The name they gave him was "Worm."
Not because he was small — though years of malnutrition had shriveled his frame — but because he was lower than the dirt he mined. In the slave pits of Droskar Mine, names were not earned. They were branded with contempt.
The overseers didn't care who you were before. Bloodline? Burned. Status? Forgotten. The moment you crossed the iron gate into the mine, your past was ash. All that mattered was ore quotas and obedience.
Worm had both.
Or so they thought.
That day, the drills struck something strange — a smooth black stone buried deep in the northern tunnel, untouched by time, warm to the touch, pulsing faintly with an eerie rhythm. The others ignored it. Just another freak chunk to be tossed aside. But Worm couldn't look away.
It was calling him.
When night fell and the others collapsed in their cages, Worm crept out, silent as breath. He returned to the stone, its pulse louder now, like a heartbeat syncing with his own.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers grazed the surface, a surge of cold fire ran up his arm. The world twisted. Darkness swallowed him.
He didn't fall — he was dragged.
He landed in a vast abyss, a throne room carved of pure shadow. Endless pillars vanished into the gloom. A figure sat upon the throne, its form shifting like smoke, eyes glowing crimson.
"You are broken," it spoke, a voice layered with ages. "But unyielding. Good."
Worm tried to speak, but his voice had vanished.
"I offer power," the being continued. "True power. Born not of light… but shadow. You will walk unseen. Strike without warning. Become the fear in men's hearts. But you will serve me."
A pause. The boy stared up. And then, without hesitation, he nodded.
The shadows surged.
Pain ripped through him — his veins turned black, symbols of old gods seared into his skin. His left eye burned, then darkened into pitch. His chains shattered.
And the voice laughed.
"You are mine now, Shadowbrand."