London, 1863.
The rain poured in sheets, turning the alley into a river of filth. Rats scurried between the crates, seeking shelter from the cold. A boy, no older than sixteen, stood beneath the awning of a crumbling bakery, his tattered coat soaked through. He had long since stopped shivering. Hunger did that to a man—it hollowed him out until only a sharp, gnawing emptiness remained.
His name was Elias Gray.
A corpse lay sprawled on the cobblestones before him, blood mixing with the rainwater. The man had been a gambler—his throat slit wide, his pockets turned inside out. Elias had seen death before, but this was different. This wasn't the work of some desperate thief. The precision of the cut, the lack of hesitation… this was professional.
And professionals would be coming back.
Elias knelt and rifled through the dead man's coat. No coin. No papers. Nothing but a small, velvet pouch tucked inside his sleeve. He loosened the drawstring and peered inside.
A shard of dark stone, pulsing faintly beneath the storm's dim light.
His breath hitched. A Dominus Shard.
He had heard the stories—how these relics granted power to the lucky few. How kings and warlords fought over them like rabid dogs. Only one in a thousand could awaken a shard's potential, but those who could became more than men.
They became legends.
A sound from the street made him freeze. Bootsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
He melted into the shadows as two men entered the alley. One was a brute, thick-necked with scarred knuckles. The other was thin, sharp-featured, with eyes like a vulture.
"Bastard bled out quick," the brute grunted, nudging the corpse with his boot.
"The Veil Relic," the thin man snapped. "Find it."
Elias clenched the pouch in his fist. He had seconds.
He made his choice.
With a single motion, he tore open the pouch and gripped the Dominus Shard. A wave of heat rushed through his body—like fire in his veins, like the pulse of something ancient waking up. The world blurred, his heart slammed against his ribs, and then—
Pain.
It wasn't like the stories. There was no instant awakening, no surge of power. Instead, it was agony, as if something inside him was being ripped apart and reshaped. He bit down on his lip, tasting blood, forcing himself not to scream.
Through the haze, he saw the thin man's head snap in his direction.
"There."
The brute lunged.
Elias moved on instinct. He didn't know how, but his body reacted—faster, sharper than ever before. He ducked under the man's grasp, twisting away. His foot lashed out, catching the brute's knee. A sickening crack. The man howled, crumpling to the ground.
The thin man didn't hesitate. A knife flashed in the dim light, arcing toward Elias's throat.
Something shifted inside him.
His vision darkened at the edges, the world slowing to a crawl. He saw the blade moving, saw the raindrops hanging in the air. A whisper of something deeper stirred in his chest—a power unlike the elements, something far more dangerous.
And then, for a single moment, the knife stopped. Not slowed. Stopped.
The thin man's eyes widened in horror.
Elias didn't think. He drove his fist into the man's ribs, shattering them like brittle glass. The body crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Silence.
His breath came ragged. The rain still fell, the corpse still bled, but everything had changed. He could feel it.
He had taken his first step.
And there was no turning back.