Nestled in the heart of Manticore Island—a jagged landmass split by black sand beaches and dense, mist-shrouded forests—lay the town of Guidelive. Built into the slope of a dormant volcano, its narrow cobblestone streets twisted like veins through clusters of wooden shanties and sturdier cement homes. By day, the town hummed with the clatter of fishermen mending nets, merchants hawking dried fruit and cured meat, and children chasing stray dogs through alleyways. But as dusk fell, especially on gambling nights, the air shifted. Torches mounted on every corner cast dancing shadows that stretched across doorways and walls, painting the town in shades of gold and charcoal. The sound of dice rattling in cups, cards slapping against tables, and raucous laughter mixed with groans of defeat drifted from every hidden den and open-air hall, thickening the atmosphere with a strange blend of hope and despair. Fortunes changed hands in seconds—men who arrived with pockets full of silver left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, while others stumbled into the night clutching pouches heavy enough to bend their wrists.
Tyndareus, barely sixteen and already tall for his age, leaned against the brick wall of the Crooked Die, the town's most notorious gambling hall, watching the crowd surge in and out like a tide. His dark hair fell over his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around his chest as if to shield himself from the chaos. He had come here to find his father, Jack, who had vanished at sunrise and not returned for supper. The scent of sweat, cheap liquor, and burnt wood clung to the air, and every so often, a fight would break out inside—shouts and the crack of knuckles against bone that made Tyndareus flinch.
He spotted Jack a few minutes later, pushing through the door with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. The man who emerged was not the father Tyndareus remembered—once broad-shouldered and quick to laugh, Jack now moved like a ghost, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot and wild with desperation. A look that suggested he was about to do what he had done a dozen times before: borrow money from Tyndareus's mother, Faihra.
"Papa," Tyndareus called out, but Jack barely glanced his way, shoving past him and heading toward their cement house on the edge of town. Tyndareus followed, his feet heavy in the dust. He knew what awaited them inside—another storm, another battle they could not win.
As Tyndareus stepped through the door, the sound of raised voices hit him like a physical blow. The small living room was lit by a single oil lamp, its flame flickering as if caught in a wind. His mother stood with her hands on her hips, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, her face flushed with anger. Across from her, his older brother Lepius—eighteen and built like a blacksmith—paced back and forth, his jaw clenched.
"He's doing it again, Mother," Lepius snarled, stopping to jab a finger at the floor. "I saw him at the docks this morning, making deals with men from Shadowcastel. You know what those monsters do to people who owe them money."
Faihra's voice was sharp but strained, like a rope about to snap. "And what would you have me do, Lepius? Throw him out? Where would he go? We are his family—we have to stand by him."
"He hasn't stood by us!" Lepius shot back. "Last week, he took the money you saved for Tyndareus's schooling to bet on a cockfight. Next, he'll take the roof over our heads!"
Tyndareus stood in the doorway, silent and still, his eyes darting between them. He had learned long ago that speaking up during their arguments only made things worse. He watched as Faihra's shoulders slumped, her anger melting into sorrow. She reached for a worn cloth on the table and wiped at her eyes, her hands trembling.
Before either of them could speak again, the door slammed shut behind them. Jack stood in the entrance, his breath reeking of whiskey and tobacco. He stared at Faihra, and Tyndareus saw the fury building in his eyes—hot and bright, like molten rock.
"Where is it?" Jack growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The money you've been hiding. I know you have more stashed away."
"There is no more money, Jack," Faihra said quietly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "I spent the last of it on food and medicine for Tyndareus's fever last month. You know that."
A laugh ripped from Jack's throat—harsh and empty. "Lies. All of you lie to me. You'd rather let me starve than help me win back what's mine." He took a step forward, and Faihra moved to block his path to the back room where she kept their few valuables. That was when he saw Tyndareus, still standing in the doorway, watching him with wide, dark eyes.
Fueled by his latest losses at the gambling table and the sting of what he saw as betrayal, Jack's rage boiled over. He lunged past Faihra, delivering a sharp smack to the back of Tyndareus's head that echoed through the small hall like a crack of thunder. The pain was sudden and searing—Tyndareus stumbled forward, his hands flying to the spot where his father had struck him.
"Jack, stop!" Faihra cried, rushing to pull her son behind her. But Jack's fury had no limit now. He swung his hand across her face, the slap echoing just as loud as the one he had given Tyndareus. Faihra staggered back, a red mark blooming on her cheek, her eyes wide with shock.
"YOU WASTE OUR MONEY!" he bellowed, his face contorted in fury, spittle flying from his lips. "Every coin you touch is thrown away on useless things—on them!" He gestured wildly at his sons, his hands trembling.
Tyndareus watched with his heart racing, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The room spun around him—he could see Lepius moving to intervene, his fists clenched, but Jack was faster. He kicked out, his boot connecting with Tyndareus's side, sending him crashing to the floor. The pain was sharp and blinding, and Tyndareus curled into a ball as tears streamed down his face. Lepius lunged at their father, but Jack shoved him hard against the wall, sending a shelf of pottery crashing to the ground.
"Get out of my way!" Jack roared, but his voice was already cracking. For a moment, Tyndareus saw a flicker of the man his father had once been—regret in his eyes, shame pulling at his mouth. Then it was gone, replaced by the same wild desperation. Jack grabbed his worn coat from the hook by the door, slammed it shut behind him, and vanished into the night.
A terrifying silence fell over the house, broken only by the sound of Faihra's sobs. Tyndareus pushed himself up, wincing as pain shot through his side. Lepius was already at their mother's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she wept openly, her sorrow so thick it seemed to fill every corner of the room.
"Mother," Tyndareus whispered, crawling across the floor to sit beside her. He reached out to touch her hand, his own fingers shaking. "He wasted our money to live... but he's not living—he's dying."
Faihra nodded through her tears, her face utterly defeated. She leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head, her lips cold and damp. "I know, my love. I've known for a long time. But I held on to hope... that he would come back to us."
In that moment of despair, Lepius knelt down beside them, his expression hard and determined. "There is no more hope here," he said, his voice low but clear. "We have to leave. Tonight. We'll take what we can carry and go to Cenophus—to Grandmother's house. She'll protect us. And Cenophus is under the island's guard—Shadowcastel won't dare touch us there."
Faihra looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen. "We can't just run away, Lepius. This is our home."
"Home is where we're safe," Lepius replied, already moving toward the back room to pack. "Father has chosen his path. We have to choose ours."
With a sense of urgency that made their hands move faster than their thoughts, they packed what little they could carry. Faihra folded their warmest blankets, tucked away the few coins she had hidden in a loose floorboard, and wrapped Tyndareus's favorite book—a collection of island myths—in oilcloth to keep it dry. Lepius loaded two leather satchels with food, water, and the tools he used to hunt in the forest. Tyndareus slipped his father's old pocket watch into his jacket—one of the only things Jack had left behind that was not stained by gambling or anger.
They left as the moon rose high in the sky, slipping out the back door to avoid drawing attention. Lepius had arranged for a horse-drawn carriage to meet them at the edge of town—a favor from a fisherman whose life Faihra had saved with her herbal remedies. The ride to Cenophus took three hours, the carriage bumping over dirt roads that wound through thick forests and across shallow rivers. Tyndareus pressed his face against the window, watching the dark shapes of trees blur past, his mind replaying the scene in their house over and over again. He thought of his father, alone in Guidelive, and felt a pang of sadness mixed with anger.
Cenophus was a world away from Guidelive. Built on a plateau overlooking the island's eastern coast, it was a town of white-washed houses with red tile roofs, where the air smelled of salt and jasmine instead of sweat and liquor. Grandmother Rina's home stood at the end of a cobblestone lane, surrounded by a garden full of fruit trees and flowering vines. She was waiting for them when the carriage pulled up—tall and thin, with silver hair pulled back in a braid and eyes as sharp as a hawk's.
"Come in," she said, pulling Faihra into a tight embrace the moment she stepped out of the carriage. "I knew you would come. I've been having dreams... of darkness creeping through Guidelive."
Inside, the house was warm and bright, lit by candles and a roaring fire in the hearth. Rina had already prepared a meal of stew and fresh bread, and as they ate, Faihra recounted the tragic tale of Jack's descent into madness—how it had started with small bets at the docks, how it had grown until he was spending every coin he could find, how he had finally turned to Shadowcastel for loans he could never repay.
The warmth of her family enveloped them as Rina listened, her face serious but not surprised. "Your father was a good man once," she said, reaching across the table to pat Faihra's hand. "But greed and pride can twist even the kindest heart. You did what you had to do to protect your children. We will get through this nightmare together—I promise you that."
In the weeks that followed, they settled into a new routine. Faihra began working with Rina to sell her herbal remedies at the town market, where her skills quickly made her a trusted figure. Lepius joined the town's guard, training every day to master swordplay and hand-to-hand combat—determined never to be helpless again. Tyndareus enrolled in the local school, where he spent his days reading about history and strategy, his mind sharp and hungry for knowledge. For the first time in years, there was peace in their lives—a quiet, steady calm that made Tyndareus almost forget the shadows that had followed them from Guidelive.
They celebrated Tyndareus's seventeenth birthday in the garden, eating cake Rina had baked and listening to Lepius play songs on his lute. As stars twinkled above, casting silver light across the flowers, Tyndareus felt a flicker of hope—maybe they could build a new life here, free from Jack's oppressive presence.
But peace, he would learn, was never permanent on Manticore Island.
Unbeknownst to them, Jack had been searching for them since the night they left. Desperate and deep in debt to Shadowcastel, he had struck a deal with their leader—a promise to bring his family back in exchange for clearing his debts. Collins, a cold-eyed man with scars crisscrossing his face and a reputation for cruelty, had agreed. "Bring them to me," he had told Jack, his voice low and smooth as poison. "Or I will take what you owe me from your flesh instead."
Two months after their arrival in Cenophus, the armies of Shadowcastel descended upon the town under cover of night. They moved like ghosts through the streets, silencing the guards posted at the gates and cutting the town's communication lines. Tyndareus was awake, sitting by his window reading, when he heard the first sound—a sharp crack that he thought was thunder until he saw the flash of gunfire in the distance.
He jumped to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. He ran to wake his mother and brother, but before he could reach their rooms, he heard shouting from the front of the house. He peered through the gap in the door and froze.
Jack stood in the garden, flanked by half a dozen men in black uniforms—Shadowcastel soldiers, their faces hidden behind masks. Rina was on the steps, her hands raised to calm them, but her eyes were wide with fear. Faihra and Lepius had run out to stand beside her, Lepius's hand already on the hilt of his sword.
"Jack, please," Faihra called out, her voice trembling but strong. "We can help you—we can find a way to pay your debts. Just leave us be."
Jack stared at her, his face empty of all emotion. "You left me," he said, his voice flat. "You abandoned me when I needed you most. Now you have to come back. It's the only way."
Collins stepped forward from behind Jack, a wretched grin spreading across his face. "She's not coming back with you, Jack," he said, his eyes sweeping over Faihra and Lepius. "She's coming with us. Along with her sons. They'll make fine slaves to pay what you owe."
Lepius drew his sword, his jaw clenched. "You'll have to kill me first."
The first shot rang out before he could take another step. It hit Lepius in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound. Faihra screamed and ran to him, cradling his head in her hands as blood seeped into the dirt. Rina lunged at Collins, but one of his men struck her across the head with the butt of his gun, and she fell beside Lepius.
Jack stood there, frozen, as Collins raised his own gun and aimed it at Faihra. "You failed me, Jack," he said, his grin widening. "So I'll take what I'm owed myself."
Tyndareus watched in horror as his father, in a chilling display of violence, raised his own gun and fired. The bullet hit Faihra in the back, and she collapsed over Lepius's body, ...her body going still in an instant. Tyndareus felt his legs give out beneath him, but he bit back a scream—his hands clamped over his mouth as hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He watched as Jack stood there for a moment longer, his gun trembling in his hand, before Collins shoved him aside with a laugh.
"Pathetic," Collins muttered, gesturing to his men. "Clear out the house. Take whatever's worth anything. And make sure there are no survivors."
As the soldiers moved toward the front door, Tyndareus scrambled backward, his bare feet sliding on the wooden floor. He knew there was only one place to hide—the small crawl space behind the pantry, a spot Lepius had shown him when they first arrived. He squeezed through the narrow opening, pulling the door shut behind him just as footsteps thundered into his room.
He pressed himself against the cold stone wall, trembling, his heart pounding so hard he was sure the men would hear it. The sound of gunfire rang in his ears as he heard more shots—one for Rina, then another that echoed through the hall. He clamped his eyes shut, but the horrific scene played over and over in his mind: his mother's still form, his brother's empty eyes, his father standing there with blood on his hands.
The chaos lasted for what felt like hours. He heard furniture being overturned, glass shattering, and the soldiers' voices as they laughed and joked about their work. Then, silence. For a long time, Tyndareus stayed hidden, too afraid to move, too numb to think. It was only when the first light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the wall that he finally pushed open the door and crawled out.
Reality struck him like a dagger to the heart. His family lay lifeless around him—Rina on the steps, Lepius in the garden, Faihra curled over her son. Jack was nowhere to be seen, but Tyndareus could see tracks in the dirt leading toward the forest, as if his father had run away the moment the shooting stopped.
Across the scene stood Collins, cleaning his gun with a cloth, his wretched grin still spread across his face—the embodiment of Tyndareus's despair. He had stayed behind to make sure nothing was left, his eyes scanning the yard as if searching for something he had missed.
Tyndareus felt a rage he had never known before burn through his grief. Without thinking, he stepped out from the shadows of the house, his hands balled into fists.
"You are the reason for my family's misery," he confronted, his voice raw and hoarse, bitterness flooding every word as tears streamed down his cheeks. The grief was overwhelming, threatening to drown him, but beneath it all, a desire for vengeance burned hot and bright.
Collins looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the young man standing before him. He let out a short laugh. "So there is one left," he said, tossing the cloth aside. "How... convenient. Jack owes us more than his family's lives can pay. You'll make a fine replacement."
"I'm still alive, Saint," Tyndareus said, using the old island title for those who claimed power over others. "Don't inflict more misery upon me. I don't deserve to be without them. I loved them dearly." He cried into the morning air, his heartache echoing against the darkened sky as clouds rolled in to cover the sun.
Collins took a step forward, his hand moving to his gun. But before he could draw it, Tyndareus turned and ran. He didn't look back, didn't stop until he was deep in the forest, his lungs burning, his feet bleeding from running barefoot over sharp stones. He ran until the town of Cenophus was nothing more than a smudge on the horizon, until all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the whisper of wind through the trees.
In that moment, lost and alone in the wilderness, the boy vowed to change. He would let Tyndareus—the son who had watched his family fall apart, the boy who had been helpless to save them—die in the forest. In his place, he would adopt a new identity, transforming into something more powerful than before. He would learn to fight, to lead, to survive in the dark underbelly of Manticore Island. Questing for revenge against Collins became his singular focus—the desire for retribution burning deeply within him, a flame that would never be extinguished.
PRESENT
Now, seven years later, Tyndareus Crowsbone had emerged from the ashes of his past, a figure draped in darkness that mirrored the agony he harboured within. He had taken his new name from the crows that had circled over his family's graves—a symbol of death and rebirth. His choice of attire became a crucial aspect of his persona; every piece was meticulously crafted to reflect both his character and his motivations.
His coat was made from black leather, treated to be waterproof and tough enough to deflect blades. The shoulders were padded, giving him a broad, imposing silhouette, and the cuffs were lined with steel plates that could be used to block strikes. His pants were dark denim, tucked into knee-high boots with steel toes—tools as much as footwear. Around his waist hung a belt with a silver buckle shaped like a crow in flight, holding a knife sheathed at his hip and a pouch full of small, useful things: lock picks, a compass, a vial of poison he had learned to make from island herbs.
In contrast to his past life, his features were now sharp and serious, his jawline defined by hardship, his eyes a deep brown that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. He kept his hair cut short, except for a single braid over his right ear—an old island tradition for those who had lost everything and vowed to reclaim their place in the world. The braid was tied with a black ribbon, a reminder of the family he had lost. Tyndareus had taken on the role of a feared gang leader, uniting smaller crews under his banner to stand against Shadowcastel. He earned himself the moniker "ShadowHands," a codename that echoed through the underworld, symbolised by the black gloves he wore at all times—concealing his hands, his intentions, and the calluses that marked him as a fighter.
His only loyal companion on the island was Marthur Mathew, a friend he had known for five years—someone he could trust amidst the chaos of gang rivalries. They had met in a fighting pit on the western coast, where Tyndareus had been competing to earn money and build a reputation. Marthur, a big man with a gentle heart and quick fists, had saved him from being ganged up on by three men after a match. Since then, they had been inseparable—Marthur serving as Tyndareus's second-in-command, his strength balancing out Tyndareus's cunning.
On yet another gambling night, men gathered at the shore of Guidelive—where it all had begun—their boats pulled up on the black sand, their fires casting orange light across the water. Laughter intertwined with the clattering of chips and the slap of cards dealt, the familiar sounds that had once filled Tyndareus with dread now fueling his focus. He had come here not to gamble, but to meet with contacts who had information about Collins's movements—Shadowcastel had been expanding their territory, and Tyndareus knew it was only a matter of time before they clashed.
Tyndareus entered the scene with an intense gaze, his presence commanding immediate attention. The crowd fell quiet as he walked past, men nodding respectfully or looking away, knowing better than to cross him. He leaned on his owl-themed walking stick—a gift from a craftsman he had saved from Shadowcastel's wrath—carved from the wood of an ancient tree, with eyes made of green glass that seemed to glow in the firelight. It was a token of wisdom and insight, but it also hid a blade inside its shaft, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. Over his leather coat, he wore a sombre cowboy hat, its brim pulled low to cast his face in shadow, completing his fearsome appearance.
As he moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning every face, looking for signs of trouble, his voice cut through the chatter like a knife. "Disappointment leads to unprofessionalism," he declared, his tone low but clear enough to carry across the shore. His eyes swept to the left where Marthur sat at a table, lost in his own game of poker, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Tyndareus made his way over, his walking stick sliding across the rough wooden table, silencing the raucous banter of the men sitting with Marthur. They looked up, their smiles fading as they saw who stood before them, and quickly gathered their things to leave.
Marthur looked up, caught off guard by Tyndareus's fierce expression. His stack of chips was dwindling, and a few crumpled bills lay beside his cards—money he had been saving to send to his sister in the northern islands.
"You're hiding from me," Tyndareus asserted, his tone grave. He could see the guilt in Marthur's eyes, the way he avoided looking directly at him.
"I was just caught up in the game," Marthur stammered, glancing down at his dwindling stack of cash, feeling the weight of Tyndareus's stare. He had promised not to gamble—not after what had happened to Jack—but the temptation had been too strong tonight.
"You're wasting your money," Tyndareus replied, his concern evident beneath his stern exterior. He knew all too well how easily gambling could pull a person under, how quickly hope could turn to despair. He reached out and pushed the remaining chips away from Marthur's hand. "And more importantly, you're wasting time. We have work to do."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed toward the edge of the crowd, moving out of the firelight and onto the bustling street that led into Guidelive's center. Marthur followed close behind, shoving the cash into his pocket and running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"I don't mean to waste it; it's my cash," Marthur countered, looking perplexed at Tyndareus's intensity. He knew his friend was only looking out for him, but it still stung to be scolded like a child. "I just... I needed to win something. To help my sister. She's expecting a baby, and they don't have enough to get by."
Tyndareus slowed his pace, his jaw tightening. He understood—he had once done desperate things to protect his family too. "There are better ways to help her," he said quietly. "I'll give you the money you need. But no more gambling. Not here. Not anywhere."
Marthur nodded, relief washing over his face. "Thank you, Ty. I'm sorry—I just got carried away."
They moved toward a nearby food house, the aroma of grilled meat and baked goods wafting through the air, mixing with the scent of salt and seaweed from the shore. The place was small and crowded, with wooden tables and benches, and a fire pit in the center where the cook prepared skewers of pork and fish.
As they walked, Tyndareus remained vigilant, scanning their surroundings with the instincts of a predator. His eyes moved over every face, every doorway, every shadow—looking for anyone who didn't belong, anyone who might be working for Shadowcastel. He had learned long ago that trust was a luxury he couldn't afford, that danger could be hiding anywhere.
Suddenly, a waitress approached, her red dress contrasting sharply with the evening's gloom. It was a bold color for Guidelive, where most people dressed in dark clothes to blend in. She moved with a confident grace, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Pleasant evening to all of you," she greeted cheerfully, her voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. Her gaze lingered longer on Tyndareus than seemed appropriate, her eyes studying his face, his clothes, his walking stick. He met her stare with an unwavering intensity, his mind racing—was she just a waitress, or was she something more? He could see a small tattoo on her wrist—a crow in flight, the same symbol he wore on his belt.
He said nothing, just nodded once, before returning his focus to Marthur, who appeared flustered by the woman's attention. Marthur opened his mouth to order, but Tyndareus placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.
"We'll take two skewers to go," Tyndareus said, his voice flat. He pulled out a few coins and set them on the tray the waitress was holding. She looked at him for a moment longer, her smile never fading, before turning to get their food.
In that subtle exchange, Tyndareus felt the weight of his past stir within him. The darkness he carried was ever-present—a constant reminder of the mission that lay ahead. But as he watched the waitress walk away, the crow tattoo on her wrist catching the light, he wondered if maybe there were others out there who understood what he was fighting for. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as alone as he had always thought.