Chapter 1:
The slums of Ironwell festered under a sky that refused to heal, a sprawling wound of mud and misery carved into the Human Continent's edge. Shacks leaned like drunks against one another, their walls patched with rusted tin and splintered planks, sagging under the weight of years no one bothered to count. The air stank of ash and rot, a thick shroud that clung to Torin's throat as he crouched behind a splintered cart, his broken sword gripped tight in his calloused hand. The blade was a ruin—snapped halfway down its length, its edge jagged as a dog's grin—but it was his. Five years he'd wielded it, a beggar's inheritance from a father who'd coughed his last in a ditch. At fourteen, it was the only thing between him and the dark, and in three days—maybe four—he'd turn fifteen. If he didn't die first.
Above, the sky pulsed with a sickly glow. Green stars glimmered faintly, the World Tree's leaves scattered across a canopy dimmed by smoke and despair. Torin squinted, tracing their pattern through the haze—his mother had called them a promise once, a divine watch over the slums. He'd stopped believing that the day she starved, her ribs sharp under a threadbare shawl. Now a red crack split the east, a jagged scar bleeding crimson light into the green. The World Devour Tree's mark, the whispers said, and Torin didn't care what it meant—only that it brought demons, and something worse had been stalking him for three days.
He wasn't alone. Mira pressed against his left side, her bony frame trembling under a tattered hood. Ten years old, her eyes were sharp as a hawk's beneath matted brown bangs, scanning the shadows like she could spot a crust of bread in a pile of ash. Jek crouched to his right, twelve, wiry and restless, his bent knife twitching in his grip like a live thing. They'd been with him since he could walk—begging, stealing, patching each other up when the world hit too hard. Mira had smeared mud on his face once to hide the bruises after a merchant's guard caught him swiping a loaf; Jek had shared a rotten apple when Torin's stomach gnawed itself raw. They were his, in the way slum kids claimed anything worth keeping.
"Stay down," Torin rasped, his voice a low scrape against the silence. He peered through a gap in the cart's slats, the alley ahead twisting into Tanner's Row—a narrow choke of mud and old hides, strewn with broken barrels and the faint reek of tannin. Beyond it lay the Pit, a sunken dump where the poorest slept on piles of rags and bones, and past that loomed the Husk, a charred warehouse skeleton where rumors said the UAA might come. Might. Torin didn't trust rumors—they were as hollow as the promises of fat nobles in their stone towers—but it was a chance, and chances were all he had left.
The air shivered, a cold prickle crawling up his neck like a spider's legs. It wasn't the demons—not yet. Three days ago, after he'd stared too long at the red crack, a wisp had flickered at the edge of his vision, faint as smoke curling off a dying fire. He'd thought it was exhaustion, the kind that blurred your eyes after too many nights without sleep, but it hadn't left. It lingered, a presence in his skull, watching him, peeling at his thoughts. Old Kren had called them spectres once—things from the void, haunting the weak until they broke. Torin wasn't weak, not after surviving this long, but it wouldn't stop. Yesterday, when he'd snapped at Mira over a spilled rind, his voice sharp enough to make her flinch, he'd seen it—a shadow, shaped like him, gone when he turned. It fed on his anger, his fear, growing heavier each time.
"Torin!" Jek's hiss jolted him, sharp and urgent. A claw-biter skittered into view at the mouth of Tanner's Row—four legs, spindly and bent, eyes like oozing sores glinting in the dim light. Its claws clicked on the stone, a staccato rhythm that set Torin's teeth on edge. He shifted, silent as a slum rat, his muscles coiling beneath his ragged tunic. He didn't have the World Tree's blessing yet—no class, no power—but he had one trick, stumbled into by accident years back. "Grip of Will," he'd called it—the only skill he'd ever made, born when his hands shook too hard to hold the blade against a snarling dog. He'd forced his entire will into that grip, steadying it, focusing his mind until the trembling stopped and the cut landed true. It wasn't much, but it let him fight cleaner, sharper, every move a little easier when the world wanted him to drop the sword and run. Without it, he'd have lost the blade a dozen times—stopped fighting long before now. It was his, for better or worse, and one day he'd wonder if it cursed him to this path.
He lunged, low and fast, the broken sword flicking under the demon's jaw. "Grip of Will" snapped his focus tight—his wrist twisted, steady as stone, and the blade bit deep, snapping the claw-biter's neck with a wet, hollow pop. Black blood sprayed, staining the mud, and Torin ducked back, grabbing Mira's arm and Jek's sleeve to haul them toward the Pit.
The spectre's weight thickened, pressing against his mind like a damp cloth. They stumbled into the Pit, a shallow bowl of filth and refuse, and Torin shoved them behind a rusted barrel, its side dented and leaking something sour. His chest heaved, breath ragged, but he forced it steady, peering over the rim. The Pit sprawled around them—piles of rags and bones, a cracked cart wheel half-buried in muck, the faint glint of a shattered bottle catching the starlight. It stank of piss and decay, a graveyard for the living, but it was cover. For now.
Mira's hand clutched his sleeve, her fingers trembling but fierce. "They're comin' closer," she whispered, her voice small but steady. "Heard 'em last night—more than one." Her eyes darted to the shadows, and Torin followed her gaze. Nothing yet, but the air felt wrong—too still, too heavy.
Jek shifted, his knife scraping the barrel's edge. "We can't stay here," he muttered, his voice tight. "They'll sniff us out, Torin. You know they will."
"Shut it," Torin snapped, sharper than he meant. Jek flinched, and guilt twisted in Torin's gut, quick and bitter. He didn't have time for soft words—not now, not ever. "We move when I say. Husk's our shot. UAA might be there." Might. The word tasted like ash, but he clung to it. The United Alliance Army—steel and grit, the only thing that might save them from this hell—had to come. They'd heard the horns days ago, faint on the wind, before the crack widened and the demons spilled in.
The spectre stirred, a shadow flickering at the corner of his eye—his own gaunt frame, broken sword raised, mirroring his crouch. His pulse hammered, rage flaring—at the slums, at the nobles who let it rot, at the useless blade in his hand. Why this wreck? Why him? The shadow's edges hardened, and a mouth split its face, whispering soft as rust on iron.
"You're nothing with that shard. Weak boy, weak life. Fix it. Cut the fat nobles who left you here. That's your strength—rage, not scraps."
Torin's fist clenched, the hilt biting into his palm until it stung. He'd thought it—more times than he'd admit. Gut the Lionhearts in their stone halls, watch their gold spill red across marble floors. They sat high while Ironwell burned, hoarding swords that gleamed like the sun, leaving him with this broken thing. The spectre's words sank claws into his doubt, tugging at the frayed edges of his will. He was a beggar, three days from fifteen, no class to fight this thing—or the demons clawing closer. The UAA was a dream, a lie he told himself to keep moving, but it wasn't here.
A scream tore through the Pit, raw and guttural, snapping him back. Fat Dren staggered into view, his pockmarked face twisted in panic, his stained tunic flapping as he ran. Three claw-biters chased him, claws raking the mud, their shrieks piercing the dusk. Dren—the drunk who'd kicked Torin bloody last month over a crust, laughing as his boot sank in—tripped, sprawling into a pile of rags. Torin's lips twitched, a vicious spark flaring in his chest. He didn't save scum.
"Stay," he muttered to Mira and Jek, his voice low and cold. He darted past Dren, slashing a demon's leg with a flick of his broken blade—a shallow cut, just enough to draw their shrieks. Dren wailed, thrashing as the claw-biters tore into his gut, black blood pooling beneath him. Torin didn't look back, bolting right toward the Husk, Mira and Jek scrambling behind. Let the bastard buy their escape—favors were for friends, not filth.
The Husk loomed ahead, its charred beams clawing the sky like skeletal fingers. Torin shoved Mira and Jek through a gap in the wall, ducking inside after them. The interior was a cavern of ash and ruin—collapsed rafters, a floor littered with broken crates, a faint draft whistling through holes in the roof. He dragged a plank across the door, wedging it tight, and sank against a beam, chest heaving. The demons' chittering faded, chasing Dren's dying cries, but the silence didn't last.
The spectre's presence swelled, a weight pressing his skull until his temples throbbed. He glimpsed it—a shadow, clearer now, standing across the Husk's dim expanse. His own face stared back, hollow and sharp, the broken sword raised in a mocking echo of his grip. "You'll die here," it whispered, its mouth moving slow and deliberate, voice seeping into his bones. "Weak blade, weak boy. Fix it. Cut the rich. Live."
Torin's breath hitched, his fist slamming the beam hard enough to split the skin on his knuckles. Pain flared, grounding him, but the spectre didn't fade. "Shut it," he snarled, glaring into the dark. His voice bounced off the walls, too loud, and Mira flinched beside him, her hand grabbing his sleeve.
"You hearin' it again?" she asked, her whisper trembling but firm. Her eyes searched his face, wide and unblinking, like she could see the thing clawing at his mind.
"Yeah," Torin muttered, jaw tight. "In my head. Wants me to… give up. Or worse." He didn't say it—cut the nobles, fix the blade, turn on everything—but it churned in him, a bitter tide he couldn't shake.
Jek shifted closer, his knife scraping the floor, his voice cracking. "You don't give up, Torin. Got me out when Dren's boys cornered me last winter—beat me bloody, but you cut 'em off with that thing." He nodded at the sword, his knuckles white around his own blade. "It's broke, but you're not."
Torin stared at the jagged edge, its glint catching the faint starlight through a hole above. He didn't trust hope—slums ate it, spat it out—but Jek's words stuck, rough and real. He'd kept them alive when no one else cared, fought with this wreck when fists weren't enough. Maybe that was it—not rage, not nobles, but holding on. The spectre's shadow flickered, its mouth thinning as he shoved it back, but it didn't vanish. It lingered, watching, waiting.
Mira's grip tightened, her voice barely a breath. "They're comin' closer, Torin. Heard 'em—more than before."
He nodded, peering through a crack in the wall. The Pit was still, but the air thrummed—low growls, claws on stone, echoing from Tanner's Row. The demons weren't done, and the UAA wasn't here. Torin's hand tightened on the hilt, the sting in his knuckles a dull pulse. Three days to fifteen—if he lasted that long, the World Tree might give him something, anything, to fight this. Until then, he'd survive—broken sword, spectre, and all—because he had to. For them. For himself.
Outside, the growls sharpened, claw-biters circling closer. Torin's lips pressed thin, a grim line. "We hold," he said, voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. "Till we can't."