Lean, hollow-eyed Kael Ardyn stepped out of the orphanage with a battered pickaxe balanced across his shoulders — a burden as familiar as the hunger in his gut. The sun had only just crested the jagged ridge, spilling a blend of molten orange and deep violet across the sky. It would have been a breathtaking sight, the kind poets wasted ink describing, but Kael allowed himself only a brief glance before turning toward the day's labor that awaited him.
Seventeen this year, though his frame suggested a boy several years younger, Kael was all sinew and sharp edges, a lifetime of privation carved into his posture. His hair, black as coal, fell in an unruly mess over a faint scar running diagonally across his brow — the mark of an injury he couldn't remember receiving. He'd had it for as long as his memories reached.
"I hate my life," he muttered under his breath as he trudged along the dirt track toward the mines. The words carried no drama, only a weary acknowledgment of a truth that had dogged him since his earliest days.
His first misfortune had come before he'd even learned to walk. One night, a stranger had cut his father down; his mother had fought back, but both she and the killer had vanished without a trace. No bodies were ever recovered, no witnesses left alive, and the killer's identity remained a blank. It was a mystery that had never been solved — and one Kael doubted anyone had truly tried to solve.
His second misfortune followed immediately.
By dawn, he had been abandoned on the doorstep of Matron Sera's orphanage, a squat, cold building tucked into the poorest corner of Shalepeak Hold, a mining settlement that clung to the edge of the Dominion like moss on stone.
The name "orphanage" was a courtesy — a false kindness in a place like this. True, Matron Sera provided a roof and food of a sort, but everything had a price. Twenty Qi Crystals a day bought you your cot and your portion of stew. Fail to meet the quota, and you went to bed hungry.
For the orphans, that quota meant one thing: the mines.
Shalepeak Hold had been built in the shadow of the Ironjaw Range, where veins of raw Qi Crystal cut through the mountainside like frozen lightning. Every family, every guild, every loose band of cutthroats in town owed its survival to the stones wrenched from those caverns. Over the decades, miners had formed alliances, fought turf wars, and split the territory in uneasy truces.
But that fragile balance had shattered years ago, when the Iron Fang Consortium rose to dominance.
When Magnus Korrin had inherited the position of Guildmaster, the Iron Fangs swallowed rival mining crews one by one — through backroom deals, through debt, through open violence. Within a handful of years, they controlled nearly eighty percent of Shalepeak's mining output. The scraps that remained were fought over by smaller outfits, Matron Sera's orphanage among them.
Before the Iron Fangs' reign, even an orphan could expect some semblance of fairness: territory was respected, quotas were reasonable, and stronger miners rarely bothered with those too weak to challenge them. But Magnus's rule changed everything. Quotas climbed to impossible heights, and theft became more profitable than honest work. Orphans were the easiest prey.
Which was why Kael worked in the most dangerous, least crowded section of the mines — the areas without timber supports, where a single misplaced swing could bring the ceiling down.
The yawning mouth of the mine swallowed him into dim torchlight. He moved deeper, the air growing cooler and heavier with the mineral tang of stone. The noise of other miners — the rhythmic clink of picks, the occasional grunt of effort — faded as he reached his usual spot. Here, the tunnel narrowed, and the ceiling bent low, forcing him into a crouch.
He swung the pickaxe in a steady rhythm. Each strike sent a dull vibration through his bones, each splintering crack loosening a little more stone. After half an hour, a thin seam glittered faintly in the torchlight. He chipped at it carefully, coaxing out two thumb-sized Qi Crystals that glowed faintly silver.
He dropped them into the leather sack tied at his hip and returned to work.
Hours bled together. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his spine, soaking his threadbare shirt. His arms ached; his lungs burned with the dust of the mine. But when at last the sack held twenty crystals, he allowed himself a breath of relief.
Enough for today's quota.
He slung the sack over his shoulder and began the trek back toward the surface. The thought of a bowl of stew and an hour's rest put a faint spring in his step.
Until he saw them.
Five boys blocked the tunnel mouth ahead.
Brann Korrin stood at their center, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, a smirk stretching across his smug face. His four cronies fanned out to either side, easy in their stances — predators certain of their kill.
"Well, if it isn't Kael the Spiritless," Brann drawled. "Good haul?"
Kael forced civility into his voice. "Afternoon, Brann."
"You know why we're here," Brann said, stepping forward.
"There's more than enough rock to dig if you're willing to work," Kael replied.
One of the lackeys laughed, mean and sharp. "Why swing a pick when we can take yours?"
The others chuckled.
"You're all fourth level Body Tempering," Kael pointed out. "Brann, you're at fifth. I'm barely at second. And you robbed me three days ago."
Brann's grin widened. "And yet here we are again. Hand them over."
Kael shook his head. "Not today."
The fight was over before it began. Brann's fist slammed into his jaw, sending him sprawling. Boots crashed into his ribs, his legs, his face. Each blow exploded with pain. He tried to curl in on himself, but the kicks kept coming, relentless. Something cracked in his side. His vision blurred. The taste of iron filled his mouth.
When they finally left, the sack was gone.
Kael woke on his cot in the orphanage hours later. His nose was crooked; both legs were splinted; his fingers were swollen and useless. Breathing sent knives of pain through his chest.
Matron Sera had left him food — probably because he had enough credit stored from earlier days. But even as he forced down each spoonful, he knew it wouldn't matter.
That evening, the door creaked open. Brann stepped in, flanked by his parents.
Magnus Korrin filled the room, his bulk a rare sight in a starving town. His beard was neatly trimmed, his tunic fine and unstained. Lysa Korrin, thin as a whip and sharp-faced, stood at his side with her lips curled in disdain.
"So," Magnus rumbled, "you're the whelp who crippled my son."
"It was—" Kael began.
"An accident?" Lysa's voice was venom. "You insulted me, called my son a bastard, and kicked him like a dog."
Kael stared. "That's a lie—"
Magnus's eyes narrowed. "Your life ends tomorrow. We'll make an example of you. By this time tomorrow, your body will hang outside Iron Fang Hall."
They left without another word.
Kael lay back on his cot, staring at the ceiling. In Shalepeak Hold, the Korrins' word was law. And the law had just sentenced him to die.
The next day, they came for him.
Brann dragged him through the streets while Magnus led, the crowd growing with each step. Whispers rippled through them — some pitying, most indifferent.
The gallows loomed ahead.
Magnus turned to him one last time. "Any last words?"
Kael's lips curled. "Magnus. Brann. Lysa… go to hell."
The lever dropped. The noose bit deep.
And in that instant, the pendant at his neck — a crimson metal bird — flared with searing heat. Fire swallowed him whole.
When the flames vanished, the rope swung empty.