The fire crackled.
Not with warmth but with judgment.
Ash drifted in the midnight air like snow from a forgotten winter.
Guren Von Duran stood motionless, his hand still clutching the charred edge of the Chief's robe. Smoke curled around the corpse's twisted features eyes wide in disbelief, lips still parted mid-beg for mercy that never came. Around them, the ruined remnants of the village lay in ruin, stained with the blood of slavers, their cries swallowed by the stars above.
It wasn't supposed to end like this.
But maybe… this was how it always would've ended.
He looked down at his reflection in a shattered basin, once used for ritual offerings. His face, sharp and noble, still bore the tattoos of the Von Duran line now cracked and smeared with soot. A dark elf standing alone in the heart of a human domain. A village leader's blood soaking into his skin.
Was this what he had become?
A liberator. A killer.
A flame that burned through corruption or one that simply couldn't stop burning.
"You were supposed to change the world, not become what you hated."
He heard the voice in his mind. His own voice only younger.
Innocent. Hopeful. Naïve.
His hand trembled. Not from fear but from memory.
The chains.
The market.
The look in his mother's eyes the day she was taken.
And the vow he made as a boy under the collapsed ruins of the old forest temple:
"I will ascend beyond them all. I will reshape fate itself. I will never kneel."
That vow had brought him here now a man forged in chaos, honed by survival, wielding power the heavens themselves tried to deny him.
But at what cost?
He turned from the body of the Chief. The symbol of the village the carved sigil of humanity's false unity cracked beneath his boot as he walked away.
And in the silence of that desolate night, as the flames swallowed the past, the stars above watched without judgment.
Long before the fall…
The wind in the forest sang a different tune back then.
Before the scars, before the blood, before the path of desolation began there was only a boy.
A dark-skinned child with clear silver eyes, hair like ink, and dreams far too large for the broken world around him.
His name was Guren Von Duran.
Born under dying stars.
Made in the image of a future he would one day destroy...or save.
***
The stars overhead shimmered with the quiet light of a fading age.
Snow brushed the carved rooftops of Noctelleth, capital of the Dark Elves where obsidian towers spiraled into the sky like fangs of the earth, catching frost and moonlight in their jagged edges. Within the arched walls and frost-glass lanes of the Duskwind District, lanterns flickered to life, marking the beginning of another winter morning.
And in a modest three-level dwelling near the mid-tier balconies, Guren Von Duran stared at his reflection brown skin kissed by the cold light, hair tied back cleanly, silver-gray uniform fitted tight around his lean frame.
He had just turned fifteen.
Still short at five-foot-five, but quick. Watchful. Sharpened not by hardship but by the weight of expectation.
He tugged at his collar and squinted at the wrinkle in the sleeve.
"Great," he muttered, "third year starts in fifteen minutes and my elbow wants to rebel."
From the next room, a familiar voice chirped.
"Guren, breakfast!"
His little sister, Mirra, only six, was already bouncing around with the energy of a mountain hare. She poked her head in through the open door, her frizzy braids bouncing.
"You're late!" she scolded, pointing dramatically.
"I'm early by at least three pancakes," Guren grinned, tapping her nose as he passed. "Tell Adam to save me one."
Downstairs, the table was warm with the smell of spiced root cakes and steamed grain broth. His mother, Ellisa Von Duran, stood by the kitchen counter, her short curls tied back in a violet wrap, sleeves rolled as she moved with effortless grace.
"You didn't iron your cuffs again," she said without turning.
Guren smirked. "I'm cultivating a rebellious image."
"You're not even cultivating," came a quiet reply.
His little brother, Adam, only four, said it between tiny bites.
Guren leaned over and ruffled his hair. "That was cold, even for FrostVale."
A quiet chuckle came from the other end of the table. Brent, Gurens stepfather and his siblings father, folded up his morning dataslate a thin arcane-infused glass sheet inscribed with pulsing light runes. His posture was sharp, refined. His voice always measured.
"Rebellious image or not, uniform standards exist for a reason. Third-year is when your standing begins to reflect on your house."
"I'm aware," Guren said, nodding politely.
He wasn't rude. He was never rude to Brent. But there was a wall between them one that had never broken.They hadn't married yet they lived together, had two children with her, and served as an Aspectarian [a politician] and representative of local territories in the FrostVale Domain's governing assembly.
He was fair. Responsible. Respected.
But when it came to Guren… he was distant.
"You'll be expected to attend the school forum today as well," Brent added, sipping calmly. "Keep your eyes open. The younger delegates of House Brask are likely to observe. Cultivation screening isn't far."
Guren nodded again.
Ellisa placed a plate in front of him. "Don't overthink it. Just do your best."
Her smile melted what tension lingered. It always did.
"Yes, mom."
***
Outside the Noctelleth's Sky Rail Port, Third Level
The wind at this altitude was cold and clean, cutting through the wool coat he wore over his uniform. Sky-trams slithered through the morning fog long, serpent-like transport vessels that coasted along mana-threaded lines between towers.
Guren adjusted the strap on his shoulder pack and waited at the platform beside a cluster of other students mostly dark elves, with the occasional high elf child exchanging stiff greetings. The tension between bloodlines was more like background noise than open conflict.
They nodded. They smiled.
But they didn't truly mix.
Not yet.
"Yo," said a voice beside him. "Third year already. You still planning to punch your way into cultivation?"
To be Continued.