The rain poured in thick sheets, drenching the broken cobblestones beneath Valen's boots. He walked with slow, deliberate steps, his breath curling in the cold night air. His tattered cloak clung to his back, heavy with water and the weight of his choices. The streets of Eldermire were empty—no souls dared to wander after the bells tolled midnight. The Radiant Order had made sure of that.
He stopped at the mouth of an alley, gazing at the towering silhouette of the cathedral in the distance. Its golden spires gleamed even in the storm, a monument to the Light's dominion over the city. To the common folk, it was a beacon of hope. To Valen, it was a lie wrapped in gold.
A weak cough pulled his attention downward. A child huddled in the shadows, her frail body curled against the cold. She was wrapped in rags, her lips blue, her breaths shallow. The Order had cleansed Eldermire's streets of beggars and outcasts, branding them as "darkness unworthy of salvation." And yet, here she was—a life discarded, unseen by those who claimed to serve the Light.
Valen knelt beside her, reaching into his cloak. His fingers brushed against the small leather pouch tied at his waist. Inside, a single piece of bread remained. He broke it in half and placed one piece in the child's trembling hands.
"Eat," he said, his voice quiet.
Her wide, hollow eyes met his, searching for cruelty where kindness had long ceased to exist. Slowly, she took a bite, chewing as though she expected the food to turn to ash in her mouth.
"Who… are you?" she whispered.
Valen stared at the cathedral once more, at the looming towers that had once welcomed him with open arms. He had been a child of the Light once. Trained in the ways of the Radiant Order. Raised to fight in its name. He had believed in their cause, their justice—until he had seen what lay beneath.
The Light did not eliminate darkness. It only ignored the shadows it cast.
"I'm no one," he said, standing. "Just a man with a dream."
A flicker of movement caught his eye. A patrol of Radiant knights, their silver armor glinting under the lantern glow, walked the main road. Their leader, a man with a scar down his cheek, stopped, eyes scanning the alley. Valen knew that look. It was the gaze of a hunter who smelled prey.
Valen turned away from the girl. "Stay hidden."
Before she could reply, he stepped into the light.
"Hold!" The knight's voice cut through the rain. The patrol moved in, boots splashing through puddles. Their hands hovered over their weapons, their faces unreadable behind their steel visors.
Valen let his cloak fall open, revealing his sword hilt. He did not reach for it—yet.
"You're out late, traveler," the scarred knight said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp. "And you're armed. Not many wander Eldermire's streets past curfew unless they have reason to hide."
Valen met his gaze, unflinching. "I have no quarrel with you."
The knight's brow twitched. A moment of recognition. Valen saw it in his eyes—the realization, the flicker of memory. The man had seen his face before. Perhaps in a report. Perhaps in a wanted poster.
"Wait," another knight murmured. "That cloak—"
Scarred Knight moved faster than Valen expected, drawing his sword in a single smooth motion. "By order of the Radiant Church, you are under arrest."
Valen sighed. "You should have walked away."
Then he moved.
A flick of his wrist sent a throwing knife slicing through the rain. It struck the knight on the right, slipping between the seams of his armor. He gasped, falling to one knee. Before the others could react, Valen was already upon them.
His sword left its sheath in a whisper of steel. The first knight barely raised his shield before Valen's blade slammed into it, twisting downward to carve across his shin. The knight cried out, stumbling back.
Scarred Knight lunged, his sword flashing toward Valen's throat. Valen sidestepped, twisting his blade to catch the strike. Steel clashed against steel. The force rattled through his arms, but he held firm.
"You fight well," Scarred Knight growled, shoving him back. "But you can't win."
Valen exhaled. Not here. Not now. The fight would draw attention. He could already hear the distant clamor of more armored boots.
He flicked his sword in a feint, forcing Scarred Knight to react—then spun on his heel, kicking up a loose stone from the ground. It struck the knight's helmet with a resounding clang, staggering him.
Valen turned and ran.
The city blurred past him as he sprinted through the maze of alleys. Rainwater splashed under his boots, the cold biting deep. He could hear shouts behind him, but they were fading. The Radiant knights were weighed down by armor, by duty. Valen had neither.
He slipped through a narrow passage, scaling the side of an abandoned building. From the rooftop, he saw the city stretched before him—the towering cathedral, the winding streets, the glowing lanterns that lined the wealthy district like stars.
And in the farthest reaches, beyond the golden light, lay the slums. A place the Order had forsaken.
A place where his war had begun.
Valen clenched his fists.
They called him a traitor. A coward who had turned his back on the Light. But they did not understand. The Light did not save the weak—it abandoned them. Cast them aside as "impurities" in need of cleansing.
But he would fight for them. For the whimpering and roaring in the dark night. For those the Light had deemed unworthy.
Because someone had to.
He pulled his cloak tighter, vanishing into the storm.