The rain fell in relentless sheets, a cold, gray curtain that blurred the world into a haze of sorrow. Ryan Blackthrone, fifteen years old, stood alone at the edge of a freshly dug grave, his black umbrella a frail shield against the downpour. The tombstone before him was simple, almost insultingly so, carved with the words In Loving Memory of Virell. No dates, no epitaph—just her name, etched in stone as if the world could ever forget her.
He didn't cry. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, burned with a fire that the rain couldn't touch. Virell's last words echoed in his soul, a haunting refrain that cut deeper than any blade: "We are weak, Ryan. We cannot win. But I fought until my last breath, and so must you." She'd been more than a caretaker—she was the grandmother he'd never had, the one who shielded him from a world cursed with greed. She'd shaped him, forged him in the crucible of her loyalty, a loyalty so fierce it defied the heavens themselves.
The Blackthrone family was gone, slaughtered like dogs over a fucking artifact—a relic plucked from a dungeon raid alongside the Valerius family. Once, the two houses had been allies, bound by mutual respect despite Valerius' towering wealth and power. But that cursed artifact changed everything. Greed tore them apart, sparking infighting that bled both families dry. The Valerius struck first, their blades dripping with Blackthrone blood, but Ryan's family fought back, clawing for survival until only he remained—a boy, and Virell, the old woman who refused to break.
Virell had taken her revenge, hunting down the Valerius like a wrathful specter. She'd burned their name to ash, only to discover they were nothing but a withered leaf in a much larger storm. Someone—something—else pulled the strings, and it cost her everything. They killed her for it, left her broken body as a warning. But Ryan was still here, the last Blackthrone, a spark in the dark ready to ignite a fucking inferno.
He stood there, rain soaking his boots, and pulled a key from the storage ring on his finger. It was small, unassuming, but it pulsed with a weight that made his blood boil. This was it—the artifact that had cost him everything. "What are you?" he whispered, voice low and raw. "So much blood, so many lives… all for you. Meaningless." His grip tightened, knuckles white. The key didn't answer, but it didn't need to. It was a promise, a curse, a goddamned chain around his soul.
"I'm weak now," he said, staring at the grave. "Fucking pathetic against those filthy nobles, those demons who tore us apart. But I swear, Virell, on the Blackthrone name, I'll burn them all to the ground. Every single one of those bastards will pay in blood. They'll scream for what they did to my family, and I'll make it a price they can't afford."
He didn't flinch as thunder cracked overhead. The rain hid the world, but it couldn't hide his resolve. Ryan Blackthrone turned from the grave, the key clenched in his fist, and walked into the storm. The nobility, the demons, the unseen hands—they'd all learn what it meant to cross a Blackthrone. And they'd learn it in fire and blood.