Chapter 1: The Boy with No Name

The rain came down like needles, cold and sharp, piercing the grime-covered alleys of Black Hollow.

No moonlight broke through the bloated clouds.

No hearths burned behind shuttered windows.

The city had no place for warmth — only hunger, disease, and fear.

Kaelen crouched beneath a collapsed stall, clutching his ragged cloak tighter around himself.

The cloth was threadbare, but it hid the brand on his shoulder — the mark he had carried since before he could remember.

A twisting spiral of black veins and silver cracks, like a wound that refused to heal.

He didn’t know what it meant.

Only that it made people hate him.

"Thief!"

The shout echoed through the alley, close — too close.

Kaelen’s muscles tensed.

Instinct, sharper than thought, propelled him forward.

He darted through the mud, slipping between crates and broken barrels.

Behind him, heavy boots splashed after him.

He had made a mistake.

He knew better than to steal during the festival — when the city guards were drunk and mean.

But he hadn't eaten in two days, and the baker's stall had been full of soft, steaming bread.

He glanced back.

Three guards. Fat with armor and clumsy with rage.

Kaelen veered left, heart hammering against his ribs.

He didn't stand a chance if they caught him.

Boys like him — nameless, unwanted — disappeared into Black Hollow’s dungeons all the time.

No one asked questions.

A dead end loomed ahead — a crumbling wall, too high to climb.

Panic flared.

He spun, searching for an escape.

"There!"

A hand grabbed his cloak.

Kaelen twisted, wrenching free, but the guard's gauntlet caught the edge of his tunic.

Fabric tore.

A flash of pale skin — and the brand, black and silver, pulsed in the darkness.

For a moment, everything froze.

The guards stared.

Their anger twisted into something uglier.

"God-marked," one of them hissed.

"Filthy cursed spawn."

The grip tightened around Kaelen’s throat.

He kicked and struggled, but it was no use.

"Should gut him here," another snarled, drawing a rusted knife.

"No one'll care."

The first guard hesitated, eyes flicking nervously around.

Kaelen knew that look.

Fear of the brand.

Superstition ran deep in Black Hollow.

Some believed the god-marked brought plagues.

Others believed they brought death.

Both were true, Kaelen thought bitterly.

The knife flashed downward.

Kaelen squeezed his eyes shut — bracing for the pain.

But the pain never came.

Instead, a low growl rumbled through the alley.

A black shape lunged from the shadows — a mass of teeth and snarling fur.

The guard screamed as something tore into him, dragging him backward.

The others cursed and stumbled away.

Kaelen fell to the ground, gasping.

Through blurred vision, he saw the creature — massive, wolf-like, its eyes burning gold.

It didn’t touch him.

It simply stared.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished into the rain.

Kaelen staggered to his feet.

The guards were gone — scattered like frightened rats.

He clutched his torn cloak, pulling it tight again, and fled deeper into the maze of alleys.

---

By the time he reached the ruined district, his lungs burned and his legs shook.

This was the forgotten part of Black Hollow.

No lanterns. No guards.

Only broken stone and skeletons of buildings too stubborn to fall.

Kaelen found his shelter — a half-collapsed temple, older than memory.

He squeezed through the cracked door and sank to the floor.

Safe.

For now.

The rain drummed against the shattered roof.

The wind howled through empty arches.

Kaelen curled up in a corner, shivering.

He hated this life.

The endless running, the hunger gnawing at his belly.

The stares.

The whispers.

Monster. Demon. Curse-bearer.

He touched the brand beneath his cloak, feeling the faint pulse of warmth.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he heard a voice — soft and broken, like a dying flame.

"You are not alone, little ember..."

But when he opened them, there was only emptiness.

Kaelen clenched his fists.

He didn’t want to be a monster.

He didn’t want to be cursed.

He just wanted...

He didn’t even know.

A family?

A name?

Someone who saw him as more than a mark to be feared?

The storm outside grew fiercer, as if answering his thoughts.

Kaelen stared at the broken altar across the room — a crumbling slab of stone etched with strange runes.

Once, long ago, people must have prayed here.

Begged for mercy.

Begged the gods to save them.

The gods hadn't listened.

Kaelen snorted bitterly and turned away.

He didn’t believe in gods.

---

Somewhere in the darkness, a click echoed.

Kaelen froze.

Another click.

Footsteps — soft, deliberate — approached.

Someone was inside.

He backed against the wall, heart racing.

A figure emerged from the shadows — cloaked, hooded.

Not a guard.

Not a drunk.

Something worse.

A hunter.

Kaelen had heard the whispers.

The king’s court had begun paying bounties for the god-marked.

The hooded figure raised a hand.

A flicker of blue light danced between their fingers.

"Come quietly," a voice said — low, smooth, almost kind.

"And you won't have to suffer."

Kaelen's mouth was dry.

He had no weapon.

No chance of winning.

But something inside him — something ancient and furious — stirred.

The brand on his shoulder burned, sending tendrils of pain down his arm.

The figure took a step closer.

Kaelen closed his eyes.

He thought of the slums.

The hunger.

The hatred.

The endless running.

No more.

The ember inside him roared to life.

The air cracked.

Power flooded his veins — wild, uncontrollable.

The hunter recoiled, cursing.

Light exploded from Kaelen's skin — white and gold and silver, blinding in the gloom.

The crumbling temple shook.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

Kaelen screamed, but it wasn’t fear — it was something primal, something that had been trapped inside him for too long.

The hunter turned and fled.

The world tilted.

Kaelen collapsed, the last of the power draining away.

He lay there, gasping, the brand on his shoulder pulsing like a second heartbeat.

---

When he woke, the storm had passed.

Dawn broke through the ruined temple, pale and cold.

Kaelen sat up slowly.

He felt... different.

Stronger.

Sharper.

The whisper returned, closer now — no longer broken, but fierce.

"Rise, little ember."

"The world has forgotten the old gods..."

"But you — you will remind them."

Kaelen looked down at his hands, still faintly glowing.

He didn’t know what he was.

He didn’t know why he had been chosen.

But he knew one thing:

He would not run anymore.

Not from the hunters.

Not from the kings.

Not from the broken, dying world.

He would forge his own path.

Even if he had to burn everything down to do it.

Kaelen smiled — a small, grim thing.

The boy with no name was dead.

From the ashes, something new would rise.

Something the world could not ignore.

---

(End of Chapter 1)