Kyren was only 13 when his father, once the strongest superhero and now the head of Epsilon's military, cast him out onto the streets.
Kyren wasn't a troublemaker. He was quiet, introspective—content with being on his own. He didn't need to prove anything to anyone. Unlike his brothers, who had inherited the brash arrogance of their legacy, Kyren had never developed a power. Kylien, the oldest, had awakened his abilities at 10. Baron, the second youngest, had become the second earliest recorded power user in the world, at 9.
Their father, once the crown jewel of the third generation of heroes, ruled Epsilon with an iron fist. By the time powers became common—by the fourth generation, nearly 95% of the population had some ability—Kyren's lack of powers had become unforgivable.
On his 13th birthday, the day Kyren thought should be a celebration, his father's voice rang through the house like a death sentence.
"Leave now, Kyren," his father's eyes were cold, steely. "You are no longer a Warhammer. Any power you develop now will only tarnish the family's name. And if you don't develop a power, it'll be worse. A powerless son couldn't have come from me."
Kyren's protest was a whisper lost in the air. There was no one left to defend him. His brothers, ever afraid of their father's wrath, said nothing.
After his mother died—struck down fighting the sea monster that had attacked Epsilon—his father had become a stranger. Unyielding. Uncompromising. And now, Kyren, the one child without power, was no longer welcome.
With his heart pounding, Kyren packed his things. He grabbed only what he could carry—a few clothes, a few necessities—and the dagger his mother had given him on his 10th birthday. She had hoped, in vain, that he might inherit her gift for speed and close combat. He could still hear her words echo in his mind, urging him to awaken his power. But there was nothing. Only emptiness.
As he walked to the front door, he turned to face his brothers. They didn't look at him. They didn't speak. They dared not, not with their father looming behind them. With a heavy heart, Kyren stepped outside. The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that made his chest tighten.
No longer a Warhammer. No longer a son.
Kyren trudged down the smooth, wide streets of Woodlawn Hills, the wealthiest part of Epsilon. The sound of his footsteps was the only thing that accompanied him, echoing in the silence. The road stretched out, the cobblestones glistening under the setting sun, as he moved from the glimmering heart of the city to its less pristine outskirts.
After what felt like miles, he reached the shopping district—familiar streets, familiar faces, but no one to turn to. He stopped outside a small tailor's shop where he'd been coming for years. The old shopkeeper, who'd made his school uniforms, looked at him with surprise as Kyren stepped inside.
"Kyren, what brings you here?" the tailor asked, his voice kind but cautious.
The words spilled out before Kyren could stop them. "My father kicked me out. I don't have a power."
The tailor blinked, clearly struggling to keep from laughing, but his face softened. "Ah, my poor boy. In that case… the only place you'll be welcome now is the outskirts. They'll take you there."
Kyren's blood ran cold.
The outskirts. The place where the powerless, the forgotten, and the broken were left to fend for themselves. It was the last place he wanted to go—but it was the only place left.
As the tailor's words sank in, Kyren felt the weight of the world crash down on him.
He was alone. Truly alone.
And the road ahead was darker than he ever imagined.