The flames of battle had faded, but the stench of smoke and blood lingered in the narrow alley. Draven leaned against the damp wall, his breath ragged, his hands trembling. The fire within him roared with untamed hunger, the shadows clawing like beasts eager to escape.
Yet for all their power, his body was pitifully weak. Each spark of flame felt like it devoured his flesh, each wisp of shadow drained his marrow. He was alive—but barely.
And he knew this was only the beginning.
---
The boy's fragmented memories whispered through his mind like shards of glass.
He remembered hunger so deep it made his bones ache.
Nights spent hiding from Krell's gang, beaten and mocked for carrying a useless family name no one believed.
Whispers of an ancestor's power, dismissed as delusions of a beggar.
Ignivar.
A name spat upon by the wretched of Grey Town. A name forgotten by the world.
But now it pulsed in Draven's blood like molten steel.
"I need strength," he muttered, staggering through the shadows of the slum. "Without it, I'll be nothing more than a corpse waiting for scavengers."
---
Grey Town did not sleep.
Even in the dead of night, fires burned in the gutters. Drunkards brawled in the streets, merchants of flesh whispered from doorways, and gangs prowled like wolves. The city guards rarely entered these streets—bribes and blood kept them at bay.
Draven kept his head low, his black hair damp with sweat, his eyes burning faintly crimson. Each step was agony, but he moved with purpose. Krell's gang would not forgive what he had done. By dawn, the entire district would know that their leader had been slain.
And then they would hunt.
He needed shelter. Information. A foothold to begin his climb.
---
The boy's memory tugged him toward a decrepit tavern at the edge of Grey Town—The Rusted Fang. It was a place where beggars, mercenaries, and criminals mingled, a cesspool of rumors and desperation.
Draven pushed open the rotting door.
The air inside was thick with smoke and sweat. Men laughed crudely over cheap ale, dice clattered on splintered tables, and the faint sound of a lute struggled to rise above the chaos.
No one spared him more than a glance. In Grey Town, weakness was common, and death was cheaper than bread.
Draven slid into a corner seat. His fingers curled into fists beneath the table. The fire in his blood urged him to burn the room to ash, the shadows whispered of silent slaughter—but he forced them down. Power wasted without purpose was suicide.
---
A serving girl approached, her eyes hollow, her hair matted. "Coin," she said flatly.
Draven searched the boy's ragged clothes. Nothing. Not a single copper.
The girl sneered. "Then no drink." She turned away.
Draven caught her wrist. His voice was calm, low, but carried a weight that made her pause.
"I don't need ale. I need information."
Her eyes flicked to his, and for a heartbeat she saw something there—flame and shadow flickering behind crimson irises. She pulled her hand free, unsettled. "Information costs coin too."
Draven leaned back. "Then tell your master that a man with coin will be coming soon—after he takes it from the corpses of Krell's men."
Her breath hitched.
The name spread like wildfire. Nearby drinkers who heard it turned their heads. Murmurs rose. "Krell? Dead?" "No one kills Krell." "Who the hell is this brat?"
Draven stood, his gaze sweeping the room. "Krell is ash. His gang is next. If you want to live, stay out of my way. If you want coin, bring me knowledge—about Grey Town, about the powers that rule it, about anyone who still remembers the name Ignivar."
Silence hung heavy. Then, slowly, a man chuckled from the bar.
He was old, scarred, his beard streaked with grey, his eyes sharp despite the haze of drink. He raised his mug. "Ignivar, eh? Haven't heard that name in… gods, near thirty years."
Draven's gaze locked onto him. "You know it?"
The old man grinned, revealing broken teeth. "I know whispers. Enough to know you're playing with fire that burned brighter than empires." He stood, his steps heavy but sure, and approached. "Name's Garrick. Mercenary once. Survivor, always. Sit, boy. We've much to discuss."
---
They sat at a battered table in the corner. Garrick downed his ale before speaking.
"The Ignivars…" He chuckled darkly. "They were legends when I was a child. Flame and shadow, unmatched in both blade and sorcery. But legends fall hardest. The Empire turned on them, called them traitors, heretics, monsters. Within a decade, their halls were ashes."
Draven listened, every word sinking into his blood like oil on flame. "Why?"
"No one knows," Garrick shrugged. "Or no one dares say. But I heard this—when the last Ignivar fortress fell, their Patriarch swore his bloodline would not die. He scattered his children into the world. If even a spark survived, the fire would rise again."
Draven's chest tightened. So the boy's blood was not meaningless after all. He was that spark.
Garrick leaned closer, voice lowering. "If you truly carry that blood, boy, then Grey Town will eat you alive unless you grow strong. Krell's gang is nothing. Above them, the Ash Serpents, the Blood Fangs, and beyond them—the Grey Syndicate itself. They rule this pit with chains of coin and rivers of blood."
"And above them?" Draven asked.
Garrick's eyes narrowed. "Above them lies the Empire. And if they learn an Ignivar breathes… they'll send hunters to snuff you out before you can crawl."
---
Draven's hand clenched around his cup until it cracked.
So the truth was simple: Grey Town's gangs were merely the first obstacle. To reclaim the Ignivar name, he would need to climb through layers of power, each one more dangerous than the last.
And at the peak of it all stood the Empire that had destroyed his clan.
Good. Let them wait. He would come for them.
---
"Where do I start?" Draven asked.
Garrick smirked. "Start with survival. Krell's death will draw attention. The Serpents will want to claim his territory. His thugs will either scatter or come for revenge. If you want to rise, take what's his—before someone else does."
Draven's eyes burned with cold fire. "Then tomorrow, the ashes of Krell's gang will belong to Ignivar."
Garrick raised his mug. "Careful, boy. Fire that burns too fast leaves nothing but smoke."
Draven stood, shadows curling faintly at his feet. "Then I'll burn slow enough to turn the world to cinders."
---
That night, Draven did not sleep.
He sat alone on a broken rooftop, the moonlight silvering his gaunt form. His hands flickered with crimson flame, his shadow stretched unnaturally against the stones. He practiced—controlling the fire so it did not consume him, shaping the shadows so they obeyed rather than rebelled.
The pain was excruciating. Each spark seared his nerves. Each tendril of darkness clawed at his soul. But he endured.
For every moment of torment, he remembered the boy's final plea. He remembered the slaughter of his clan. He remembered Earth—his wasted life, his forgotten existence.
Not here. Not this time.
Here, he would carve his name into the bones of the world.
---
As dawn broke over Grey Town, smoke rising from its gutters like breath from a dying beast, a new rumor spread through the slums.
Krell the thug lord was dead.
His killer was a nameless boy, clad in rags, eyes burning with fire and shadow.
And with his first step into blood and flame, the forgotten ember of Ignivar began to rise.