours. Now, he was just another shadow in Ashveil—but maybe a shadow with a strange, dangerous secret.
Tomorrow, the city would wake up and find half a dozen new rumors ready to spread.
Arin Veylor—traitor, escape artist, or maybe something more.
Whatever the truth, Ashveil's rain kept washing the blood away—preparing the stage for the next act.
And in a hidden corner, an old woman boiled tea, mumbling to herself,
"Today's children… always in trouble. I hope the lizard's alright."
Arin kept moving, steps lighter now, hope flickering even in the dark.
Tonight, the city watched a man break his chains and run—with courage, power borrowed from a mysterious bloodline, and the kind of luck that only visits heroes or madmen.
Whatever tomorrow brought, Arin was still here.
And maybe, just maybe, destiny had given him a fighting chance.
End of Chapter 1