A broken Kingdom

The alley was narrow, suffocating. Towering stone buildings loomed on both sides, cutting off even the faintest slivers of moonlight. Shadows clung to the damp walls, long and unbroken, like the fingers of something ancient and hungry. The air reeked of rotting garbage, wet earth, and the coppery tang of blood. Filthy puddles scattered across the uneven cobblestones caught fractured glimpses of stars above, shimmering like broken glass.

A rat skittered past, claws tapping against the stone before it vanished into the dark.

And on that same stone, a young man lay motionless.

His body was twisted awkwardly, half-curled as if he'd fallen mid-breath. Torn clothes barely hung onto him, his shirt ripped and soaked with blood and grime. Bruises painted his skin in shades of deep purple and sick yellow, blooming like flowers in a dead field. Blood trickled from his nose, dripping steadily into the dirt.

Golden strands of hair clung to his forehead, matted with sweat and filth. His eyes—deep red, unnatural—flickered open. They glowed faintly in the dark, sluggish and unfocused.

Somewhere beyond the alley, the world kept moving. Drunken laughter drifted from the main street, mixing with the occasional slam of a shutter and the quiet murmur of people behind closed doors.

Ashenford wasn't a big village. Wasn't rich either. The kind of place where people were born, lived, and died without ever leaving. Roads turned to mud after storms. Roofs leaked. Gossip traveled faster than news. And the seasons were the only real change.

But Ashenford had one thing most backwater villages didn't.

A brothel.

It brought travelers. Merchants. Even, sometimes, a noble or two. Just for a night. Just for a forgettable evening. They came and left, and the village returned to silence.

To most, Ashenford was nothing but a stop on the road. A place to drink, waste coin, and forget.

But for those who lived here, it was home.

The boy on the ground exhaled, breath shaky and misting in the cold air.

"Ahhh…"

He coughed, and blood sprayed onto the cobblestones.

"They finally left…"

His fingers twitched. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, but something deeper twisted in his chest—something sharper than pain. Resentment. Helplessness.

"This country… is fucking rotten."

The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He spat blood and dirt, his vision swimming.

"All this over four bronze coins?"

His hand found the knife at his side—small, rusted, useless. His grip tightened, knuckles pale.

"I should stop carrying a knife if I'm not even gonna use it…"

He forced himself to sit up, groaning through clenched teeth. Pain stabbed through his ribs. His body screamed, but he didn't stop. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

A kingdom where life meant nothing. Where power decided who got to breathe. The weak were trampled without thought. He had always known it—everyone did—but tonight, the truth settled in his bones.

This place wasn't broken.

It was dying.

For years, the kingdom had held together, barely. Corrupt, unfair—but stable. The king ruled. Nobles schemed. Commoners survived. Crime festered in the alleys, but order still held. Magic existed, sure—but only a few could wield it. The lucky ones.

To most, magic was just a story. Something whispered about in candlelight, far removed from the daily grind of survival.

Then six months ago, everything changed.

The king made a declaration that echoed across the land:

He had no heir.

No son. No daughter. No chosen successor.

Long ago, in the early days of the kingdom, the first ruler had faced the same problem. No family. No bloodline to pass the crown. So he made a decision—brutal and absolute. Nine individuals would be chosen from across the kingdom: nobles, peasants, criminals, soldiers. They would be given a single year. One year to rise. To build. To destroy. And when the time came, the strongest among them would take the throne.

The tradition was buried after his death. Every king since had passed down the crown through blood.

Until now.

And so the ancient trial was revived.

Nine were chosen once again.

The moment they were marked, it burned into their skin—a black emblem that no blade could carve and no lie could mimic. Some said the mark granted strength beyond comprehension, drawing out their potential tenfold. Others believed it was nothing but a symbol.

But the truth didn't matter.

Everyone recognized it.

And then, the killing began.

Heirs were hunted. Nobles assassinated in their estates. Commoners vanished in the night. Some of the Nine disappeared without a trace. Others raised armies. Fortified cities. Declared open war.

The kingdom unraveled.

Laws no longer mattered. Guards looked away. Assassins walked freely in the light of day.

And for the first time in generations, murder became normal.

The strong took what they wanted. The weak prayed to survive.

Beyond the borders, neighboring empires watched with growing hunger. The kingdom had once been feared.

Now it looked like prey.

If things didn't change soon, war would come from outside.

Half the year was already gone.

For the first twelve months, the marks weren't permanent. That meant a title could still be stolen. The marked could still die, and their killer could take their place. Some chose to hide. Some chose to hunt. All of them were waiting.

When the year ended, the Nine would be locked in. From that point on, the real war would begin.

The trials wouldn't just test strength, but loyalty, leadership, cunning. The winner would be crowned by the king himself—if he survived long enough to do it.

But if no ruler rose in time… there might not be a kingdom left to rule.

And yet, for most, life trudged on.

People worked. Suffered. Endured.

Just like always.

Vani limped down the empty streets, every breath sharp and cold in his lungs. Bruises burned. His fingers trembled. His legs barely held him up.

But he didn't stop.

He had to get home.

His mother would be worried again. She always was. He could already hear her sigh when she saw him—bloodied, bruised, half-conscious.

She wouldn't even ask what happened. She'd just clean the wounds.

Like always.

He turned onto a dirt path at the edge of the village. A single house stood there—small, wooden, leaning like it was tired of standing.

It should have brought comfort.

But something felt off.

The door was open. Just slightly.

Vani froze.

His mother never left the door open. Never.

A cold dread crawled down his spine. He stepped forward slowly, heart thudding like a drum in his ears. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

He pushed the door open.

A flicker of candlelight danced in the corner. Shadows stretched across the floor.

Then—

A voice.

"Oh, you got home early, Vani."

His breath caught.

He recognized that voice.

And yet, everything in him recoiled.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

And in that moment, Vani knew—

Nothing would ever be the same again.