Hunger clawed at Drake’s ribcage like a trapped rat, biting deeper with every freezing breath. Rain mixed with sleet washed down the stone arches of Kamilia, coating the cobblestones in a slick, treacherous sheen. Today marked nine years since his mother had abandoned him on the steps of the imperial orphanage, though no one was coming to light a candle for him. Cold mud squelched between his bare toes as he crouched behind the rotting timber of a grain cart. His eyes remained locked on the wooden counter of the bakery across the narrow alleyway. Master Orlov, a man built like a beer barrel with fists like iron mallets, was busy counting copper coins. Next to his massive elbow rested a single, discarded loaf of rye, green with mold along the crust. To Orlov, it was garbage. To Drake's empty stomach, it was a lifeline. Kamilia was a city of rot, hidden behind high marble walls and gilded promises. The wealthy nobles in the upper rings dined on roasted pheasant and imported wines, completely blind to the starving dregs dying in the gutters of the lower districts. Orphans were treated as less than stray dogs, easily discarded and heavily beaten if they dared to exist in public view. No one survived in the lower ring of Kamilia by being soft. Every scrap of moldy meat, every drop of clean water, and every dry corner under a bridge had to be fought for with teeth and nails. Drake had learned this lesson at the tender age of five, when an older orphan had broken his left wrist just to steal a half-eaten turnip from his hand. He had not wept then, either. He had simply waited three weeks until the boy fell asleep near the lime kilns, and then he had stolen the boy’s only pair of boots, trading them to a dockworker for three days of salted fish. Survival was not about strength; it was about patience, observation, and an absolute lack of pity. Creeping forward, Drake kept his center of gravity low, mimicking the stray dogs that scavenged the lower ring of the city. His breath came in thin, controlled puffs of white mist. One step, then another. His fingers, numb and cracked from the autumn chill, slipped over the edge of the damp wooden counter. Swiftly, his hand clamped around the rough crust. "Thief!" a voice boomed, shattering the quiet hum of the rain. Before Drake's fingers could even tuck the loaf into his tattered tunic, a heavy iron ladle crashed down across his knuckles. Bone cracked against wood. A sharp, blinding white pain shot up his arm, forcing a gasp from his throat, though he refused to scream. Dropping the bread was not an option. Drake scrambled backward, tucking the moldy prize against his chest, but his wet heel slipped on a patch of black ice. His spine collided violently with the cobblestones, knocking the wind from his lungs in a wet choke. Heavy boots clicked against the stones, growing louder, heavier, and more terrifying with every second. Orlov loomed over him, his face purple with rage, his thick neck bulging over his stained wool collar. He spat a wet glob of phlegm onto the boy's cheek, his jaw clenched so hard Drake could hear his teeth grinding. "Rats get drowned," Orlov growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Drake's chest. He lunged forward, grabbing the collar of Drake's tunic with one meaty fist and hoisting him off the ground. Air became a luxury the boy could not afford. Drake kicked out, his heel striking the baker's shin, but it was like kicking a stone wall. Orlov grunted, his grip tightening until the cheap fabric cut into Drake's windpipe, choking off his breath entirely. With a savage grunt, the baker hurled him face-first into the stone gutter at the edge of the street. The impact rattled Drake's teeth. The metallic taste of blood exploded across his tongue as his lip split open against the stone. Rainwater mixed with horse manure and rotting cabbage washed over his face. He struggled to push himself up, but Orlov's heavy boot slammed down directly onto his ribs. A sickening pop echoed in Drake's ears, followed by an agonizing burn that made his vision swim with black spots. "You think you can steal from me, boy?" Orlov sneered, kicking him again, this time in the stomach. Drake curled into a tight ball, protecting his head with his thin arms. "You're nothing but a drain on this empire. An orphan parasite. You should have died in the winter frost years ago." Another kick caught Drake in the hip, spinning him deeper into the freezing sludge of the gutter. He pressed his forehead against the wet stone, his fingers digging into the muck. He did not cry. Tears were a waste of moisture, a sign of weakness that only invited more violence. Instead, Drake memorized the pain. He cataloged the exact angle of the boot, the rhythm of the baker's breathing, the smell of stale yeast and cheap ale radiating from the man. One day, he promised himself, he would be the one holding the boots. Satisfied with his work, Orlov snatched the moldy loaf from Drake's weak grasp. He kicked a spray of muddy water over the shivering boy, turning his back to walk back toward his warm shop. Cold water seeping through his thin tunic, Drake lay in the freezing mud, his body throbbing with a dull, agonizing heat. The rain grew heavier, washing the blood from his temple into the gutter, where it swirled with the black water. Kamilia’s grand spires loomed in the distance, dark and uncaring. The imperial crown took everything and gave nothing back, leaving the weak to devour each other in the dark. Drake stared at those distant towers, his jaw clenched, his young eyes already hardened into those of a cynical survivor. Suddenly, the rain stopped. Not because the storm had passed, but because the very air seemed to freeze in place, turning heavy and static. Drake's skin prickled with an unnatural, metallic heat that smelled of copper and ozone. High above, the grey clouds did not part; they ripped. A jagged, crimson tear split the sky, stretching from the peak of the imperial citadel down to the southern horizon. It looked like a bleeding wound in the heavens, leaking a thick, oily purple mist that swallowed the daylight. A deafening screech tore through the clouds, a sound so high-pitched and alien it made Drake's ears bleed. It was not the sound of an animal, but the screech of grinding metal mixed with a thousand dying screams. People in the market square froze, their faces turning upward in sheer, paralyzing terror. Orlov stopped in his tracks, his eyes bulging as he stared at the bleeding sky. The moldy loaf of bread slipped from his fingers, falling into the mud. Down from the crimson tear plummeted a massive, dark mass. It descended like a falling star, wrapped in a whorl of purple fire and black smoke. The sheer speed of its descent created a sonic boom that shattered every stained-glass window in the nearby cathedral. Gravity seemed to fail for a fraction of a second before the entity crashed directly into the center of the cobblestone square. Tremors rippled through the earth, throwing Drake upward before slamming him back into the gutter. Stone tiles shattered into deadly shrapnel, flying through the air and slicing through the limbs of screaming citizens. A thick cloud of dust and acrid smoke billowed outward, choking the screams of the dying. Coughing up mud and blood, Drake dragged himself slightly higher onto the curb to see through the haze. Ash and sulfur filled the air, burning Drake's throat as he tried to draw a breath. The shockwave had flattened the wooden stalls of the market, turning carts of cabbage and salted herring into kindling. Screams of agony rose from the ruins, but they were cut short as the dust began to settle, revealing the towering silhouette of the intruder. It was a creature born from a twisted dimension, completely devoid of natural grace or terrestrial symmetry. Every movement it made was accompanied by the sound of wet, tearing flesh and the clicking of a thousand tiny, needle-like joints. Its dark shell dripped with a thick, viscous substance that hissed as it touched the wet cobblestones, dissolving the stone like hot wax. Standing in the crater was a nightmare made flesh. The beast was gargantuan, its body covered in a shifting, obsidian carapace that seemed to absorb the very light around it. It possessed no true shape, shifting between a multi-limbed arachnid and a towering, skeletal titan. Dozens of yellow, pupilless eyes blinked across its bulbous head, turning in every direction like spinning coins. Underneath those eyes, a massive mouth split open, lined with rows of translucent, needle-like teeth that dripped with a green, sizzling acid. Panic erupted. People ran in every direction, trampling one another in a desperate bid to escape the nightmare. Orlov was too slow. His heavy frame, which had seemed so imposing just moments ago, made him a lumbering target. He tripped over a fallen market stall, scrambling backward on his hands and knees, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Help!" Orlov shrieked, his voice cracking like a frightened child's. "Someone, by the gods, help me!" Nobody stopped. The imperial guards, clad in their shining silver armor, were already fleeing down the main avenue, abandoning the very citizens they were sworn to protect. Watching from the gutter, a strange, cold sensation blossomed in Drake's chest. The cruel master who had broken his ribs, the man who represented the uncaring system of Kamilia, was now weeping in the dirt. The gods he prayed to were silent. Only moments ago, Orlov had been a king in his tiny, cruel domain, ruling over his bread ovens and beating children with impunity. Now, he was nothing but a trembling sack of meat, his fancy woolen coat soaked in muddy street water and his own sweat. The illusion of his power had shattered like cheap glass under the weight of a true predator. Drake watched every detail, his chest tight but his mind cold and analytical. He realized then that the laws of Kamilia—the laws of the empire, the taxes, the social classes, the cruel masters—were entirely artificial. They were thin lies painted over a universe that only understood violence and hunger. Swiftly, the beast lunged. It did not run; it simply blurred across the distance, appearing over Orlov in the blink of an eye. A thick, chitinous leg slammed down through Orlov's chest, pinning him to the shattered cobblestones with a wet, sickening crunch. Blood erupted from his mouth, spraying across the beast's dark armor. Orlov gasped, his fingers clawing uselessly at the creature's impenetrable leg. The beast tilted its head, its dozens of yellow eyes blinking in unison as if studying a minor insect. With a casual, horrific flick of its massive claw, the beast tore Orlov's upper torso completely away from his lower body. Blood painted the shattered stones in a wide, violent arc. Horror should have paralyzed Drake. He should have wept, or screamed, or closed his eyes to shield himself from the carnage. Instead, Drake felt a twisted, dark sense of validation. The system that had starved him, the man who had beaten him, had just met a force far more merciless than itself. There was no justice in this world, only power. And right now, the power belonged to the monster. Silence fell over the square, broken only by the crackle of burning wood and the wet, dripping sound of Orlov's remains. The other citizens had either fled or lay dead, leaving only the beast and the boy. Drake's heart hammered against his cracked ribs like a wild bird in a cage. He pressed himself as flat as possible against the freezing mud of the gutter, barely daring to breathe. If he could just stay still, perhaps it would think he was already dead. Slowly, the beast's head began to turn. The dozens of yellow eyes spun, searching the ruins, absorbing the scene of its sudden slaughter. It took a slow, heavy step forward, its obsidian claws gouging deep furrows into the stone. The stench of ozone and rotting flesh grew suffocatingly thick, filling Drake's lungs and making him lightheaded. Smoke drifted across the square, a thick veil of grey ash and burning debris that partially obscured the monster's towering form. A razor-sharp, obsidian-tipped tentacle slowly snakes out from the smoke, pointing directly at Drake's trembling chest as the beast's center eye locks onto him.

Chapter 1: Ashes of My Ninth Year