The wind carried the scent of ash and spiced meat as it swept through the narrow alleys of Greyhearth, capital of the crumbling city-state of Drevath. Crimson banners fluttered over moss-choked towers, each painted with a black crow in flight—a mockery of the old empire's eagle. Today, the streets were alive with color, music, and the drunken blur of celebration.
It was the Festival of Crows, when the lowborn could forget their station and nobles could mask their malice behind smiling masks.
Kael Veyne walked alone through the crowd, head lowered, hood drawn. Even in the chaos of celebration, he stood apart—too tall, too lean, with the kind of sharp-boned face that seemed carved for brooding. The bastard of Lord Darion Veyne, stripped of all claim, bore no sigil and no sword. Just an old cloak, half-mended boots, and a broken name.
He'd returned to Greyhearth only three nights past, drawn not by family or duty, but by something he could not name. A sense. A pressure. As if some great wheel had begun to turn and he had no choice but to step into its path.
A pair of children ran past him, laughing, their faces painted in soot and chalk. One tossed a paper crown at his feet.
"King of Crows!" the child shouted mockingly before darting away.
Kael stared at the crown. For a moment, he considered crushing it underfoot. But instead, he bent down and picked it up.
Made of old parchment and dried thistle, it crackled in his fingers.
He placed it gently on his head.
"Long live the bastard king," he muttered.
The festival square roared with life. Jugglers tossed knives that burned with witchfire, dancers twirled with silken veils, and firebreathers exhaled colored smoke that shimmered like oil. Nobles in lacquered masks of silver and bone watched from high balconies, sipping redwine, their eyes half-lidded with boredom or malice.
Kael passed a ring of musicians—three women in red cloaks and hollow-eyed veils, playing bone flutes in a rhythm that set his teeth on edge. Behind them, a puppet show depicted the Fall of Avaris, last true Emperor of the First Age, strung up like a marionette while crows feasted on his eyes.
Drevath remembered its past only to scorn it.
At the center of the plaza stood the Ash Tree—a towering corpse of a tree charred black, with chains of bone and feather wrapped around its trunk. Once, it had been the heart of Drevath, a living relic said to be older than the Empire itself. Now, it was a symbol of penance.
They said it still bled sap during the high moon. They said it whispered to those who touched it.
Kael didn't believe in whispers.
But he did believe in warnings.
"Thrice-cursed night for a bastard to walk the square," came a voice behind him.
Kael turned to see Loran, his half-brother, flanked by two of his retainers. The boy wore a raven mask, but Kael would've known that smug drawl anywhere.
He hadn't seen Loran in three years. The boy had filled out into a man, at least in body. But Kael still saw the same venom behind his brother's eyes.
"I thought the Festival was for all," Kael said evenly.
"It is," Loran said, eyes gleaming beneath the mask. "But even crows know better than to strut in eagle's feathers."
"Is that what you think I'm wearing?" Kael gestured to his tattered cloak.
"One rag looks much like another," Loran said with a grin.
Kael met his gaze. "You mistake me for someone who still gives a damn."
One of Loran's lackeys stepped forward, hand on hilt. "Watch your mouth—"
"Enough," Loran said, holding up a gloved hand. "Let the bastard bark. It's all he's got left."
Kael didn't rise to the bait. He simply turned and walked away, toward the Ash Tree.
But before he could reach it, a hush fell over the crowd. A gong sounded—a deep, sonorous toll that shook the very bones of the street.
"The Binding begins," an elder croaked from the platform.
People turned to face the Ash Tree. From the high scaffolding built around its roots, a masked priest stepped forward, clad in robes of ink-black and ash-white. His voice rang out, carried by unnatural force.
"We honor the Withering and all it devoured. We bind our shadows to the memory of loss. Let those who seek truth touch the Veil and risk its sting."
A ripple of murmurs spread. The Binding was old—part ritual, part spectacle. A single volunteer would be chosen to place their palm against the Ash Tree. Most walked away unchanged.
But a rare few…
Some collapsed screaming. Some wept blood. And one—long ago—had vanished entirely.
Kael felt something stir in his chest. Not fear. Not even curiosity. Something deeper. A tug.
The priest's masked face turned toward the crowd. "Who among you dares to face the shadow of the world?"
No one moved.
Not until Kael stepped forward.
A wave of silence followed his steps. He didn't know why he moved. Only that his feet no longer felt entirely his own.
He climbed the steps slowly. The priest tilted his head.
"You know the risk, stranger?"
"No," Kael said. "But I don't much care."
The priest made no comment. Just gestured to the Ash Tree. The bark was scorched, cracked, and yet… alive. A slow pulse throbbed in the wood, like breath in reverse.
Kael removed his glove.
And placed his palm against the tree.
The world went silent.
Then it screamed.
He was falling.
Not through air, but through memory. Through shadow. Through forgotten names and severed threads of thought.
A vision: a black sun rising over a field of bone. A woman wrapped in thorned silk, whispering in a language without words. A city of mirrors, burning from the inside out.
A boy with golden eyes staring into a pool of blood. A throne made of teeth. A map drawn on skin.
And through it all, a voice—not heard, but felt.
"You are unrooted. Yet you were chosen. Why?"
Kael tried to pull back, but his hand wouldn't move.
"The Veil remembers the ones who forget. Will you remember, Bastard of Veyne?"
The vision shifted.
Chains wrapped around his arms—no, veins—and something burned beneath his skin. A symbol carved itself onto his flesh, coiling around his forearm like a serpent made of ink and pain.
Then a whisper, soft and cruel:
"Thorns bind the waking. Now bleed, and wake."
When Kael's eyes opened, he was on the ground.
The crowd screamed.
Smoke rose from his arm, where the Thornbrand still glowed—a sigil of black vine and silver thorns, still smoking as if freshly branded.
Loran stood pale-faced. The priest took a step back.
The silence broke with one word.
"Warden…" whispered someone.
Kael sat up, dazed. The world felt… different. He felt different.
And deep within, something had woken.
He stumbled to his feet, the sigil still burning faintly beneath the skin. Around him, the crowd had drawn back in a wide circle, as if fearing contagion. The priest lowered his head and murmured a word in a dead tongue before vanishing back into the platform shadows.
A hand grasped Kael's shoulder. He turned sharply—too sharply—and found himself staring into the weathered face of an old woman. She wore a veil of moth-lace and eyes like tarnished coins.
"You should not be here," she rasped. "Not yet."
Kael blinked. "What are you—"
She pressed something into his hand. Cold. Metal. A ring—black iron, etched with thorn runes.
"When the voices grow loud, bite it. Hard. It won't stop them, but it'll remind you what pain feels like."
Kael looked down. When he looked up again, the woman was gone.
Above, the crows had returned to the Ash Tree. Hundreds of them, silent and still, watching with coal-black eyes.
Watching him