CHAPTER ONE: THE LAST WIZARD & THE ORPHAN

THE FALL OF THE COVEN

(The Shattered Spire, a once-majestic tower of silver and starlight, now bleeds dark energy into the storm-choked sky. Grandmaster Orlanth, the last of the Twelve, stumbles backward, his robes singed, his staff splintered. Before him, the Black Knight ascends the steps, his Netherflame blade carving molten scars into the stone with every step. The air itself recoils from his presence.)

ORLANTH (voice trembling with exhaustion, but not fear):

"You were the best of us once, Veythus. The Starforged Blade you carried was sworn to protect the realms—not butcher them."

VEYTHUS (a hollow chuckle echoing inside his onyx-plated helm):

"Protect? The Coven cowered behind walls of magic while the world burned. Hades showed me the truth—power is the only shield. The only justice."

(Lightning splits the sky. For a second, the knight's visor flickers—revealing glowing crimson eyes, the last remnant of the man he was before the Netherflame claimed him.)

ORLANTH (raising a shaking hand, golden light flickering):

"Then you are already dead. And I will not let you take our world with you."

(The old wizard slams his palm onto the Spire's core. A shockwave of Astral Energy erupted, but Veythus moved faster. His sword drinks the magic mid-air, the runes along the blade flaring hungrily. Before Orlanth can react—)

(CRACK. The Black Knight's gauntlet closes around the wizard's throat, lifting him off his feet.)

VEYTHUS (soft, mocking):

"Your light dies with you, old man."

(He plunges the sword through Orlanth's chest. The wizard's body didn't bleed—it shattered like stained glass, his essence dissolving into swirling embers that spiraled into Veythus' weapon. The Spire collapses inward, the sky tearing open like a weeping wound. Somewhere, in both worlds, every candle, every star, flickers out at once.)

(The Black Knight stands alone in the ruins, his blade now thrumming with stolen divinity. He tilts his head, as if listening to a whisper only he can hear.)

VEYTHUS (to the storm):

"Let them come. Let them all see what happens to those who stand in my way."

(Cut to: Our world. Tonight.)

(Chicago's south side, Garrison Auto Repair, 11:47 PM. Kael Mercer—lean, tousled dark hair, grease smeared across his cheek like war paint—wipes his hands on a rag, eyeing the busted carburetor like it personally insulted him.)

MACK (his boss, a grizzled ex-Marine with a permanent scowl):

"Quit sulkin'. The engine's dead, kid. Not everything can be saved."

KAEL (grinning, despite the exhaustion in his bones):

"Says the guy who still uses a flip phone."

(Mack flips him off but tosses him a lukewarm soda. It's the closest thing to affection Kael's gotten in months. He pockets his meager pay, hops onto his rusty Yamaha, and guns it toward the Redline Shelter—the group home that stopped being "home" the day he turned eighteen. The streets blur. The wind smells like rain and exhaust. Normal. Safe.)

(Then—his wrist burns.)

(Kael hisses, nearly swerving into traffic. The crescent-shaped mark on his inner wrist—the one he's had since birth—is glowing faintly gold. He shakes his head. Hallucination. Exhaustion. Whatever.)

(At the shelter, his best (and only) friend Riley is hunched over their laptop, fingers flying across the keys. They don't look up when he enters.)

RILEY:

"You're late. Mrs. Chen said If you miss curfew again, she's changing the Wi-Fi password."

KAEL (collapsing onto the couch):

"Tell her I'll fix her microwave for free."

(Riley finally glances at him—then freezes. Their glasses reflect the flickering streetlight outside, but that's not what stops them. Kael follows their gaze to his still-glowing mark.)

RILEY (slowly):

"Uh. Dude. Are you… bioluminescent now?"

(Kael opens his mouth—)

(BOOM. The entire building shakes. Glass shatters. Somewhere, a car alarm wails. Kael's at the window before he can think. What he sees shouldn't exist.)

(A riptide of darkness is surging down the street, swallowing lamplights whole. At its center—a creature. Too many legs. Too many teeth. It shrieks, a sound that cracks the pavement.)

RILEY (voice thin with terror):

"What the actual—"

(Kael's mark erupts in pain. His vision whites out. For a heartbeat, he isn't in Chicago anymore—he's standing in a crumbling citadel, a dying wizard's hand on his shoulder, a voice in his skull: "Gatekeeper. The worlds need you. Wake up.")

(Then reality snaps back. The creature charges the shelter.)

(Kael moves. Not with thought. With instinct. He shoves Riley behind him as the thing crashes through the wall. Plaster rains down. The mark on his wrist burns hotter. His hands glow.)

KAEL (gritted teeth):

"I said—BACK OFF."

(A pulse of raw energy blasts from his palms. The creature screams, its form unraveling into smoke. The darkness recoils—then lunges for him like a living thing. Too fast. Too hungry.)

(The last thing Kael sees before the void swallows him whole is Riley's outstretched hand—and the golden crack in the world yawning open behind him.)

(Then—nothing.)

(Silence. Riley stared at the spot where Kael stood. The creature is gone. The mark on their wrist—a mirror to Kael's—flickers once, then fades.)

RILEY (whispering):

"Well. That's not good."