The night after his escape was soaked in rain, the kind that didn't cleanse but buried everything beneath a cold, heavy blanket. Kael stumbled through the twisting alleys just outside the palace, his every step swallowed by puddles and mud. The leather-bound journal was hidden beneath his soaked cloak, pressed tightly against his chest—his only link to the mother he barely remembered and the secrets she left behind.
His ankle throbbed with a dull ache, a reminder of his fall from the garden wall, but the pain barely registered beneath the sharp edge of fear. He knew more men would come for him. The regent's reach was long, and whispers said he had spies everywhere—watching, waiting.
Kael paused beneath a flickering street lamp and looked around. The city was a maze of shadows and fractured light. Every distant footstep seemed to chase him; every hurried breath behind a door or over a rooftop was a threat. The rain blurred faces and shapes, turning even friends into strangers.
He pulled his hood lower, trying to disappear in the night's embrace. But inside, a storm raged just as furious as the one above. His father was dead—or so they said. The throne was stolen, and Kael was now a hunted man branded a traitor.
"Why?" The question escaped him, louder than intended, bouncing off the cold stone walls. There was no answer except silence—and the relentless rain.
Kael pushed on, navigating narrow passages that wound like veins through the city's heart. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to keep moving. Somewhere beyond the twisting streets, he hoped to find refuge, a place where he could live to fight another day.
The scent of burning wood drifted faintly from a distant tavern, mingling with the damp smell of moss and mildew. There was life there—warmth, laughter, strangers—things Kael had not known for too long. The idea of food, clothes, even a bed seemed like luxuries from a forgotten life.
But luxury was a poison too sweet to taste tonight.
He found shelter beneath a crumbling archway, pressing his back against the cold stone. Rain dripped from his hair and drummed steadily on his soaked cloak. He opened the journal carefully, its pages wrinkled and smelling of old parchment and something faintly herbal.
His mother's handwriting was hurried but elegant, filled with sketches of plants and notes about healing and harm. She had always warned him about alchemy—its power to create or destroy—but it was all Kael had left to survive.
His fingers trembled as he traced a diagram of a leaf with delicate veins. A herb used for healing fevers, she had written in the margin. If only he could find that in time.
The sound of footsteps shattered the quiet. Kael froze, heart banging fiercely. But the steps moved past, too distant, leaving only the rain and his shallow breaths.
He closed the journal and slipped it into his coat. The storm outside felt endless—like his exile, like the darkness creeping through the kingdom—but Kael clenched his fists. He would not be swallowed by it. Not tonight.
Dawn crept into the city, weak and gray behind clouds that refused to clear. Exhausted but restless, Kael found himself at the edge of a squalid village on the outskirts, where the desperate gathered—wretched souls caught in the endless cycle of plague and poverty.
He paused, watching a small group huddle under a tattered tarp, their faces drawn with sickness and fear. Somewhere in them was a chance—maybe a chance to heal, to bargain, or to rebuild a shattered life.
A boy no older than ten limped toward him, clutching a ragged doll. His eyes burned with fever, cheeks flushed with sweat. The boy looked up and met Kael's gaze, unafraid.
Kael knelt slowly, careful not to startle. "What's your name?"
"Jorin," the boy whispered, voice hoarse.
"Where's your family?"
The ragged boy's lips trembled. "Gone... They didn't make it through the night."
Kael's chest tightened. He wanted to say something comforting, but words failed. Instead, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small vial from the journal's hidden pocket—a crude remedy his mother had noted as an emergency fever suppressant.
"Drink this," he said softly, tilting the vial to the boy's lips.
Jorin hesitated, then swallowed the bitter liquid. His eyes widened slightly, and the flush on his cheek faded.
A small, fragile hope flickered.
Kael stood and surveyed the village. The plague was ruthless, devouring lives like a hungry beast. But Kael saw something else—a path forward. If he could heal even a few, word might spread. They might protect him, or at least shelter him temporarily.
But suspicion lingered. Villagers eyed him as if he were another danger to avoid.
"Who are you?" a rough voice demanded.
Kael turned to see a woman, gaunt and sharp-eyed, stepping forward with a crooked staff.
"Someone who can help," he said with quiet certainty.
She studied him—a stranger soaked and weary, carrying secrets that might save or doom them all.
"Help's scarce," she said after a moment. "But we'll see."
Night came again, thick and heavy, and Kael found himself outside a ramshackle hut, invited in by the woman, who introduced herself as Mera.
The fire sputtered weakly, casting dancing shadows across the cramped room. Mera's eyes never left him, but there was a quiet acceptance in her voice.
"You have knowledge," she said. "Something beyond these starving hands."
Kael nodded, opening the journal once more. He pointed to sketches of plants and salves, explaining in halting words what he could do.
Mera listened, her expression unreadable. Then she surprised him by handing over a pale green leaf from a dried bundle beside her.
"Cat's paw," she said. "Good for wounds, but poison to the careless."
He smiled faintly. "My mother wrote of it too."
They worked together into the small hours, crafting crude elixirs and salves from the meager herbs at hand. Kael's hands, once unsteady with fear, found purpose in mixing and measuring, striving to turn knowledge into life.
Over the following days, Kael's name began to weave through the village—a stranger with strange cures who could turn the tide against death. His skill saved lives, but it also stirred suspicion among some.
Eyes watched from shadows. Whispers rose like smoke.
"Alchemist," they muttered. "Heretic."
Kael felt the weight of their fears, but he also saw the glimmers of hope—the daughter of a farmer walking without a limp, a mother's cough easing, the boy Jorin laughing again.
In those moments, Kael glimpsed something he thought lost—the ability to change fate.
But the shadows in the rain were never far. Somewhere beyond the village's borders, dark forces stirred, fueled by secrets and lies.
Kael clenched his teeth. This was only the beginning.