Chapter 1: Ashes in the Dust

The sun hung low over Old Brass, a dull smear of orange bleeding into the haze of dust and smoke that clung to the city like a shroud. The streets were a tangled sprawl of rusted metal and cracked stone, a labyrinth born of neglect and resilience. Somewhere in the distance, a horn blared—sharp, fleeting—before the hum of the city swallowed it whole. Kente crouched amidst a heap of discarded junk, his calloused fingers sifting through the debris with practiced care. A bent bicycle frame, a cracked television screen, a tangle of copper wire—each piece was a small defiance against the world that had tried to bury him.

He was sixteen now, or near enough to guess. Time didn't keep good records in a place like this. His patched tunic clung to his lean frame, patched together from scraps he'd scavenged over two years of wandering these streets. His hair, a mess of tight curls, was dusted with grit, and his dark eyes—sharp, searching—scanned the pile for anything worth a cedi or two. Survival wasn't a choice here; it was a rhythm, a beat he'd learned to follow since the fire took everything else.

The fire. It always came back to that.

Kente's hand paused over a shard of glass, its edge catching the fading light. His reflection stared back—thin, shadowed, a stranger's face with a stranger's mark: a circular bead, blue and white, embedded in his forehead like a third eye that didn't see. The kids in Old Brass called it a curse, a witch's brand. He didn't argue. It didn't matter what they thought. It didn't talk, didn't glow, didn't do anything but sit there, warm against his skin some nights, cold as stone others. He'd stopped wondering about it long ago—or so he told himself.

A faint wind stirred the dust, carrying the scent of oil and burnt rubber. He shifted a slab of metal aside, revealing a rusted gear half-buried in the dirt. His lips twitched—a ghost of a smile. Rashid would pay for this, maybe enough for a bowl of stew if he haggled right. He tugged it free, the weight grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of memory. But the edge was always there, waiting.

That night, in the crumbling shack he called home—a lean-to of corrugated tin and salvaged wood—the dreams came again. They always did. Kente lay on a thin mat, the blanket too threadbare to fend off the chill seeping through the cracks. His breath grew shallow, his body tensing as the darkness pulled him under.

Flames roared in his mind—orange and red, clawing at the sky. The orphanage loomed ahead, its wooden walls buckling under the heat. Screams pierced the air, sharp and desperate, voices he couldn't place but couldn't forget. He was small again, seven or eight, his bare feet pounding the dirt as he ran. Smoke stung his lungs, thick and choking, and the heat pressed against him like a living thing. Ahead, a figure stood amidst the inferno—a girl, her silhouette blurred by the haze. Anya. Her name burned in his throat, a cry he couldn't voice. Her eyes—wide, universe-deep—met his, and then the fire swallowed her whole.

Kente jolted awake, gasping, his chest heaving as if he'd outrun the blaze all over again. Sweat slicked his skin, cold and clammy, and his hand flew to his forehead. The bead pulsed faintly, warm under his touch, like a heartbeat not his own. He pressed harder, willing it to stop, to explain, but it didn't. It never did.

"Damn it," he muttered, voice hoarse in the stillness. The shack creaked around him, a warped echo of the city beyond. He sat up, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the slivers of dawn creeping through the gaps. Two years since he'd crawled out of that hell—two years of scavenging, surviving, burying the past beneath the junk he hauled to Rashid's yard. But the past wasn't buried. It lived in his dreams, in the bead, in the way his hands shook when he let himself think too long.

He didn't want power. Didn't want glory. He just wanted the screams to stop.

The morning crept in slow, the sky a bruised gray over Old Brass. Kente trudged through the alleys, his sack slung over his shoulder, the gear and a few wires clinking inside. The city stirred around him—vendors barking prices, kids darting through the dust, a Sturmguard patrol clanking past in their armor, their spears gleaming with faint juju light. He kept his head down, avoiding their gaze. Old Brass didn't trust the Sturmguards, not since the whispers of the capital bleeding the region dry. Minerals for palaces, they said. Starvation for the rest.

Rashid's scrapyard sat at the edge of the market, a sprawl of twisted metal and pitted stone. The old man leaned against a rusted pole, his burly frame dwarfing the stool beneath him. His eyes, sharp despite the years, flicked to Kente as he approached.

"Still alive, huh?" Rashid grunted, scratching his beard. "What'd you drag in today?"

Kente dumped the sack at his feet, the gear rolling out with a dull thud. "Enough to keep me fed. Maybe you too, if you're feeling generous."

Rashid snorted, kneeling to inspect the haul. "Generous? You think I'm running a charity?" He hefted the gear, turning it over with a grunt. "Five cedis."

"Eight," Kente shot back, arms crossed. "That gear's solid. You'll get double from the smiths."

Rashid's lips twitched—a rare smirk. "Six, and I don't toss you out for lip." He fished a crumpled wad of notes from his pocket, tossing them at Kente's chest. "Take it and scram."

Kente caught the money, pocketing it with a nod. Six wasn't much, but it was enough for a meal and a few hours' peace. He turned to go, then paused as something glinted in the junk pile nearby—a small, metal tag, its surface etched with a strange, swirling symbol. It shimmered faintly, almost alive. His fingers twitched, drawn to it against his better judgment.

Rashid followed his gaze. "What's that?"

"Dunno." Kente crouched, brushing dirt from the tag. It felt warm, heavier than it looked. The symbol twisted under the light—alien, unfamiliar. "You seen this before?"

Rashid squinted, then shook his head. "Nah. Scrap it if you want. Probably junk."

Kente didn't answer. He slipped the tag into his pocket, its weight pressing against his thigh. Junk didn't hum like that. Didn't feel like it was watching him.

The day wore on, slow and heavy. Kente wandered the outskirts, picking through more refuse—a broken clock here, a bent spoon there. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the city, and he found himself at the edge of a dry canal, its banks littered with debris. He sat, the tag in his hand, tracing its lines with a chipped nail. The bead on his forehead warmed again, a faint pulse syncing with his breath.

"Why you?" he muttered, half to the tag, half to himself. "Why me?"

No answer came—just the wind, stirring the dust into lazy spirals. But deep inside, beneath the scars and the silence, something stirred too. A whisper too faint to hear, a shadow too small to see. It was there, waiting, as patient as the ashes that had birthed it.

And somewhere, far beyond Old Brass, beyond the spires of the capital and the churning sea, a storm was gathering—clouds that would one day darken the sky and wake a power buried for 50,000 years.