Chapter 1: A Prelude of Ice and Despair
The city lay cloaked in darkness, sullied and unclean.
Senag, a mere frontier town, yet a microcosm of the world itself. Those who wielded wealth and power resided in opulent homes, surrounded by servile attendants, feasting upon lavish meals, retiring each night to the comfort of their warm beds. But for those bereft of fortune or influence, they were but vermin—less than dogs, less than insects, discarded refuse upon the streets. And such wretched souls were given a singular title by those above them: the poor. Or worse—
Criminals.
Tonight, a small figure cowered in the depths of a shadowed alleyway, his eyes—cold and unfeeling—surveying the passing throng beyond. In his grasp, hidden against his chest, was a dagger.
A boy of no more than ten, his long black hair cascaded over his face, revealing only a pair of piercing eyes—eyes that sent shivers down the spine of anyone who dared meet them.
A beggar. Filthy rags clung to his gaunt frame, his hands stained black with grime. Yet upon that youthful face was an expression far too aged for his tender years—etched with hardship, carved by suffering. And his eyes, those hollow, soulless eyes, held neither innocence nor warmth, but an unrelenting hunger—one that scoured the crowd, seizing upon the glint of pocket watches, the shimmer of jewelry, the bulging swell of coin purses.
His stomach growled.
The gnawing hunger sharpened his gaze, honed his instincts to a razor's edge. He was no longer a mere child—he was a starving wolf, driven by a single, primal need. Laws? Morality? Meaningless luxuries of the powerful. They could not feed him. They could not keep him warm.
At last, his prey emerged.
A plump woman, swathed in fine garments, paused before a grocer's stall, leisurely selecting her purchases. As she retrieved her purse to pay, her fingers loosened the clasp—
He struck.
Like lightning, the boy lunged—snatching the purse from her grasp before darting away. The woman gasped, then shrieked in alarm, her cry piercing through the streets. Heads turned. A patrolling soldier spotted him, his gaze locking onto the retreating figure.
The soldier seized him.
A cruel, mocking chuckle escaped the man's lips before his massive palm swung through the air, striking the boy's face with a resounding crack. A searing pain bloomed across his cheek, turning his skin an angry red.
"You little rat! Stealing? Do you have a death wish?!"
The boy remained silent. Beneath the veil of his unkempt hair, his eyes gleamed—not with fear, but with hatred. In one fluid motion, his hand slipped beneath his rags, fingers curling around cold steel. The dagger flashed—
The soldier staggered back, clutching his bleeding thigh, his eyes wide with fury and disbelief. But when he looked up—
The boy was already gone.
The city had nothing but darkness, and its alleys were its eternal refrain.
Panting, the boy pressed himself against the cold brick wall, listening. No pursuers. He exhaled, wiping the bloodstained blade against his filthy tunic before tucking it away.
With a racing heart, he pried open the stolen purse—only to find a single magic crystal card within.
His teeth clenched.
No identification meant it was worthless. It could have held a fortune, a king's ransom in sulas, and yet, without its owner, it was no better than scrap. With a growl, he snapped the card in two, hurling the useless remnants aside.
His stomach howled once more.
Tossing the empty purse away, he took a moment to regain his breath before slipping back into the streets. His hunt was not yet over.
Survival had taught him one unshakable truth: in this world, without money, there was no food. And to obtain food, speed was not enough—one had to be ruthless. One had to be prepared—
To kill.
The dagger nestled against his chest had been salvaged from a heap of refuse, its dulled edge long since baptized in blood. The blood of other beggars who had fought for scraps. The blood of those who had once clutched stolen purses, only to be cut down. The blood of soldiers who had sought to end him.
He had yet to take a life. His blade was sharp, but his hands were still weak. Yet that day would come—soon. His strength would grow, his will would harden, and when the time arrived…
He would not hesitate.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the snow-laden streets. Patrols had doubled, and one by one, the other street thieves fell into their merciless grasp. The punishment for theft was swift—severed hands, crimson fountains staining the frozen ground.
The boy had seen such scenes more times than he could count.
Patience. Precision. Cunning. Ruthlessness.
These were the lessons written in blood.
Yet time was slipping away. If he did not act soon, he would go hungry. And hunger, coupled with the night's bitter cold, was but another name for death.
A flurry of white descended from the heavens, the first snowfall of the season. Beneath the dimming light, the flakes carried a strange beauty—
A beauty that smelled of death.
The boy shivered. His tattered shoes barely clung to his frostbitten feet as he stole across the road.
Ahead, the scent of fresh bread wafted from a warmly lit bakery.
His target had been chosen.