The first rule of surviving in the slums of Veymar?
Never get caught.
Kael Bloodthorn had just broken that rule—spectacularly.
Rain hammered the crooked rooftops as he tore through the winding alleys, ribs throbbing from the guard's baton. The silver locket in his pocket seared like guilt and fire. It wasn't stolen for greed—it was medicine money. Blackroot elixir for his sister. But the city watch didn't care why a boy stole. Only that he did.
A crossbow bolt thunked into the wood beside his ear.
Shit. They were gaining.
Kael vaulted a crate, boots slipping on wet cobblestones. Fog curled around him, glowing orange in the light of the guards' torches. Shouts echoed behind him, hungry for blood and justice.
He needed a miracle.
And then—he saw it.
A narrow slit between two ancient buildings, half-hidden behind ivy and shadow. Without hesitation, he dove in, scraping his shoulders on damp stone, emerging into a dead-end courtyard swallowed by time. Thorned vines twisted over shattered statues. Forgotten gods stared blindly from broken faces.
At the center stood a sword.
It jutted from a cracked altar like a fang, obsidian-dark, its edge humming with a pale, electric blue glow. The air around it was wrong, like breath held too long. The blade sang—a deep, low hum that vibrated in Kael's teeth.
"There he is!"
The guards burst in, crossbows raised. No way out.
Kael didn't think.
He reached for the sword.
Pain exploded through him the moment his fingers touched the hilt. Shadows burst outward in a tidal wave of force, flinging the guards like ragdolls. The blade screamed, the sound scraping down his bones—like a choir of dying stars.
Dark tendrils coiled around his arm, branding his skin with crawling sigils that burned like ice.
Then… silence.
The guards groaned on the ground, stunned. But Kael barely noticed. The sword—his sword now—was whispering.
"Kill them," it rasped, voice like rusted chains. "They'd hang you. Gut them. Spill their blood."
Kael's grip tightened. He could do it. He wanted to.
A hand seized his wrist.
"Let go, idiot. Unless you fancy being a soul puppet by dawn."
Kael spun. A girl stood beside him, half-soaked from the rain, cloak torn, hood down. Her hair was wild silver, eyes molten gold. A glowing scar snaked down her cheek, pulsing in time with the cursed marks on Kael's arm.
She smirked. "Name's Lira Starlight. You? Well, you're just deliciously cursed, aren't you?"
Behind them, the guards stirred.
Lira sighed. "Run now. Existential crisis later."
So Kael ran—cursed sword screaming in his hand, and a silver-haired mystery at his side.
TO BE CONTINUED...