Chapter 1 – Ashes of the Slums
The stench of rust and smoke clung to the air, heavy as a curse. Narrow alleys twisted between crumbling buildings, their walls tattooed with grime and forgotten paint. To most, this place was nothing more than a graveyard of the living—the Outer Slums. To Kiran Vale, it was home.
He moved swiftly through the maze of alleys, balancing a sack of scrap metal over his shoulder. His boots splashed through puddles black with oil. Every step carried the rhythm of survival. The slums had no mercy for the weak, and Kiran had learned that lesson long ago.
A voice called from behind.
"Oi, Kiran! You found anything good today?"
It was Miren, his childhood friend, grinning despite the dirt on his face. Kiran smirked back.
"Just enough to keep my sister fed," he said, shifting the sack. "Scraps for the traders. Maybe I'll get a few coins."
Miren jogged up beside him. "And maybe one day, you'll get lucky and find a treasure."
"Not in this trash heap." Kiran's tone was flat, but there was a spark in his eyes. He always carried a quiet defiance, as though daring the world to break him.
---
When Kiran reached home, the shack leaned like it was too tired to stand. Inside, his mother, Elira, coughed softly while stirring a thin stew. His father, Dael, patched a broken chair with steady hands hardened by labor.
But it was Ayla, Kiran's younger sister, who lit up the room. She dashed to him, her messy braids bouncing.
"You're back!" she said, hugging him tightly. "Did you get food?"
Kiran ruffled her hair and forced a smile. "Of course. You think I'd let you starve?"
They ate together in the dim glow of an oil lamp. It wasn't much—just watery stew with a scrap of bread—but for a moment, laughter filled the room. For a moment, the world outside didn't matter.
---
Night fell, and Kiran lay awake on his cot. Through the holes in the ceiling, he could see a sky blurred by smoke and distant city lights. He clenched his fists, feeling the ache in his bones.
There has to be more than this…
But before the thought settled, a noise shattered the night. Shouts. Heavy boots stomping the ground. The sound of fists pounding on doors.
The Draven Syndicate had come to collect.
Kiran shot up, heart pounding. From outside, a cruel voice echoed through the slums:
"Pay your debts, or pay with blood!"
---
The door to the shack burst open with a crash. Three Syndicate enforcers stormed in—faces shadowed, eyes glinting cruelly. The tallest one, a brute with a jagged scar across his cheek, sneered when he saw Kiran's family.
"Well, well… the Vales. You're late on your payments again." His voice dripped with mockery.
Dael stepped forward, fists clenched. "We told you—we don't have your damn money."
The brute grinned wider. "Then maybe we'll take something else. The girl looks healthy enough." His gaze slid toward Ayla.
Kiran's blood turned to fire. He stepped in front of his sister, his fists tightening until his knuckles cracked. His heart pounded, but fear gave way to something sharper—rage.
"Touch her," Kiran growled, "and I'll break your hands."
The enforcers laughed, the sound cold and merciless.
"Oh, this one's got some fight," the scarred man said. "Boys, let's teach him a lesson."
They advanced.
For the first time in his life, Kiran felt a heat stirring deep inside, a flicker of something more than muscle or anger—something ancient, waiting to awaken.