The rain fell in relentless waves, each droplet pounding the cobblestones of Duskreach with a rhythm that seemed almost deliberate. The city was alive with shadows—hooded figures darting through alleyways, the faint glow of lanterns barely piercing the dense fog, and the low hum of distant voices muttering in the dark.
Kaelen Veyr moved through the city like a ghost, silent and unseen. His dark cloak clung to his frame, soaked through by the storm, but he paid the cold no mind. He had long since stopped feeling discomfort; the years in the Abyssal Pit had hardened him in ways he barely understood himself.
In his hand, he clutched a fragment of something extraordinary—something ancient. The Aetherial Fragment pulsed faintly, its light a deep, eerie blue that seemed alive. It wasn't the first time Kaelen had held a relic of this kind, but even he could feel the raw power radiating from it, like a heartbeat in the palm of his hand.
His mind raced as he made his way to the rendezvous point, every nerve on edge. The Black Claw gang would be looking for him by now. They wouldn't take kindly to someone stealing their prize out from under their noses.
The thought brought a smirk to his lips.
"Let them come," he muttered under his breath.
The abandoned chapel sat on the outskirts of the city, its once-majestic spires now crumbling under the weight of time. Moss and vines crept up its stone walls, and the stained glass windows were shattered, their shards scattered like forgotten memories.
Kaelen pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the groan of the hinges echoing through the empty hall. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of mildew and decay, the faint glow of a single candle casting flickering shadows across the room.
"You're late," a voice called from the darkness.
Kaelen's eyes adjusted quickly, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of the dagger at his belt. A figure emerged from the shadows, his tall, wiry frame draped in a patchwork of dark leather. Darran Skell, the man who knew everything and sold information like others sold grain.
"I'm alive," Kaelen replied, his voice calm and sharp. "That's what matters."
Darran chuckled, his thin lips curling into a smirk. "Always so dramatic. Let me guess—you brought me a present?"
Kaelen stepped forward and held out the Fragment, the strange relic bathing the room in its ghostly light. For a moment, Darran's ever-present smirk faltered, replaced by something almost resembling awe.
"Well, well," Darran murmured, stepping closer. "I didn't think you'd actually pull it off. The Black Claw doesn't part with treasures like this lightly. Tell me, how many bodies did you leave behind?"
"Enough," Kaelen said curtly. "Do you have my payment?"
"Always straight to business," Darran said, shaking his head. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather pouch, tossing it to Kaelen. The clink of gold inside was satisfying, but not enough to distract him from the curiosity burning in his chest.
"What is it?" Kaelen asked, nodding toward the Fragment.
Darran's smirk returned. "Ah, now that's the question, isn't it? This little beauty is a key. One of several, if the legends are true. Together, they unlock something ancient. Something powerful."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "What kind of power?"
Darran leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The kind that makes kings and breaks empires. There's a name for it—the Obsidian Crown."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the Fragment. He had heard whispers of the Obsidian Crown before, stories told in the darkest corners of the Abyssal Pit. A relic said to grant its wielder dominion over life and death itself. A fantasy, they had called it. But holding the Fragment now, Kaelen wasn't so sure.
"And this is one of the keys?" he asked, his voice low.
Darran nodded. "It's said the Crown was broken into pieces long ago, scattered across the world to keep it hidden. Each piece is guarded—some by traps, some by magic, and some by things far worse."
"And you know where the others are?"
Darran grinned, but there was something predatory in his eyes. "I know where the next one is. An old ruin in the Ashen Wastes. But you're not the only one looking for them, Kaelen. The Black Claw will be after you now, and there are others—organizations and individuals far more dangerous than a gang of petty thugs."
Kaelen considered this, the wheels in his mind turning. The idea of power beyond imagining was tempting, but it wasn't just about power. It was about survival, revenge, and proving that he was more than the world had tried to make him.
"What's your angle, Skell?" he asked finally.
Darran laughed. "My angle? Let's just say I like to invest in talent. And you, Kaelen… You've got talent. But be careful. This isn't just a game anymore. This is the kind of thing that changes the rules entirely."
Kaelen slipped the Fragment into his cloak and turned toward the door. "The Ashen Wastes, then."
"Good luck," Darran called after him. "You're going to need it."
As Kaelen stepped back into the storm, the weight of the Fragment seemed heavier somehow. He pulled his hood tighter against the rain and set his sights on the distant horizon, where the Ashen Wastes lay—a barren land of ash and fire, said to be cursed by the gods themselves.
His heart burned with a single thought:
"If the world seeks to crush me, I'll rise above it. If it denies me power, I'll take it by force."
The storm raged on, but Kaelen felt nothing. His path was set, and there was no turning back.