Chapter 1: The Weight of a Penny
The rain had long since ceased, but the streets of Alderidge still shimmered with the residue of the storm. Gray mist curled between the cobblestones, coiling around the ankles of early risers and desperate beggars. A low fog veiled the corners of alleys where coin purses vanished and throats were slit without consequence. It was in this damp obscurity that Adam walked, the world around him too loud and too alive.
He was a tall figure, 1.8 meters—though few would notice, and fewer would care. His black hair lay neatly, his face so perfect it felt like a painting that refused to age. But no warmth lived in that face. His red-black eyes didn't shimmer with life, only calculation. He looked past people, not at them. Cold. Emotionless. Expressionless. As if feeling were a language long since forgotten.
To the world, he was just another nameless man in patched boots and a weather-worn cloak, passing unnoticed through the poor quarter. But beneath the quiet surface of his flesh, something ancient breathed. A force not of the gods, but something older. His soul was not born of the world. It had survived it.
He stepped around a child sleeping under a broken cart, his body half-covered in a sack. He didn't flinch. Didn't even glance twice. Mercy wasn't in his nature. Not because he was cruel, but because he found no value in sentiment. Adam had lived long enough to know that pity fed weakness.
The clink of coins echoed in the alley ahead. Two men exchanged a few pence, one limping, the other hunched. Their transaction was swift, greedy. Adam didn't pause to observe, only registered the movement, the weight of the coins, the hunger in their hands.
In Alderidge, gold was a language all understood.
Currency in the Kingdom of Asterhold:
15 pence made a selver, a silver coin stamped with the crest of King Marell V—two wolves circling a throne.
10 selver made a gold, rare and heavy, with the Queen's flame-eyed sigil etched upon its surface.
A loaf of bread cost 8 pence in the inner wards.
A night in a decent tavern cost 2 selver.
And a man's loyalty? That varied.
Adam owned exactly 3 selver and 12 pence. He had counted them this morning. Not because he feared poverty, but because money was influence. And influence was his true coin.
He turned down Whitlow Alley, where a crooked sign read "Remlen's Bindery". The windows were fogged with old breath and parchment dust. Inside, amid towering stacks of books, Remlen—an old man with too much nose and too little hair—looked up.
"Back again so soon, stranger?" he croaked, voice gritty with glue and age.
Adam gave no reply. He reached into his cloak and dropped two pence onto the counter.
Remlen blinked. "That barely covers ink."
Adam's voice was cold and smooth. "You owe me a name. Payment for the favor last week."
The old man hesitated. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice to a hush. "Fine. There's a scribe. Lives near the temple square. Name's Isem Brandel. Keeps records for the Church of the Verdant Flame. Knows things… sacred things. Dangerous things."
Adam nodded once, picked up a worn journal from the shelf behind him, and left.
Remlen didn't ask how Adam knew about the "favor." Didn't ask how the man had found out about his illegal book trades. You didn't question ghosts when they whispered.
---
Temple bells chimed the midday hour as Adam approached the outer sanctum of the Church of the Verdant Flame. It was a massive structure carved from redstone, with towers shaped like burning candles. The church worshipped Ignaris, god of divine light, rebirth, and righteous fire. A hypocrite, in Adam's opinion. A liar in flame's skin.
Adam hated gods. Not out of rebellion. Not out of pride. But because he had seen what they truly were—parasites wrapped in worship.
He lingered near the colonnade, his presence a shadow among pilgrims and faithful. No one noticed him. Not even the priests sweeping incense smoke across the crowd. It was not stealth. It was something else. Something deeper.
Adam didn't exist to them. Not fully.
That was his power.
To be unseen. Unfelt. Unfeared.
Even gods looked past him.
The man he sought, Isem Brandel, emerged minutes later—tall, robed, thin-lipped, with a twitch in his left eye. He walked briskly, clutching a bundle of scrolls. Adam followed, silent as dusk.
They passed fruit vendors, street jugglers, children chasing cats. None saw the man behind the scribe.
Only when Isem turned down a side street and unlocked the door to a modest apartment did Adam move. He caught the door before it closed.
The scribe turned, startled. "Who—?"
Adam stepped in, shut the door, and spoke. "Tell me about the names that were erased."
Isem staggered back. "You—you're mad. What names? I don't know—"
Adam raised a single hand. Not threatening. Not violent.
But the air stilled. Isem's voice caught in his throat. His heart—sputtered.
He gripped his chest, choking on nothing. His vision darkened.
Adam whispered, "Life is a thread. Yours is fraying. Speak, and I'll hold it together."
Tears welled in Isem's eyes. Not from emotion, but primal terror. "Th-the Old Lexicons… records say the gods weren't always alone. Before Ignaris, before the Pale Prophet—there were others. Hidden. Forbidden. Names struck from temple stone. One… one was called The Hollow Breath. It was worshipped in secret by a sect in West Droune. They say it could kill even gods…"
Adam let go.
The scribe collapsed to his knees, breathing as if reborn.
"You will forget me," Adam said. "Tonight, you will believe you fell ill. And then… you will burn the lexicons."
The scribe nodded in pure fear.
Adam stepped back into the mist.
---
That evening, Adam returned to a dim, low-ceilinged inn called The Iron Latch, where the smell of wet boots and sour ale clung to the walls. The innkeeper, Nella Crowl, greeted him with a nod. She was a broad woman with one eye and a nose like a broken shield.
"Two selver for the night. Bed and stew," she said.
He handed her a coin and a half.
She scowled. "That's not the—"
"Tomorrow, I'll fix your son's cough," he said softly.
She blinked. Her jaw tightened. Then she nodded. "Room four."
---
In his room, Adam sat in silence. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls. He pulled his journal from his cloak—worn leather, no title. He opened to the middle and dipped his pen in ink.
He wrote four names.
Isem Brandel
Remlen Vass
Ignaris, God of Flame
The Hollow Breath
Then, beneath them, he wrote:
> All threads lead upward. But gods bleed downward.
He closed the book.
He had no grand plans. No armies. No cults. He moved in the way wind breaks mountains—slowly, unseen, and inevitable.
He would not shout. He would not demand worship.
He would simply erase them.