The night reeked of iron.
Somewhere in the underbelly of Ardentis, a city that gleamed in daylight but stank of rot beneath—two figures clashed beneath a dying lantern.
One wore a hood so dark it seemed to drink the light. The other, a man robed in white and green, stood trembling but defiant, his veins pulsing faintly with a soft jade glow.
"You dare touch one of your own kind?" the man spat, pressing his palms together. Green light flared between them, a living thing of vines and mist. "You reek of something unholy."
The hooded man said nothing. His shadow stretched unnaturally along the walls. The air itself seemed to recoil from him, thickening, darkening, until even the light from the lantern trembled.
The healer's breath quickened. "You..."
Before he could finish, the hooded man moved.
A whisper of motion, silent, precise. The healer thrust his hands forward; emerald light leapt out like a serpent, striking the man square in the chest. But it dissolved instantly, scattering like dust in the wind.
The healer's face twisted in confusion.
"Wha...t....what are you?"
A gloved hand caught his wrist. Another pressed firmly against his chest.
Then came the pain—searing, unbearable—as his veins writhed beneath his skin, glowing brighter and brighter before the color began to drain away.
"No...sto..pp"
His plea was cut short. His body convulsed once, twice, and then fell still. The soft green glow that had defined him, the mark of his kind, rose from his body as faint, curling fumes. They drifted upward, delicate as breath.
The hooded man lifted his hand and the fumes bent toward his palm, drawn in like smoke to fire. For a moment, his hand shimmered faintly green, before the color vanished completely.
He stood over the corpse in silence.
Only his breathing broke the night.
"Another piece of shit gone," he murmured at last. His voice was calm...soft, almost reverent.
And when dawn's first light crept over the rooftops of Ardentis, the hooded figure had vanished, leaving only the pale corpse and the echo of those words.
By morning, Ardentis awoke in color.
The city spread across the valley like a painting come alive—streets spilling with voices, the scent of baked bread and damp stone mingling in the air. Carriages rattled along cobbled roads as banners of red, blue, and green fluttered above the crowds.
Each district bore its color proudly:
The Red Quarter, home of soldiers and enforcers, where the clang of steel was the city's heartbeat.
The Blue Ring, where merchants and scholars ruled from towers of sapphire glass.
The Green Quarter, calm and fragrant, filled with healers, herbalists, and temples of renewal.
Beyond them, in the poorest reaches, the Yellow Wards, where servants and laborers dwelled under the weight of their servitude.
And at the city's center, the White Spire—the grand cathedral of prophecy—watched over all like a judgmental god.
In a quiet corner of the Green Quarter stood a modest wooden house. Its windows were clean, its door adorned with a simple brass plate that read:
"Veyne's Infirmary."
Inside, sunlight filtered through gauze curtains, warming the rows of glass jars and hanging herbs.
A young man moved among them, arranging bottles, grinding leaves, his movements precise and practiced. His dark hair fell loosely over his face, hiding the quiet sharpness of his eyes.
He was known as Cassian Veyne—one of the best healers in Ardentis. Kind, reserved, and blessed with a calm presence that soothed even the dying.
"Master Cassian," called a soft voice from the doorway.
He turned. A young girl, barely seventeen, entered with a basket of herbs in her arms. Her yellow-tinted veins shimmered faintly in the light.
"You're summoned to the palace," she said breathlessly. "The princess has fallen ill again."
Cassian nodded, setting down his pestle.
"Then we mustn't keep her waiting."he said picking up his lock.
The Royal Palace of Ardentis gleamed like a jewel in the sun. White pillars rose toward painted ceilings, and the floor beneath Cassian's boots was polished so fine it mirrored his steps.
As he walked through the gilded halls, nobles turned to stare.
Some nodded politely.
Most didn't bother.
Cassian bowed to each of them with quiet grace.
To them, a healer was useful—but never equal.
When he entered the princess's chamber, the scent of roses filled the air. The young woman lay pale upon silk sheets, with a veil hiding her face, her breathing shallow. Her veins glimmered faintly beneath her skin, too bright, too fast.
Cassian approached the bed, placing a cool hand on her wrist. "Your pulse is restless, Your Grace. You've been using your power too often."
The princess opened her eyes weakly. "And you always find a way to scold me softly, don't you, Cassian?"
He smiled faintly, eyes gentle but distant. "Rest is its own medicine."
Light shimmered between his palms—a soft, green hue that flowed into her veins. The glow steadied, slowing her breath, dimming the fever's flush.
When it was done, Cassian rose, bowed low, and stepped back.
"The illness will fade by dusk. Avoid channeling your foresight for now."
As he left the chamber, the nobles in the corridor watched him pass. Some whispered. Others sneered. But he paid them no mind. Each bow, each careful word, each polite smile, it was all part of the mask he wore too well.
To survive.
By noon, Veyne's Infirmary overflowed with people.
Merchants with burns, servants with bruises, even the people without vein, each lined up beneath the awning, clutching the hope of healing.
Cassian worked silently, one patient at a time. He listened to their pain, treated their wounds, asked for nothing in return.
But every story, every tale of cruelty or injustice....it left a mark behind his calm eyes.
A mother beaten by her employer.
A servant cast out for a mistake.
A soldier left to die by his superior.
Each wound he mended whispered another name into his memory.
Then, in the late afternoon, a man stumbled through the door.
His skin was pale, his veins glowing faintly yellow, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Blood dripped from a split lip; his shirt was torn.
"Please," he rasped. "You must help me—"
Cassian caught him before he fell, guiding him to the cot. "Easy now. Tell me what happened."
The man trembled violently. "They—they took her! The steward—he—he struck her down because she spilled wine at supper. My wife… she's gone."
A hush fell over the room. Even the other patients turned to look away.
Cassian's eyes softened. "You're safe here," he said gently. "Breathe."
But the man shook his head, tears streaking his dirt-stained cheeks. "No one helps us! Not the guards, not the priests. They say we were born to serve,to bleed.....to obey! But someone must make them pay…"
His voice broke into a sob. Cassian bandaged his wounds carefully, pressing a warm cloth to his arm.
His tone remained calm, steady....almost too calm.
"Rest now," he murmured. "You've done enough for today."
The man's breathing slowed, but his eyes glimmered with something wild. "They'll pay… all of them…"
Cassian straightened, glancing at the faint shimmer beneath the man's skin.
The yellow veins, once gentle in hue—were beginning to darken, twisting like threads of smoke beneath the flesh.
The other patients recoiled, whispering in fear.
Cassian leaned closer, his voice a low murmur, eyes narrowing as the veins turned pitch black.
"…Corruption."
And the lanterns flickered.
Outside, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the first chill of night crept into the city—bringing with it a whisper that traveled through the alleys and into the hearts of men.
Another death had been found in the Red Quarter.
A noble steward—his veins, black as ink.
Someone was brewing trouble.