A thin figure huddled in the shadows of a narrow alleyway as dusk settled over the town of Duskhaven. Sixteen-year-old Arlan woke with a start, shivering against the cold stone wall at his back. Today was the day he had dreaded and hoped for in equal measure – the day of his Class awakening. His heart thudded in his chest, both from hunger and anxiety. As the last light of the sun slipped away, a strange warmth blossomed in his chest, then spread like liquid fire through his veins.
Arlan gasped, clutching his chest. The sensation wasn't painful, but it was intense and otherworldly. In the dim light, he saw faint wisps of sickly greenish glow swirling around his hands. A whispering chorus of unintelligible voices filled his ears for a moment, then faded. He knew what this was: magic. His magic, awakening at last. Every youth in the kingdom experienced something similar around their sixteenth year – a moment when their dormant Class and abilities surfaced.
He swallowed hard, nerves taut as bowstrings. Please be something good, he prayed silently. Perhaps a Warrior or a Mage, or even a humble Craftsman – anything respectable that could help him survive. But as the greenish glow coiled around him like a ghostly snake, Arlan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. An instinctive understanding blossomed in his mind, as if an invisible hand had written a word on his soul. That word was Necromancer.
His breath caught and he scrambled backwards until his shoulders hit the alley wall. "No… no, that can't be right," he whispered to himself, voice trembling. Necromancer – a wielder of death magic, reviled in stories and by townsfolk. The rarest of dark Classes, whispered about with fear. Arlan's pulse pounded in his ears. Of all the fates, why this? He had seen what mobs did to those suspected of necromancy: angry shouts, stones thrown, sometimes worse. Being an orphan was hard enough; being a necromancer could be a death sentence.
In the gloom, the swirling light faded, leaving only a faint tingling in his fingertips. Arlan flexed his hands, noticing that his ragged fingernails now had a subtle black sheen at the tips, as if stained by ink. He felt… different. A deep ache of hunger gnawed at him, but beneath it lay a strange new hunger – one he couldn't name. The alley was silent except for his own rapid breathing. Alone in the darkness, Arlan sank his face into his hands. He was alive and had a Class now, but that Class was Necromancer. What am I going to do? he thought, fear and excitement swirling in equal measure.