The slums changed slowly—rotting boards collapsing here, a new layer of grime added there—but for Arin and Lyra, change happened whether they wanted it or not. Days turned into months; months slid into years. The world did not pause for abandoned twins.
And so, they grew.
Not in comfort or warmth, but in filth.
The slums of Ember Hollow offered no kindness. The air always smelled of spoiled rice and smoke. Beggars fought over scraps. Children disappeared without a trace. Gangs controlled the alleys like miniature tyrants. But even in this cesspool, two small figures endured—thin, hungry, and clothed in stitched rags.
Yet, they were always together.
Always.
At age five, Arin already possessed the shoulders and arms of a child who worked far beyond his years. Every morning, he hauled buckets of water for a local tavern in exchange for stale bread. Every afternoon, he carried wooden crates for vendors—sometimes for coins, more often for kicks to the ribs.
But he didn't complain.
He couldn't. Lyra needed him.
Lyra, though the same age, was far more delicate. Her limbs were slender; her skin was pale beneath layers of dirt. But she had something the other slum kids did not—an otherworldly glow that flickered around her when she was frightened. Not flames. Not exactly. More like tiny translucent feathers—made of shimmering light—that evaporated when touched.
It made her a target. It made Arin her shield.
One afternoon, under a sky thick with pollution, Arin lugged a sack of spoiled grain toward the animal pens behind the local butcher's stall. The sack was twice his size. He stumbled, nearly falling, but grit his teeth.
"If I drop this," he muttered, "they won't give me the leftover bones tonight."
He needed those bones. Lyra hadn't eaten since sunrise.
As he strained forward, a group of older slum boys stepped out from behind the crates. Their leader, a lanky teen with pockmarked skin, smirked.
"Well, well. The little rat returns."
Arin didn't stop walking.
"Move," he said simply.
That made them laugh."Oh? The mute rat speaks! What're you carrying? Something valuable?""Let's check!"
One of them shoved Arin's shoulder. Hard.
The sack toppled. Grain spilled everywhere. The stench attracted flies instantly.
Arin froze. His jaw clenched. "That… That was my work for the day."
The lanky teen shrugged. "Not my problem."
Arin's fists curled—not in anger, but in regret. Because the moment he got home empty-handed, Lyra would go hungry again.
Then he heard it—small footsteps running toward him.
"Arin!"
Lyra dashed out from behind an abandoned wagon, hair tangled with leaves. Her eyes were wide, frightened.
Arin panicked. "Lyra! I told you to stay hidden!"
The boys perked up, recognizing her.
"Well look at that," one whispered. "The little ghost girl."
"Weird one, isn't she?"
"I heard her glow in the dark."
The leader's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps the merchants will pay good coin for a freak."
Arin stepped in front of Lyra immediately. "Don't touch her."
"Oh?" the leader sneered. "What will you do? You're half-starved. And we outnumber you."
Arin didn't reply. He didn't need to. His body moved on instinct—training etched into pain and survival. He swung his small fist up with all his weight. It connected with the leader's jaw.
The older teen stumbled back. Shock transformed to rage.
"You little—!"
They lunged at Arin.
He fought, but he was small—too small. Fists and kicks hammered his ribs, shoulders, and stomach. He gritted his teeth through the pain. He wouldn't fall. He couldn't—not while Lyra was watching.
Behind him, Lyra trembled, glowing feathers already forming around her shoulders. "Stop! Please stop!"
But her voice only fueled the boys' cruelty.
"She's glowing again!""Grab her!""Sell them both!"
Arin's vision blurred. Someone's knee slammed into his face. His head snapped back. Blood filled his mouth.
He dropped to his knees.
"Arin!!" Lyra screamed.
The glowing feathers burst brighter, scattering like motes of gold. The boys hesitated, startled.
"What—what even is she?""That's not normal!"
"Doesn't matter," the leader spat. "Grab them!"
His hand reached toward Lyra.
And something inside Arin snapped.
In an instant, the world sharpened. His pain disappeared—replaced by a cold, primal instinct.
He surged upward with a roar far too powerful for a five-year-old. The ground beneath him vibrated faintly. The boys froze as the shadow-flame aura—the same one from years ago—flickered faintly around him. Not a burst. Not enough to knock them back. But enough to terrify.
Arin snatched Lyra and backed away slowly. "Don't touch her."
The leader stumbled, trembling. "You… you demon…"
Arin waited until the boys fled—panicked, tripping over themselves—before he collapsed again, breathing raggedly. Lyra knelt beside him, tears streaking through dirt on her cheeks.
"You're hurt," she whispered.
Arin grinned weakly. "Doesn't matter… long as you're safe."
She leaned her forehead against his. The glowing feathers faded slowly, dissolving into the air like glimmers of dawn.
"Arin," she whispered, "why do they hate us?"
Arin didn't know the truth. The Phoenix Clan. The prophecy. The power in their blood. He knew only the slums.
"Because we survive," he said simply. "We survive what they fear."
Lyra nodded, though she didn't understand.
That night, they found shelter beneath the broken roof of a half-burned shed. Rain poured outside. Arin shivered but pulled Lyra close, wrapping his thin arms around her.
"I'll protect you," he whispered. "Always."
Lyra smiled faintly, already drifting to sleep. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
For a moment, the world seemed peaceful.
Then thunder cracked overhead—not ordinary thunder. It sounded like a roar. A piercing, impossible roar that made Arin's bones vibrate. He jolted upright, eyes wide.
Lyra awoke too, clutching his arm. "Arin… what was that?"
The sky outside flashed—not with lightning, but with feathers of fire falling like meteors.
Arin's breath hitched.
Someone—something—was descending into Ember Hollow.
Someone looking for them.