Chapter 3: The Storm That Followed

The night Alexis Greaves' world burned for the second time began like any other. Duskmoor was alive with its usual chaos — the narrow, crooked streets filled with the hum of trade, the occasional fight breaking out in the open-air market, and the ever-present scent of smoke and rot. It was a harsh city, one where the strong preyed on the weak, and the weak learned quickly to adapt… or die.

Alexis had adapted.

He had been only 10 months old when his mother died, but Duskmoor didn't care about a child's tragedy. Alone and powerless, he had survived by being invisible — stealing when he needed to, running when he had to. But Duskmoor's shadows weren't safe for long, and sooner or later, the weak were found.

The gang found him first.

Riven was their leader — a towering man with a scarred face and eyes that burned with cold calculation. His crew was made up of outcasts and killers, but they had one rule: loyalty. And Alexis, for all his weakness, had something Riven valued — guts. The boy was small, quick, and quiet, and when they set him to thieving, he proved better at it than anyone expected. He became one of them.

For the first time in his life, Alexis had something close to a home.

"Oi, runt!" a familiar voice called from across the firelit alley where the gang had gathered. Mira, a lanky girl with a knife always visible at her hip, grinned at him. "You gonna sit there brooding all night, or you gonna take your turn on watch?"

Alexis snorted. "You just don't want to get up."

"Damn right I don't," Mira shot back, stretching out with exaggerated laziness. "Go on, get moving. You owe me after I covered your shift last week."

"You didn't cover my shift," Alexis protested. "You fell asleep."

"And no one died, so you're welcome."

Laughter rippled through the group, and for a while, the harshness of Duskmoor faded. These were the moments that made it bearable — the warmth of the fire, the jabs and insults that felt more like affection than cruelty. Even Garek, the gang's muscle, who rarely spoke without a threat, was grinning as he argued with Tova over the spoils of their last job.

But beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of tension. Riven hadn't returned yet, and when their leader was gone, things always felt… unstable.

Alexis pushed the feeling aside and rose to his feet. "Fine. I'll take the watch."

He moved through the maze of alleys that made up their territory, the comforting noise of the gang fading behind him. The city stretched out in layers of grime and shadow, and Alexis kept to the high ground, scaling a crumbling wall to perch on the edge of a rooftop. From here, he could see the sprawl of Duskmoor — and beyond it, the flicker of distant torches.

He frowned. There shouldn't have been torches outside the city.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a sound that made his blood run cold. The low, mournful blare of a war horn.

And then the screaming began.

—

The Holy Church's war against "heretics" wasn't just about faith — it was about fear. Rumors had spread far and wide of strange powers rising in the dark, of demons and creatures that didn't belong in the world of men. The destruction of Ravaryn had only been the beginning.

And Alexis had been the spark they were hunting.

He didn't know it, but the Church had been looking for him ever since that night. Survivors were supposed to be impossible — yet stories kept surfacing. Whispers of a boy with eyes that flashed red, of a child who walked away from a massacre. They might have remained just rumors, but Riven's ambition had made enemies.

One of those enemies was Vassien Thorne, a merchant lord with deep pockets and a dangerous sense of self-preservation. When he heard the Church was offering a fortune for information on a certain boy… well, some men would sell their own blood for less.

The Church's response was swift and brutal. They didn't just want Alexis — they wanted to purge Duskmoor itself. Under High Inquisitor Albrecht Vorn, their army descended like a storm. The first wave struck without warning, fire and steel carving through the city's outer districts.

And they were heading straight for Riven's territory.

—

Alexis ran.

The streets were chaos — people pushing and screaming, the glow of flames rising higher and higher. He saw a man cut down as he tried to flee, a woman dragged from her home as soldiers in gleaming silver armor advanced with terrifying precision.

The Holy Church's Inquisitors weren't like common soldiers. Clad in shimmering plate adorned with blue crucifixes, they moved with the calm and purpose of executioners. Behind them followed the Pale Clerics, robed figures whose prayers twisted the air with divine magic.

It wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.

Alexis ducked into a side street, heart pounding. He needed to get back to the others — to warn them — but as he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt.

An Inquisitor stood at the end of the alley. The man's helmet was off, revealing a face of cold, aristocratic features. His eyes locked onto Alexis, and for a moment, the boy felt a pressure like a weight settling over his skin.

"Found you," the Inquisitor said softly.

Alexis didn't wait. He spun and ran, his mind racing. They knew who he was. Somehow, they knew — and they had come for him.

But why?

He didn't have time for answers. The sound of pursuit was loud behind him — armored footsteps closing fast. Alexis dove through the narrowest gaps, using his size to his advantage, but the Inquisitor was relentless.

When he burst into the firelit courtyard where the gang had gathered, the sight froze him.

Bodies. Some of them still moving, most of them not. Garek lay in a pool of his own blood. Tova was slumped against a wall, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

And Riven… Riven fought.

The gang leader's twin blades moved in a blur, cutting through the air with deadly speed — but his opponent was faster. The Inquisitor danced around him, each strike met with calm precision. As Alexis watched, the silver sword found its mark.

Riven fell.

"No!"

The word burst from him before he could stop it, and the Inquisitor's head snapped toward him.

"There you are."

Alexis' world narrowed to that voice — to the slow, measured steps as the man advanced. He tried to back away, but his heel hit a fallen body, and suddenly there was nowhere left to run.

"Your blood carries a stain," the Inquisitor said, raising his sword. "And in the name of the Holy Church, I—"

A blur of movement. A flash of steel.

Mira appeared from nowhere, her knife driving into the Inquisitor's side. He grunted, spinning, and she slashed again — but he was too fast. The sword came down in a brutal arc.

Mira's scream was short.

Alexis didn't remember moving. One second, he was frozen — the next, his dagger was in his hand, and he was lunging. The Inquisitor's back was turned, and he struck with everything he had.

The blade glanced off armor.

The man turned, his face calm and terrible. "Pathetic."

The sword rose.

And then the world exploded.

A wave of force erupted from somewhere deep inside him, hurling the Inquisitor back. The air shimmered red for an instant — and in that instant, Alexis felt it. Power.

Not his own.

But waiting.

And then it was gone.

The Inquisitor staggered to his feet, eyes wide. "What… are you?"

But Alexis was already running.