The dawn had barely broken, yet the city gates of Mistfill were already lined with faces desperate to leave. Farmers with frightened eyes, merchants clutching their ledgers, and beggars wrapped in rags all gathered in uneasy silence, watched over by guards whose blades gleamed like teeth in the morning haze.
From among them, a modest wagon creaked forward — its driver a heavy-set man with a beard matted from sleep, his cart piled high with crates of salted meat, dried herbs, and jars that clinked with every bump.
Sitting quietly in the back, shrouded beneath coarse linen, was the midwife. In her arms, hidden from sight, the child slept — his tiny chest rising and falling with a rhythm as calm as eternity.
She had found the merchant by luck, or perhaps fate, at the edge of the mist-slick market. He was leaving the city to trade with border towns, and though his eyes were weary, he had agreed to let her ride for a modest coin. He had not asked her name. In these times, it was safer not to.
As the wagon approached the gate, the midwife could feel the tension in the air. Guards were stopping everyone — searching bags, lifting cloaks, prodding barrels with their spears.
"Name?" barked a guard as they reached the checkpoint.
"Joren," the merchant grunted, pulling on the reins. "Hauling goods to Southreach. Got papers."
The guard snatched the parchment and scanned it briefly before his gaze drifted to the back of the wagon. "And her?"
Joren shrugged. "Found her near the inns. Said she lost her husband in the lockdown. Paid fair for the seat."
The guard frowned, stepping closer. The midwife lowered her head, the linen hood shadowing her face. The infant shifted slightly, a soft murmur escaping his lips — just loud enough for the guard to hear.
He paused.
For a heartbeat, the air seemed to tighten. The faint cry of a newborn — fragile, human, but in that moment, almost divine — broke through the tense silence like a crack in glass.
The guard's eyes narrowed. "A child?"
Before suspicion could turn to accusation, Joren leaned forward, spitting to the side. "Aye. Born last night. Poor thing came into this cursed world while thunder split the heavens. You think any sane woman would smuggle a babe out of the city? Let her pass — unless you want blood on your conscience when the milk runs dry."
The guard hesitated. Then, with a weary sigh, he waved them through.
The wagon rolled forward, the wheels crunching over the damp stones as they crossed the threshold of the gates.
The midwife closed her eyes and whispered a silent thanks — though to whom, she did not know. The gods of this world were cruel, and their mercy rarely came without a cost.
Still, as the wagon carried her beyond the city walls, she dared to believe the child might live.
Behind her, however, the shadow of the palace stretched farther than she knew.
Within the castle of Mistfill, the morning sun could not reach the queen's chambers. Heavy curtains of crimson silk blocked the light, casting the room in a glow like dying embers.
Queen Elira Valcrest stood by the mirror, her reflection fractured by the veins of the polished glass. She wore no crown — she didn't need one. Her presence was its own kind of authority.
At her side knelt a figure cloaked in black, his head bowed low, his very breath still. The faint scent of ozone clung to him, as though lightning had scorched his flesh and left its mark.
"You called for me, my queen," the man murmured, his voice rough like gravel.
Elira turned slightly, her eyes gleaming with cold fire. "Yes. The High Lord wishes the matter of the child… concluded."
The man looked up. His irises shimmered faintly, not golden — but pale blue, the hue of storms yet to break. "You want it dead."
"I want it erased," she said. "No trace. No whisper. Not even ash for the wind to carry."
The man nodded once. "As you command."
Elira's gaze lingered on him. "Tell me, Rauth," she said softly, "what stage have you reached now?"
"Conjuring," he replied. "The Second Stage."
"Good," she said. "You'll need that power. The child carries the blood of Nightfall — and perhaps more. The storm that struck the city at his birth was no coincidence."
Rauth inclined his head but did not speak. He didn't have to. The air around him trembled faintly, thin arcs of lightning dancing across his fingertips before vanishing into smoke.
Elira watched the display, expressionless.
In this age, Conjurers were no longer myths. They were the rulers beneath the crown, the true pillars of human power. They called themselves the Thieves of Creation — though none truly understood what it meant.
Their mastery over the elements followed seven sacred steps, each closer to godhood than the last.
Stage 1 — Awakening. The first spark of dominion, when a mortal was touched by the remnants of divine Law. It was said the gods left fragments of their power within the world — whispers of fire, shadow, or ice — and some rare souls could hear them.
Stage 2 — Conjuring. The shaper's touch. The moment when a human learned not just to hear the Law but to answer it. The element obeyed. The world began to warp around them — small at first, then vast.
Stage 3 — Shaping. The Branching of Essence. Their element gained identity, uniqueness — mirroring their soul.
Beyond that lay Embodiment, Dominion, Authority, and finally Godhood — a return to the theft that had first doomed mankind.
But few lived to climb so high.
Rauth was only at Stage Two, but within Mistfill's walls, that alone made him a terror. He had once set an entire hunting forest ablaze when his temper faltered, the flames burning for seven days without fuel.
He was the queen's loyal hound.
And now, her hound was unleashed.
By noon, the wagon had passed beyond Mistfill's valley, following the winding road through the old birch forest. The air grew quieter there, the only sound the creak of wood and the faint cry of birds.
The midwife held the baby close, shielding him from the chill wind. His tiny hands had curled around the edge of her sleeve, and she couldn't help but smile, despite the danger.
"You really are just a child," she whispered. "No omen, no curse. Just… small."
She didn't notice the faint shimmer of light that rippled once beneath his skin — a flicker like liquid gold, gone before it could be real.
The merchant hummed an old song as they rode, unaware that fate had hitched a ride in his cart.
Back in the city, Rauth stood at the edge of the same gate the midwife had crossed hours ago. The captain of the guard saluted him nervously.
"My lord Conjurer, we searched every traveler. No one suspicious."
Rauth's eyes narrowed. The air around him shimmered faintly, and the guard flinched as static danced over his armor.
"You missed something," Rauth said quietly.
He raised his hand, fingers spreading as the faint scent of ozone filled the air. Sparks danced across his skin, gathering in his palm.
And then, with a sound like thunder trapped in a heartbeat, a flash of lightning struck the ground before the gate. The cobblestones split apart, glowing white-hot.
The guards stumbled back in terror.
"Find me every wagon that left the city at dawn," Rauth ordered. "If you fail, the next bolt won't miss."
The guard scrambled to obey, while Rauth's gaze turned toward the horizon.
Somewhere out there, beneath the pale sun, a child of Nightfall still breathed.
He could feel it. The air itself whispered of it — faintly, softly, like a ripple across the current of the world.
Something ancient stirred. Something that should not exist.
Rauth smiled faintly.
"So," he murmured, "a child born under thunder. Let's see what kind of storm you bring."
Lightning cracked across the sky, and the hunt began.