Chapter 1: The Awakening in Chains

 Bound Before the Storm

Pain returned before memory.

Kael Varathen's world was dark, tight, and cold. His wrists burned where chains bit into his skin, his body weighed down by shackles of black iron and scripture-etched steel. The metal hummed—not just physical restraint, but something deeper, something that sank into his bones, suffocating his power.

He opened his eyes.

A torchlit chamber. Stone walls, damp and cracked. The scent of sweat, blood, and rusted metal.

Voices drifted beyond the heavy doors. Guards, waiting. Armed. Wary.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the rawness in his knuckles. How long had he been unconscious? The last thing he remembered—no, the last thing that mattered—was falling. Not from the sky, but from memory itself.

Kael lifted his head.

And that was when he saw her.

A woman stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, her stance sharp as a drawn blade.

Tall, wrapped in a black military coat lined with reinforced plating. Dark crimson hair framed a face carved from war itself—high cheekbones, steel-gray eyes that held nothing soft. A scar cut across her lower lip, just enough to suggest she had bled for every word she spoke.

She studied him, her gaze clinical, calculating.

Then she spoke.

"I expected something… more."

Her voice was smooth, but beneath it lay something hardened. Something that had endured.

Kael tilted his head, the chains rattling with the movement.

"Apologies," he rasped, his throat dry as dust. "It's been a slow century."

Her lips twitched. Not a smile—more like the memory of one.

She stepped forward, boots clicking against the stone, stopping just before him. Close enough that he could smell the leather of her gloves, the faint trace of gunpowder and metal.

"You don't remember me." It wasn't a question.

Kael stared at her, searching for something familiar. Nothing.

"Should I?"

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "No. I suppose not."

Then she knelt, leveling her gaze with his. Not afraid. Not hesitant. Not cautious.

A soldier, meeting a weapon she wasn't sure she wanted to use.

"You are Kael Varathen. Last of the Sky Reapers. A name lost to history, a relic of a war most have forgotten. Yet here you are."

Kael said nothing.

She continued. "The Ascended should have killed you. And yet, they didn't. Why?"

His eyes narrowed. "A fair question. But here's another: Who the fuck are you?"

She smirked, slow and sharp.

"Elyndra Vael. Commander of the Free Cities."

Recognition stirred. Not of her, but of the name. Vael. He had known a Vael once—long ago. A warrior-priest who had fought in the Last War.

Elyndra tilted her head slightly. "You do know the Ascended have spent centuries erasing you?"

"I'm aware."

"Then why are you alive?"

Kael exhaled, rolling his shoulders as much as the chains allowed. "You assume I know."

Elyndra studied him, as if trying to read past his words, past his skin, past his silence.

Then, a sound. Heavy boots. Outside the chamber.

Kael's senses sharpened. The guards were shifting, uneasy.

Elyndra must have heard it too. She rose swiftly, her fingers brushing the hilt of a blade holstered at her thigh.

The door slammed open.

A man entered, grizzled, broad-shouldered, wearing a patched military vest. A veteran.

"Commander," the man said. Urgency in his voice. "We have a problem."

Elyndra tensed. "What kind of problem?"

The man hesitated. "An Ascended strike force just entered low orbit."

The room went still.

Kael felt it then—a shift in the air, something unnatural, something wrong.

Elyndra's lips pressed into a thin line. "They're here for him."

Kael sighed, rolling his neck. The bones cracked.

"Of course they are."

Then, the first explosion hit.

The first explosion shook the foundations of the hideout, sending dust and shards of ancient stone crumbling from the ceiling. The torches flickered wildly, casting jagged shadows across the chamber.

Kael's head snapped toward the sound. His body knew war before his mind did.

Another detonation—closer. The very walls vibrated with the force of it.

Elyndra had already drawn her blade, a curved plasma-edged dagger that flickered with volatile blue light. The veteran soldier beside her—General Arkan Drel, Kael assumed—unholstered his firearm, a heavy-barreled rail pistol.

More shouts echoed from the corridor outside. Boots thundered. Weapons drawn. Orders barked.

"How many?" Elyndra demanded, voice like steel.

"Enough." Arkan's eyes were grim. "At least two drop squads, plus aerial support."

Kael had no interest in waiting to die in chains.

His hands clenched into fists, the restraints biting into his flesh. He exhaled slowly, letting his heartbeat settle into an old, familiar rhythm.

Inhale. Focus. Remember.

He had broken chains before.

Kael shifted his wrists, testing the iron. The scripture-etched steel was meant to suppress divine power, but it wasn't flawless. Nothing was.

The explosions were getting closer.

Elyndra turned sharply to him. "You said you don't know why you're alive. But right now, I need you to stay that way."

She unsheathed a second dagger and sliced it cleanly across his left forearm.

Kael hissed through his teeth as blood trickled onto the stone floor—but more importantly, onto the chains.

The steel reacted instantly, the ancient inscriptions glowing faintly red. A lock built to contain divine energy could not be undone with brute force. But Kael was no god.

And he had never needed divinity to kill.

He twisted both wrists at the same time, forcing the broken links against the weakened scripture. The red glow flickered—then dimmed.

Kael jerked his arms apart.

The chains snapped.

For a single heartbeat, silence fell over the room.

Then Kael stood.

The sensation of movement sent fire through his stiff limbs, but he embraced the pain. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his body, reacquainting himself with a frame that had been forced into submission for too long.

Elyndra stared at him, unreadable.

"You're stronger than you look."

Kael flexed his hands, testing his grip. "I get that a lot."

The doors slammed open.

The Ascended had arrived.

The first Seraphic Enforcer strode inside, seven feet of gleaming cybernetic perfection. An angular mask, reflective like polished bone, hid its face.

More followed—a squad of six, armored in silver and black, their weapons thrumming with energy.

Their leader's metallic voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Target acquired."

Then they moved.

Fast. Too fast.

Kael barely had time to react before the first Seraph lunged—a blur of artificial muscle and machine speed. A blade swung for his throat, a mono-edged sword designed to cut through bone like paper.

Kael dodged—a sharp pivot, weight shifting, the old instincts snapping into place.

His left hand shot out, catching the enforcer's wrist mid-strike. The moment he made contact, he felt it—the unnatural strength, the sheer crushing force of something beyond mortal flesh.

But Kael had fought gods.

He twisted sharply, ripping the enforcer's arm out of position. His right fist slammed into its ribs—a brutal, bone-breaking strike.

Except there was no bone to break.

The impact dented the reinforced plating of the enforcer's chest, but it didn't fall.

Kael's lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl. "Interesting."

Then another Seraph charged.

Kael ducked under the first attacker's off-balanced counterstrike, pivoting as the second enforcer lunged. The room was too small for wide movements, but he didn't need space.

He needed timing.

He sidestepped, grabbing the second Seraph's outstretched arm and using its momentum against it. A swift, savage jerk sent the enforcer crashing into the first.

Their armors scraped against each other, sparks flying.

Kael moved again— no wasted motion, no hesitation. A sharp elbow strike to the throat of the first Seraph, then a follow-up knee into its chestplate.

It staggered back.

Arkan fired. The veteran had lined up his shot the moment Kael disrupted the enemy formation—the rail pistol discharged with a deafening crack.

A plasma-round tore through the Seraph's exposed neck joint.

The enforcer collapsed, twitching.

Five left.

Elyndra was already engaging another, her twin daggers flashing in quick, surgical movements. She was fast—not as fast as the Seraphs, but precise enough to make up for it.

But there were too many.

Kael pivoted as another enforcer charged him. He moved instinctively, hand reaching for his blade—but there was no weapon at his hip.

Fuck.

The Celestial Cleaver—his true weapon, his god-forged greatsword—was gone.

The enforcer's blade sliced toward his ribs. Kael turned into the attack, closing the distance instead of pulling back.

The enforcer hadn't expected it.

Kael's arm locked around its wrist, trapping the weapon mid-strike. Then, in a fluid, brutal movement—he yanked the enforcer forward, twisted its arm behind its back, and drove his knee into its spine.

A sharp crack.

The enforcer jerked violently, then dropped.

Kael caught the fallen blade before it hit the ground.

It was not his weapon. But it would do.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the stolen sword in one hand, blood dripping from his knuckles. His pulse had settled, his focus narrowing.

He was fighting again.

And for the first time in a century, he felt alive.

Outside, another explosion rocked the hideout.

Elyndra shot him a glance, breathing hard. "Hope you're done warming up, Reaper."

Kael grinned. "Oh, I'm just getting started."

Then they ran—into fire, into war, into the storm.