Ashen was fifteen years old, but he had never grown used to the glowing mist that filled the city of Mistia. Even though everyone else accepted it as normal, something about a dark mist perpetually covering the empire had always felt wrong to him.
The origin of the mist could be traced back to the birth of the five-thousand-year-old Vael Empire. Legend said that Shaedorin, the dark overlord who once ruled the world in terror, was defeated by El Kai, the hero, after a battle that raged for a hundred days. Though Shaedorin was the most powerful being in existence, he was defeated, and his body exploded into the dark mist now blanketing the empire.
Ashen doubted that story and suspected it was nothing but propaganda created by the empire's immortal ruler, El Kai, to keep lowborn like himself obedient under a tyrannical reign. He had once told that to the matron of the orphanage, and she was so angered at how disrespectful he was to the immortal saviour of the empire that she put him under solitary confinement for a week as punishment.
Despite the empire's legendary wealth and riches, poverty was everywhere. But since the highborn and the great houses did not suffer, the empire's rulers insisted nothing was wrong. If only they knew…
Soon, Ashen would turn sixteen, and the orphanage where he lived would cast him out to fend for himself on the streets. Knowing this, he often sneaked out to glimpse the future that awaited him.
Even though it was noon, the underground streets where most lowborn and homeless people lived were shrouded in darkness, where streetlamps remained lit day and night. Part of the gloom came from the mist itself. The other reason was the colossal castles of the highborn towering above, blocking sunlight and casting vast shadows over the undercity where most people dwelt.
The narrow streets crawled with people—many sick, some sleeping—turning any passage into a tight, jostling maze. Yet for Ashen, it was the perfect hunting ground for pickpocketing.
He had already chosen his target, a highborn lady wearing a bright blue dress that shimmered in the dim undercity glow. Did she have any idea how much attention she attracted among thieves and pickpockets?
Ashen wasn't the only one eyeing her. Two other pickpockets shadowed her steps, and he was certain there were even more lurking in the crowd. He had to strike before anyone else did—but he also needed to wait for the perfect moment. It was a risky balance, but the potential reward was worth it. He could even afford fruit—a rare luxury since the mist had ruined much of the empire's farming. Yet another reason he despised the mist.
'Bread for only five coins!' a street vendor shouted. Was that a joke? Just a month ago, the same loaf cost two coins—and even then, that price was too high.
'Portions and herbs!' another shouted.
'Leftover food!' The leftover food from the parties the highborn held was picked and sold to the people in the undercity. It angered him, for he saw just how wasteful they were with their food while thousands were starving.
This made his stomach rumble. If only he could afford something besides the watery porridge they served back at the orphanage.
The highborn woman paused to examine a display of handcrafted earrings. Lately, it had become fashionable among the great houses to wear jewellery crafted by lowborn artisans, claiming art made from pain and struggle was the best. To him, they were mocking the lowborn, using them to feel better about themselves. Still, there was a benefit, more rich highborn women were willing to visit the undercity, becoming targets for pickpockets like himself.
He too stopped at a vendor selling clothes that was near her. He wasn't going to buy, but pretended he was, and when she removed her pouch of money to pay, he would strike.
'Do you have the design with… uh… a skull that's a bit elongated?' she asked, sifting through the necklaces displayed across the cloth-covered table.
'Like this one?' The craftsman pulled a pendant from under his shirt.
'Yes. How much for it?' She asked, already slipping her hand into her pouch.
'I can't sell you this one. It's the sacred necklace of my people.' Ashen noted the man's dark hair and narrow features—the look of the Saven people, a small tribe from the south known for their deep spirituality.
'Everything has a price.' The woman rattled the pouch lightly, the coins clinking together. The craftsman fell silent, staring at the pendant. Ashen could tell he was torn. The necklace was sacred, passed down from father to son, but at the same time, the money he would get could feed him for a year.
'Y… You can have anything else. But not this,' the craftsman said at last, his voice trembling.
The highborn woman merely shook her head. Though other necklaces were clearly more beautiful and valuable, she'd already decided she must have the one piece he could barely stand to part with.
Ashen realized it wasn't beauty she was after—it was the satisfaction of shaming someone by ripping away something sacred, something that defined them and connected them to their people. He could practically hear her bragging about it at some aristocratic gathering, and that thought made his stomach burn. He would have to rob her.
'I'll take the necklace for two gold coins.' She declared, smiling as the craftsman's eyes widened. Two gold coins could change his life.
'Uh…' The Saven man's face gleamed with sweat as he wrestled with his decision. Ashen, watching from a distance, already knew which way it would go.
Moments later, the man began to lift the necklace from his neck. The woman watched him, her lips curling with satisfaction. The shame on his face seemed to delight her all the more, and Ashen could see the disgust on the faces of nearby onlookers, including the other two pickpockets circling the crowd.
The woman opened her pouch, withdrew two gleaming gold coins, and held them poised above her palm.
It was time to strike. The two other pickpockets began to edge closer, but Ashen didn't need to approach. He had another way.
Despite how much he hated the mist, there was one thing about it he loved. When Shaedorin was destroyed, his magic didn't die with him. Instead, it seeped into the mist, allowing a rare few to channel power that once belonged only to gods.
Those people were called Shadewrights, and Ashen was one of them. His gift let him shape the mist into physical substance, adjusting its length, density, and even its form. His magic was simple and weak, but his talent for conjuring a thin tendril up to three meters long had made him an excellent pickpocket.
Ashen closed his eyes, drawing a slow, deep breath. Mist filled his lungs, cool and electric, sending shivers across his skin. He welcomed the thrilling sensation of magic gathering inside of him, like water swirling around his limbs. Now he only needed to send it outward.
The mist gathered in his palm, condensing and transforming it into solid form. He then imagined it as a long, flexible tendril, and the magic obeyed, stretching out, thin as a thread.
When he opened his eyes, everything seemed sharper, as if time itself had slowed. He saw every person in the crowded street, the drifting veil of mist, and even the two black guards patrolling nearby. If anything happened, they would be a problem.
The black guard policed the empire, though there was a high number of them in Mistia due to its status to being the capital of the empire. They were shadewrights who were known for their brutality, especially on the lowborn. For the past few months, they were even more brutal and on edge due to the rebels, and Ashen knew that if he was caught by them, it would most probably end in his death.
One of the rival pickpockets was already closing in on the highborn woman. Ashen knew he had to move fast. His mist tendril slithered forward, hidden among cloaks and shadows. The press of the crowd and the dark mist made it easy to stay concealed until it reached her.
But before he could attack, the other thief struck first. He bumped into the woman hard enough to send her stumbling.
Ashen quickly realized the rival's move could work to his advantage. While the woman was distracted, he could snatch the pouch unseen. Simple.
The pickpocket grabbed her arm, steadying her with one hand while his other reached for the pouch. But his fingers closed on empty air—the pouch was gone. Ashen's tendril had already wrapped around it and was halfway back toward him.
'Sorry,' the rival thief muttered and spun to bolt away. Usually, that would have been enough to spark panic and accusations. But this woman didn't panic. Instead, she turned her head calmly towards Ashen, her eyes sharp and cold as a blade.
How does she know? Ashen asked himself as he began to panic. If she told the black guard, it would become complicated. He quickly pulled the pouch to his hand and turned to run.
But before he could do that, the mist around her began to swirl and coil like living smoke. In that instant, Ashen understood the one detail he'd missed all along. Unlike other highborn, she didn't have guards with her. She didn't need them.
She was a Shadewright!
'YOU!' she roared, leaping into the air in a swirl of dark mist.
Ashen's heart seized.
He had to run.
She wasn't just a powerful Shadewright—she was highborn, ruthless, and untouchable. She could kill a lowborn like him and face no consequences. And now, the two black-armored guards he'd been watching had also taken notice, spooked by the woman leaping into the air like a goddess of wrath.
It had just gotten worse.
Ashen shoved past a couple blocking his path, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. The woman shrieked as she tumbled onto a vendor's table, crashing into a stack of utensils. Behind him, he heard the soft thud of the highborn landing—gracefully, effortlessly—just a few feet from where he'd been moments ago. Her strength and speed terrified him.
Could he outrun her?
He didn't wait to find out. He darted into a narrow alley, just in time to see the two guards join the chase.
'Wake up! The black guards are here.' He barked at the sleeping street people sprawled across the alleyway, hoping the sudden commotion would slow his pursuers. Without slowing, he veered left into a tighter passage, where ankle-deep sewage and stagnant water filled the ground.
He hoped the filth might turn her back.
But then he remembered the cruel delight she'd shown in humiliating the Saven craftsman. No, someone like her would wade through filth if it meant enacting revenge. And as if summoned by his thoughts, she stepped from the mist—its density thicker, darker in this alley.
She paused, locking eyes with him just as he scrambled onto a rooftop. Even from a distance, he could see her expression twist with fury. Likely from the sewage now soaking her expensive dress.
Now she'd kill him for sure.
'From the mist, to my breath. From my heart to my body, I channel your strength!' She spoke the incantation that would help her use the magic of the mist.
The mist around her began to churn violently. From what Ashen had observed, she was an Enhancer, a shadewright who used the mist to boost their body's senses, speed and strength.
At least she could not cast elemental spells. Thank the stars for that.
With the grace of a dancer, she launched herself upward. Her cloak and the swirling mist wrapped around her like wings. For a moment, she looked divine, like a vengeful spirit carved from beauty and rage.
Ashen smirked. He had been waiting for this.
Unseen in the thick mist, he had spun a web that, even though, was simple and hastily done, was sticky and strong enough to catch her mid-air.
He heard the shriek before he saw her fall.
The sound was music to him.
She slammed into the sewage below with a wet splash, entangled in the tendrils of his trap. It would take time for her to break free, and by then, he'd be long gone.
He turned just as the black guards' heavy boots thudded behind him. No time to gloat. If they caught him, he would surely end up dead.
Ashen raced across the rooftops, leaping down into a different alley, then another, weaving through shadows until he was sure he'd lost his pursuers. At last, he crouched behind a crumbling wall and pulled the pouch from under his cloak.
His heart sank.
No gold.
But there were silver coins, enough to buy a meal better than porridge or stale bread. Enough to treat the orphans to real food for once.
And something else…
He pulled out a small orb. It didn't look particularly valuable, just a smooth, faintly glowing sphere—probably an artefact the woman had bought from another vendor. If he was lucky, it might fetch a few more coins from a shady merchant.
He grinned, the thrill of victory washing over him.
Today had been a success. He hadn't just robbed a highborn, he'd stolen her story. She wouldn't be boasting at parties about how she shamed a Saven craftsman. No, now she'd remember the day a lowborn orphan humiliated her.
And he'd remember the look on her face forever. It was as if he had avenged every lowborn who had suffered under the aristocratic rule of the highborn.
That victory he had gotten made him blind to something else; the web trap he had made to catch the highborn woman would leave traces of his magic, which were as unique as blood, especially to two trained black guards.