The rain fell black in the city of Vellhart.
Suna stood beneath the crooked arch of a ruined chapel, watching the streets rot. The gutters overflowed with more than water — blood mixed there too, thin and dark, washing away names that no longer mattered.
He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. No one noticed him, and that was just as well. In a world like this, being seen was dangerous. Names carried weight here — the kind that got you chained, hunted, or used until nothing remained. Suna had learned that early. So he had cast his name aside. Now, he was nobody.
A scream cut through the rain. Somewhere, in the tangled maze of alleys, another soul was being claimed by Vellhart's hunger. He didn't move. It wasn't his fight. Not yet.
His eyes drifted to the great tower in the distance — black stone rising like a dagger against the bruised sky. The nobles called it the Spire, a monument to their rule. But to the people below, it was a reminder that the city belonged to monsters wearing crowns.
Suna's stomach twisted. He had once believed in things — in light, in order. That was before the war. Before the betrayal. Now, he believed in silence. In shadows. In survival.
A child darted past him, barefoot and wild-eyed, clutching a loaf of stolen bread. Moments later, armored guards followed, their boots splashing through the filth. They didn't spare Suna a glance.
Good.
He turned away from the street and slipped into the deeper dark of the alleys, where the city's true face showed itself. Broken bodies huddled in corners, eyes empty. Rats grew fat on the weak. The stench clawed at his throat, but he kept walking. This was the world now.
And he was part of it — a ghost in a city that had forgotten mercy.
At the end of the alley, an old man waited. His hands trembled as he held out a small pouch of coins. Payment. Suna took it, checking the weight. Light. Too light. But he said nothing.
"The job's done," Suna said, his voice low. Calm. "They won't trouble you again."
The man's eyes were wet, whether from rain or tears, Suna couldn't tell. "Bless you, stranger. Bless—"
"Don't," Suna cut him off. "I'm no savior. Just take your chance and leave the city. If you stay, next time there won't be anyone to stop them."
The old man nodded, shrinking back. Suna turned away before more words could be spoken. He didn't need gratitude. He didn't want it. Gratitude became chains.
As he stepped back into the street, the rain began to fall harder, like the sky itself was trying to wash away the filth. But Suna knew better. This world couldn't be cleansed. It was built on rot.
And he would walk through it. Unseen. Unnamed.
A nobody.
But even nobodies leave footprints, and sooner or later, someone always follows.