The house stood alone on the outskirts of the city, worn and weathered by time. Its roof sagged in places, letting in jagged slivers of sunlight that pierced the dim interior like golden knives. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, settling over cracked floorboards and furniture that had long lost its polish.
The outskirts were a harsh place to grow up. Here, poverty clung like a second skin, weaving through the lives of families who barely survived.
Manual laborers, bakers, blacksmiths, and farmers coexisted side by side, scraping together a living while the nobles of the city levied heavy taxes upon them. Every coin earned was measured, every misstep punished with additional toil, yet survival demanded endurance, not complaint.
On a small, creaking bed lay Ashveil. The morning sun spilled through the gaps in the roof, warming his face, but it did little to warm the reality of the world outside.
He pushed himself upright, sighing at the thought of repairing the roof once again. He had done it countless times before, only to watch it crumble again, and so the thought was discarded.
There were bigger concerns than broken tiles—larger battles he needed to prepare for.
The modest house bore the marks of a life defined by struggle. Walls patched with mud, a hearth blackened by years of cooking, and furniture worn smooth by constant use.
Ashveil moved through it with practiced care, opening a massive backpack. It was large enough that two of him could fit inside and still leave room for supplies.
Into it went rations, an emergency first-aid kit, the small tools of survival, and finally a rolled map of the dungeon he intended to enter.
Before strapping the pack closed, he paused, his eyes softening as they drifted toward a smaller room.
Once, that room had echoed with cheerful laughter, a sound bright enough to cut through even the bleakest of days. That laughter belonged to Amelia—his younger sister.
At twelve, she still carried traces of the girl she had once been: sunny, warm, always ready with a smile that could light the dimmest corners of their house.
But that was before their parents' deaths.
Now, her laughter was rare, reserved only for Ashveil. Where once her joy had been boundless, it now flickered like a candle in the wind, fragile but still alive.
And Ashveil cherished it. To him, Amelia was the only light left in the world, and he would shield it with everything he had.
She was beautiful in her own innocent way, blessed with golden hair that shimmered like their mother's when caught in the sunlight, and eyes as black and steady as Ashveil's—an inheritance from their father.
Those features alone made her look like the bridge between the two people they had lost, a reminder of both warmth and strength.
Ashveil lingered at her bedside, watching her chest rise and fall in peaceful rhythm. She slept messily, her blanket tangled and pushed aside as though she had fought an unseen battle in her dreams.
With a faint smile, Ashveil leaned down and gently pulled the blanket back over her small frame.
He knew she would scold him later for treating her like a child, but to him, she would always be the little sister he had to protect.
Memories stirred within him. Countless evenings when he had staggered home from odd jobs or failed dungeon runs, body bruised and scraped.
Amelia had been there, her small hands clumsy yet careful as she bandaged his wounds. Her cheerful voice, though quieter these days, still carried enough warmth to ease his pain.
"You'll be okay, Ash," she would say, forcing a smile she didn't always feel.
And in those moments, he had believed her.
Ashveil pulled his cloak over his shoulders and turned to the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.
Black hair, black eyes, a face that could disappear in any crowd—ordinary at first glance. Yet the gleam in his eyes betrayed a life far from ordinary. Experience and survival had carved themselves into him.
And there, etched into his skin, was the tattoo. Strange, intricate lines that made no sense to anyone else, a mark of a god unknown to the world.
His gaze lingered on the portrait of his parents, the only possession of true value in the house.
He had painted it himself, crude but filled with love. His father, a blacksmith, strong yet worn, and his mother, ever kind, flour dust clinging to her apron.
They had not been adventurers, nor had they dreamed of wealth, yet they had sacrificed everything for him and Amelia.
Life, however, had been unforgiving. His father had labored tirelessly in the smithy, inhaling toxic fumes until they claimed him.
His mother fell ill not long after, and Ashveil had been powerless to secure the coin for her treatment.
Their deaths left a void no amount of hard work or determination could ever fill.
All he had now was Amelia. She was more precious than gold, more fragile than glass.
He was her shield, her guardian, her world—just as she was his.
He was overprotective of her to the point of stubbornness, refusing to let the cruelties of the world touch her as they had touched him.
If danger came, he would face it. If hardship rose, he would bear it.
Amelia's smile was his anchor, and he would do anything to preserve it.
Stepping outside, he felt the cool morning air against his face.
The outskirts were alive with the struggle of daily survival. Children ran along dirt paths, merchants hawked their wares from rickety carts, and laborers groaned under the weight of the day's toil.
Beyond lay the city, where the rich and powerful thrived, oblivious to the suffering they taxed into the lives of those on the outskirts.
With his heavy backpack secured, Ashveil set his eyes on the horizon.
The dungeon gate awaited, looming like a promise of both danger and opportunity.
Each step carried him further from the remnants of his past and closer to a future he would carve with his own hands—not just for himself, but for Amelia, the last family he had left.