—Verdaal. This world isn't mine, and yet... it is now.
The morning sunlight filtered weakly through cracked slats of the wooden shutters. Dust danced like lazy spirits in the golden light. Alaric stirred under coarse linen sheets, sweat-damp and tangled.
His head throbbed.
Not pain—memories.
Steel towers. Blue-white LEDs flickering across glass. The scent of coffee and asphalt after rain. A blinking cursor on a black screen. Was that... home?
He sat up, the ache behind his eyes fading with every breath. A different world greeted him—his new world.
Verdaal.
The wooden floor groaned underfoot as he padded across the room, stopping in front of a tarnished mirror nailed crookedly to the wall. His breath caught.
The reflection staring back was familiar and foreign all at once.
Raven-black hair streaked with silver, as if moonlight had kissed every strand. Eyes—deep violet, glowing faintly like starlit amethysts. Not natural. Not normal.
Not his—and yet they were.
His gaze dropped to his left shoulder blade. There it was: a sigil pulsing faintly beneath the skin. Not a tattoo. Not a scar.
A mark.
A memory surfaced. Crimson skies. A voice that spoke in the marrow of his soul.
"I offer salvation. I offer power."
He touched the sigil, heart thudding.
"…Nytherion."
The door creaked open.
"ALAAARIC!"
"Wh—mph?!"
A blur of auburn hair and soot-smudged cheeks slammed into him. Arms wrapped tightly around his waist. A shuddering breath pressed against his chest.
"You absolute dumbass! I thought you were gonna die!"
He blinked.
"…Lyra?"
She looked up, eyes misty, and punched him lightly in the side.
"Ow," he muttered.
"That's for scaring me," she sniffed.
Alaric chuckled, voice rough. "I'm good now. Promise."
Lyra Caelis. Same age. Childhood friend. First memory of this life and the only one who never blurred with the past.
She stepped back, rubbing her eyes furiously. "Tch. Crying's for brats."
"Sure," he teased. "You just had dust in both eyes at once, right?"
"Shut up."
Despite her glare, she smiled.
Lyra wasn't delicate. She was built from callouses and scraped knees—scarred elbow from tree climbing, faded bruises from fending off bullies twice her size. Her hands were always moving—cooking, fixing, protecting.
They were the oldest ones in Ebonreach Orphanage, nestled deep in Duskwatch Ward—a half-reclaimed slice of a Yellow Zone. Somewhere between monster territory and civilization.
Here, tech and ruin walked hand in hand. Market stalls sold fried root paste beside humming power pylons. Kids played with scraps from old Veilflux capacitors. Drones hovered over alleys patched with moss and steel.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow would change everything.
"You didn't eat last night. Come on, breakfast," Lyra said, tugging his sleeve.
"Wait, I'm starving—okay, okay, don't drag me."
The kitchen was cramped and rust-scented. Lyra reheated last night's bread and broth while Alaric peeked outside.
A faint breeze brushed against him. The sky was a strange shade—crimson-tinted, always.
The sky never really healed after the Veilfall, huh...
Twin suns hung above like ancient sentinels, their light diffused by the veil-ridden atmosphere. Beyond the orphanage gates, Duskwatch Ward stirred—patrols moving through fog-slick streets, veins of light pulsing across buildings fitted with makeshift tech.
And above it all, a skyship cruised along the dome's edge, humming like a metallic whale.
Verdaal had changed. Or perhaps it was always like this.
He recalled the gossip from traders and scavengers:
🟩 Green Zones — floating cities ruled by Prime-Class Lords. Clean skies, forcefields, AI sentinels.
🔵 Blue Zones — stable militarized hubs like Duskwatch. Tech-heavy. Guarded. Brutal efficiency.
🟡 Yellow Zones — the frontlines. Third-Class Lords barely holding back the dark.
🔴 Red Zones — twisted, monster-infested hellscapes. No return.
⚫ Black Zones — whispers only. Forbidden. Deadly. Even names were blasphemy.
But all of that faded as his fingers brushed the sigil again.
Sixteen years old...
The Rite of Ascendancy was tomorrow. A once-in-a-lifetime ceremony. At sixteen, every youth in Verdaal was tested before the Crucible Accord. Only those chosen by Nytherion received the Mark of Ascendancy.
A sigil that transformed them into a Lord.
Lords could summon Fiefs within the Crucible Plane—construct cities, forge weapons, rewrite matter itself. If awakened, they would be whisked to the Sovereign Capital, trained by Accord generals and, rarely, even one of the Five Ascendants of the Crucible.
If not?
Manual labor. Military drafts. Endless war and no more second chances.
A knock at the back of his thoughts. Something was off.
"...Lyra?"
No answer.
"Hey, where'd you—"
A scream ripped through the air.
"ALARIC!!!"
His heart stopped.
He didn't think. Just ran.
Down the hall, past flickering lights, through the orphanage's sagging threshold. His bare feet hit gravel and cracked pavement, the world narrowing into a tunnel of instinct.
He didn't know what waited beyond the door.
Didn't care.
He only knew one thing:
Someone needed him.
And for now, that was reason enough to move forward—into the strange, broken, magnificent world of Verdaal.