Chapter 1: The Turning Wheel
The gas lamps flickered weakly against the thick London fog, their dim glow barely piercing the veil of mist that clung to the cobblestone streets like a shroud. Elias Wren tightened his threadbare coat around himself, his breath forming small, ephemeral clouds in the chill night air. The letter in his pocket weighed heavily on his mind—its contents both a promise and a curse.
*The Turning Ceremony.*
Every young man and woman of age in the Empire was required to participate, to stand before the Wheel of Paths and let fate decide their destiny. Some were chosen for greatness—Paths like the *Blade Dancer*, the *Stormcaller*, or the *Soulforger*—legendary callings that shaped kings and conquerors. Others… well, others were not so fortunate.
Elias exhaled sharply, watching as his breath curled away into the damp darkness. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, for something decent. Not one of the exalted Paths, but at least something serviceable—*Whisperwalker*, perhaps, or *Iron Sentinel*. Something that could earn him a living, a place in this unforgiving world.
But fate, as it often did, had other plans.
---
The grand hall of the Turning Chapel was a cavernous space, its high ceilings lost in shadow, its walls lined with the faded portraits of past Pathbearers—heroes, scholars, and warriors whose names still echoed through history. The air smelled of incense and old parchment, thick with the weight of centuries of tradition.
At the center of the hall stood the Wheel.
It was an enormous, ornate contraption of brass and silver, its surface etched with twenty-four intricate symbols, each representing a different Path. The mechanism hummed faintly, as if alive, the arcane machinery within it thrumming with unseen power.
Elias swallowed hard as he stepped forward, his boots clicking against the marble floor. The priest—an austere man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes—regarded him without expression.
"Elias Wren," the priest intoned, his voice dry as parchment. "You stand before the Wheel of Paths. Spin it, and your destiny shall be sealed."
A hush fell over the small gathered crowd—mostly family members of other Turning candidates, a few curious onlookers, and the ever-watchful representatives of the various Path Orders, their eyes sharp with appraisal.
Elias reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the cold metal of the Wheel. He took a deep breath—and spun it.
The Wheel turned with a slow, grinding whir, the symbols blurring into a streak of silver and gold. The air itself seemed to vibrate, the very atmosphere charged with anticipation. Elias's heart pounded in his chest, his pulse roaring in his ears.
*Please. Not the worst. Just not the worst.*
The Wheel slowed.
The needle passed the *Flamebearer*—a strong, respected Path. Then the *Veilweaver*—rare, but prestigious. Then the *Stoneheart*—solid, dependable.
Then… it stopped.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Then stifled laughter.
Elias stared at the symbol now etched into his right hand—a small, unassuming mark of a closed door.
**The Path of the Locked Hearth.**
The weakest Path. The rarest, not because it was coveted, but because no one wanted it. Only ten others in recorded history had ever drawn it. Nine had abandoned the life of an adventurer within a year, choosing instead to become clerks, shopkeepers, or laborers. The tenth… well, the tenth was a figure of myth, a name whispered in ancient texts, a man who had supposedly walked the Path to its end—whatever that meant.
The priest's lips thinned. "A stable profession, young man. The Locked Hearth is a Path of guardianship, of stillness. Many find… contentment in its quietude."
*Contentment.* A polite way of saying *irrelevance.*
Elias clenched his fist, the mark burning faintly against his skin. No grand destiny awaited him. No glory. Just… stillness.
---
The walk home was long, the fog thickening as night deepened. Elias kept his head down, his hands shoved into his pockets, the weight of the ceremony pressing down on him like a physical burden. Around him, the city carried on—carriages rattled over cobblestones, street vendors called out their wares, and the distant hum of industry from the factories across the Thames filled the air.
None of it mattered.
He had spent years dreaming of this day, imagining the Path he might walk, the power he might wield. And now? Now he was bound to a calling that even the Empire's scholars barely understood.
*The Locked Hearth.*
What did it even *do*?
The few texts that mentioned it were vague. Some called it a Path of "passive guardianship," whatever that meant. Others suggested it was tied to warding, to sealing, to things best left undisturbed. One particularly unhelpful tome had described it as "the Path of the forgotten door."
Elias gritted his teeth.
He turned down a narrow alley, the buildings pressing in on either side, their soot-stained bricks looming like silent sentinels. The gas lamps here were sparse, their light weak and flickering. Shadows pooled in the corners, shifting uneasily as he passed.
And then—
A sound.
A whisper of movement, too deliberate to be the wind.
Elias froze.
His mark—the symbol on his hand—pulsed faintly, a dull warmth spreading through his fingers.
*What—?*
Before he could react, a figure stepped from the shadows.
Tall, clad in a long coat that seemed to drink in the light, the man's face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. But his voice, when he spoke, was smooth, deliberate.
"Elias Wren," the stranger said. "Bearer of the Locked Hearth."
Elias's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
The man chuckled, low and humorless. "A friend. Or perhaps a warning." He tilted his head slightly. "You've been given a gift, boy. A Path few understand. Fewer still survive."
Elias's pulse spiked. "What do you mean?"
The stranger didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and withdrew something—a small, ornate key, its metal tarnished with age.
"Take it," he said, holding it out. "The first door is already opening. And you, Elias Wren, are the only one who can close it."
Elias stared at the key, his mind racing. "I don't understand."
"You will." The stranger's voice was grim. "And when you do, remember this—the Locked Hearth is not weak. It is *forgotten*. And some things… some things are forgotten for a reason."
With that, the man stepped back into the shadows—and was gone.
Elias stood there, the key cold in his palm, the weight of the night pressing down on him.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower struck midnight.
And Elias Wren, bearer of the weakest Path, realized—his journey had only just begun.