The night was cold, the wind carrying the scent of filth and decay through the alleyways. Rain poured mercilessly, drenching the figures huddled in the shadows. Among them, a boy sat against a crumbling wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, his body shivering beneath the weight of hunger and exhaustion.
Lucian Voss had no family, no home, and no future.
The streets had raised him, the gutters had fed him, and the cruelty of men had taught him all he needed to know. Mercy was weakness. Kindness was a lie. Only power mattered.
Lightning split the sky, momentarily illuminating the filth-stained street. The other beggars stirred in their sleep, their ragged breaths merging with the sound of distant thunder. Lucian, however, did not sleep.
He was waiting.
His gaze flickered to the mouth of the alley, where a hunched figure slowly approached, cloaked in layers of tattered robes. The old man moved with purpose, his bony fingers clutching something beneath his garments.
Lucian's instincts sharpened.
He had seen this man before—once, twice, perhaps a dozen times. Always lingering near the outskirts of the slums, his eyes scanning the filth-ridden streets as if searching for something… or someone.
Tonight, he had found his mark.
The old man stopped a few feet away, his sunken eyes locking onto Lucian's. There was no warmth in that gaze, no pity—only calculation.
"You," the old man rasped, his voice like brittle parchment. "You wish to escape this life, don't you?"
Lucian did not answer immediately. He had long learned that words were often more dangerous than silence. Instead, he met the man's stare, unblinking.
A thin smile cracked the old man's lips. "Good," he whispered. "You have the eyes of a survivor."
From the depths of his robes, he withdrew a small, tattered scroll. The parchment was ancient, its edges frayed, its surface covered in symbols that seemed to pulse with a faint, otherworldly light.
Lucian's heart pounded.
"This," the old man murmured, "is the key to a path beyond this wretched existence."
Lucian did not believe in miracles. He did not believe in fate.
But he did believe in opportunity.
And he would seize it—no matter the cost.