The rain had a voice that night. It whispered through the cracks in the roof, tapping cold fingers along the warped wooden beams.
Beneath the floorboards of a decrepit inn, in a stone cellar that reeked of mold and rusted chains, a boy lay awake.
He had no name worth remembering — not yet. The villagers called him the innkeeper's mistake, a bastard with eyes too pale to be trusted and a silence that unnerved them.
He rarely spoke because he preferred to listen. Every step above his head told him where the inn's drunks staggered, every muffled argument told him which coins were changing hands.
Tonight, however, he heard something different: a voice that did not belong in this village. Smooth. Commanding. Dangerous.
The voice spoke of ancient ruins in the marshes… and of a relic that "even kings would kneel for."
The boy's fingers flexed. His life had been a locked door.
Tonight, he found the first key.