Rain poured from the heavens in endless sheets, flooding the crooked streets of Aranthor. Every gutter overflowed, every alley reeked of mud and rot. Yet Kael barely noticed the cold needles biting into his skin. His mind was elsewhere—on the weight pressed against his chest.
The parchment.
It burned like a secret unwilling to stay silent. Even through the layers of his damp cloak, he could feel it—an unnatural pulse, faint but alive, as though the strange letters carved into its surface were veins and the ink within them blood.
He should have thrown it away. That would have been the wiser choice. No treasure, no relic, no whispered promise was worth the gaze of the Black Wings.
But his fingers refused to let go.
He crouched lower against the wall, breath shallow. A lantern's glow washed over the rain, cutting golden streaks across the alley. Boots splashed through puddles. The faint clang of steel followed.
Enforcers.
The raven stitched onto their black cloaks was unmistakable. A shadow of terror spread through Kael's chest. He had seen what happened to those marked by the Black Wings. They didn't leave corpses behind—only silence, like the person had never existed at all.
One of the men muttered something about the storm, his voice deep and hollow beneath the helm. Another gave a low laugh, the kind that prickled the back of Kael's neck. These weren't men to bargain with. These were hunters.
Kael's cursed silver eyes betrayed him. Even as he pressed himself into the shadows, the faint shimmer threatened to reflect the light. He shut his lids tight. His body trembled, though not entirely from the cold.
Please… pass by. Just this once.
The rain seemed to hold its breath with him.
And then, the parchment stirred.
Kael nearly cried out. The symbols upon it shimmered faintly, rearranging themselves in a slow crawl, like living things seeking order. He didn't understand their shapes, their twists, their impossible curves, but one word clawed itself into his mind, burning with cruel clarity.
Heir.
The word reverberated inside him, a hammer striking again and again. His heir? A dynasty's heir? What dynasty? He had no crown, no kingdom, no heritage but dirt and hunger. Yet the parchment insisted. It branded him with a truth he couldn't accept.
And then—the scream.
It sliced through the storm, sharp and desperate. A woman's voice, not far. The sound bounced off the stone walls, rising above the rain like a blade of fire. The Enforcers turned, lanterns flaring, their attention momentarily severed.
Kael didn't think. His body moved before his mind caught up.
He ran.
His boots hammered against the cobblestones, splashing through the rising flood. His cloak dragged heavy with water, but his legs carried him, urged forward by a fear that burned hotter than exhaustion. Behind him, shouts erupted. Whistles cut through the night air. The hunters had caught their scent.
The city blurred around him—arched bridges, sagging rooftops, twisting alleys that seemed to rearrange themselves with every turn. The storm drowned the world in chaos, but one rhythm remained: the steady pulse of the parchment against his chest.
It grew brighter.
Brighter still.
Guiding him, or damning him, he couldn't yet tell. But wherever it led, Kael knew only one thing.
There was no turning back.