Azriel had never known the warmth of a mother's embrace or the protection of a father's arms. He had never been a prince, nor had he ever tasted the luxuries that noble blood afforded. Instead, Azriel's life had always been one of the cold and unforgiving streets of Revaris, the great city ruled by the empire. An orphan from birth, Azriel's life was one of constant survival—one step ahead of the city's watchful eyes, always on the move, always hungry.
Revaris, the heart of the empire, was a sprawling metropolis surrounded by tall stone walls and guarded by the finest soldiers. The city was a symbol of the empire's iron grip on the land, its buildings towering over the lesser districts where the poor, like Azriel, fought for their next breath. The streets were full of life—sometimes vibrant, often grim. The marketplace buzzed with traders and merchants, while the nobles' district gleamed with wealth and decadence. But in the alleys and corners where Azriel spent his days, life was a different story. He never got a glimpse of that bright world beyond his reach.
By day, he moved silently between market stalls, picking pockets and sneaking scraps of food. By night, he hid in the shadows, curled up in the darkest corners of abandoned buildings, hoping for a few hours of sleep before the guards came through again. There were other orphans, like him, who lived off the scraps of the city, but Azriel always felt different. He was sharper, faster, more aware of his surroundings. A gift he never truly understood but one that kept him alive, more than the others.
On the day his life changed forever, Azriel was moving through a narrow alley near the docks. The evening sun was setting, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and the distant hum of boats docking at the wharves. Azriel was on his way to swipe a loaf of bread from a distracted baker when he heard a strange noise—a faint, raspy cough that came from the shadows ahead.
He paused, narrowing his eyes. Most of the time, the city was filled with the usual sounds of life—people arguing, dogs barking, and carts rolling along the streets. But this sound, the cough, was different. It had a sharpness to it, almost as if someone was struggling for breath. Azriel moved forward cautiously, staying close to the stone walls, his senses alert. The alley ahead was dark, the shadows thickening as the last rays of daylight slipped away.
There, slumped against the corner of a crumbling building, was a man—an older warrior by the looks of it. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his face gaunt and pale. The man's hand clutched something tightly, though it was almost impossible to see what in the dim light. As Azriel approached, the warrior's eyes flickered open, locking onto him with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. The man's gaze seemed to pierce through him, as if seeing into his very soul.
"Boy..." the warrior rasped, his voice hoarse and weak. "You... must take it."
Azriel froze. The man was clearly on death's doorstep. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his face contorted in pain. There was something desperate in his eyes, a plea for help that was impossible to ignore. Without thinking, Azriel stepped closer, his instincts urging him to act.
"What... what do you want me to take?" Azriel asked, his voice barely a whisper, his heart pounding in his chest.
The warrior's hand trembled as he reached out, slowly extending a strange, ancient-looking artifact. It was a small, round disc, covered in intricate runes and markings that Azriel didn't recognize. The disc gleamed faintly in the dim light, and Azriel could feel a strange pull from it—something that beckoned him.
The warrior's grip on the sigil tightened. "The Warlord's Sigil," he whispered. "Take it. The future... depends on you."
Azriel hesitated for a moment. He had no idea what this sigil was, or why the dying man wanted him to take it. But something in the warrior's eyes—something desperate, yet knowing—compelled him to reach out. His fingers brushed against the cool surface of the sigil, and as soon as his skin made contact, a rush of power surged through him. It was as if an electric shock had jolted through his entire body, flooding his senses with unimaginable strength.
The warrior's eyes fluttered closed, and with a final, shuddering breath, he exhaled his last words, "You are the one... remember..."
Azriel stepped back, heart racing, the sigil still clutched tightly in his hand. His mind spun with confusion. He didn't know who this warrior had been or why he had entrusted him with this strange object, but something inside him told him that this was no ordinary relic. His body felt alive, as though every fiber of his being had been awakened by the sigil's energy. He could hear the faint hum of the artifact, almost like it was calling to him, urging him to do something, but Azriel didn't know what.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. It was as if the world around him had suddenly shifted. His senses were heightened, his hearing more acute, his sight sharper. He could feel the pulse of life in the people around him, and even the faintest sound seemed amplified in his ears. His body felt stronger than ever before, like he could run faster, jump higher, and fight harder than he ever could have imagined.
But this power came at a cost. As the warrior had warned, Azriel now carried the weight of something much bigger than himself. The sigil was no mere trinket. It was a key to something ancient, something that had been lost to the world for centuries.
Azriel's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. He quickly shoved the sigil into his ragged tunic, looking around to see who had heard the commotion. But when he turned, the alley was empty—no one in sight.
Still, he knew the danger was real. The empire had eyes everywhere, and if they found out what had just happened, they would stop at nothing to take the sigil from him. His heart pounded in his chest as he made the decision. He had to leave, and he had to leave now.