In the world of Veyrath, weakness was not pitied.
Rather, it is erased from existence.
Aren Vale learned this truth before he learned how to write his own name properly.
The alley smelled of iron and rot. Blood—his blood—spread beneath him in a dark, uneven pool, soaking into the ancient stone like it had been hungry for him all along. His ribs screamed every time he tried to breathe, and one of his arms refused to move entirely.
"Figures," Aren muttered, coughing. "First time I try to live quietly, and the world tries to murder me."
Above him, the night sky burned.
Not with fire—but with ash.
Black flakes drifted downward, slow and silent, as if the heavens themselves were shedding skin. The capital city of Eldrath loomed in the distance, its spires sharp and proud, utterly indifferent to the boy bleeding to death in one of its forgotten veins.
Aren had been running for hours.
Not because he was guilty.
But because people with power didn't care about innocence.
Earlier that day, he had stood in the Hall of Fate, surrounded by priests in white and gold, their eyes glowing faintly with sigil-light. One by one, children his age had stepped forward, their Fate Sigils awakening—flames dancing along arms, spectral beasts roaring behind their backs, divine symbols burning into their souls.
Cheers. Applause. Futures secured.
Then it had been Aren's turn.
Nothing happened.
No light. No symbol. No destiny.
The hall had gone quiet.
A silence worse than mockery.
The High Priest had leaned closer, his expression tight, voice low.
"This one is wrong."
Wrong.
That single word had sealed Aren's fate.
"No sigil," the priest continued. "No alignment. No recorded destiny thread."
A murmur spread through the hall. Fear. Disgust.
Someone whispered the word Nullborn.
And that was when Aren ran.
Now, lying broken in the alley, Aren laughed weakly to himself.
"So that's it, huh? Born useless. Die inconveniently."
Footsteps echoed at the far end of the alley.
Multiple sets.
Measured. Calm.
Hunters.
Aren turned his head slightly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He didn't panic. Panic required hope.
Instead, he sighed.
"Let me guess," he said hoarsely. "Holy Sect? Imperial dogs? Or one of those smiling cult freaks who say murder is 'divine will'?"
The footsteps stopped.
A voice answered, amused.
"Sharp tongue for a dying boy."
Three figures stepped into the faint moonlight. Long robes. Sect insignias stitched in silver and crimson. One carried a curved blade. Another rested a hand casually on a talisman carved with runes.
The third—the leader—looked at Aren like he was a bug worth stepping on.
"You're the Nullborn," the man said. "The one without a Fate Sigil."
Aren grinned, teeth red with blood.
"Wow. Famous already? Do I get a plaque if I die dramatically?"
The man's eyes narrowed.
"Mockery won't save you."
"Didn't expect it to," Aren replied. "Just thought I'd die entertained."
The leader raised his hand.
And then—
The world stopped.
Ash froze midair. Sound vanished. Even pain receded, pulled away like a tide reversing.
The three hunters stiffened, their expressions locking in sudden terror.
Aren blinked.
"…Okay," he muttered. "Either I'm hallucinating, or this is new."
Reality cracked.
Not exploded—split, like glass under invisible pressure.
A presence descended.
It was not light. It was not darkness.
It was absence, shaped into awareness.
A voice echoed—not in Aren's ears, not in his mind—but through the fabric of existence itself.
"Fate Thread: Corrupted."
"Subject: Unregistered."
"Designation: Error."
The hunters screamed.
Their bodies twisted, flesh unraveling like paper burned from the inside. Blood sprayed the walls in violent arcs as they were erased—not killed, deleted.
Aren stared, eyes wide.
"…Huh."
The presence turned toward him.
"Error detected."
"Would you like to overwrite?"
Aren swallowed.
"Uh," he said slowly. "Define 'overwrite.'"
Silence.
Then—
"Granting provisional existence."
"Authority: Crown of Silent Ashes."
"Status: Dormant."
Something burned into Aren's chest.
Not painfully.
Cold.
Sharp.
Permanent.
The alley returned to normal in an instant. Ash fell again. Sound rushed back. Aren collapsed fully onto the stone, gasping.
He laughed.
Loudly.
Hysterically.
"So," he wheezed. "Turns out I wasn't useless."
Above him, unseen by the city, a new thread of fate twisted violently—unbound, unrecorded, and deeply offensive to the gods themselves.
And somewhere far away…
Several sects felt a chill crawl up their spines.
(End of Chapter One)