The air in the Ashwood district hung heavy, thick with the stench of burnt coal and unfulfilled dreams. Ackah Emile, a young man of seventeen with eyes that held the weariness of a seasoned veteran, trudged through the narrow alleyways, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a worn-out canvas sack. The setting sun cast long, skeletal shadows that danced with him, mocking his every labored step.
Veridia, the capital of Aethelgard, was a city of stark contrasts. Gleaming spires of aetherium-powered skyscrapers pierced the clouds in the city's heart, a testament to the wealth and power of the awakened Hunters. But here, in the outskirts, in districts like Ashwood, the only testament was to the forgotten and the forsaken. The unawakened, those who hadn't manifested the ability to channel aetherium, were left to scrape by in the shadow of the city's grandeur.
Ackah reached their dilapidated dwelling, a two-room hovel that had seen better days. He pushed open the creaking door, the hinges protesting with a mournful groan. Inside, a meager fire flickered in the hearth, casting a dim, orange glow over the cramped space. His mother, Abelema, sat hunched over a battered sewing machine, her brow furrowed in concentration as she mended a worn-out garment. Aya, his ten-year-old sister, sat beside her, her head bent over a tattered book, her lips moving silently as she traced the words.
"I'm back," Ackah announced, his voice barely above a whisper. He set the sack on the rickety table, the thud echoing in the silence.
Abelema looked up, her face etched with lines of worry. "Anything?"
Ackah shook his head, the gesture heavy with defeat. "Nothing. The market was flooded with scavengers today. No one wanted my scraps."
Abelema sighed, her shoulders slumping further. "It's alright, Ackah. We'll manage."
But Ackah saw the lie in her eyes. They were running out of options. Their meager savings, carefully hoarded after his father's death five years ago, were dwindling fast. Soon, they wouldn't even be able to afford the stale bread that constituted their main sustenance.
Aya, ever the optimist, piped up, "Maybe tomorrow will be better, Ackah! Maybe you'll find something amazing, like a lost aetherium shard or a Hunter's discarded weapon!"
Ackah forced a smile, ruffling her hair. "Maybe, little sparrow. Maybe."
But deep down, despair gnawed at him. He was tired of the endless struggle, the constant fear of hunger, the gnawing feeling of helplessness. He yearned for the power to change their fate, to protect his family, to carve a better life for them in this unforgiving world. But he was unawakened, a mere ember in a city of flames.
As darkness enveloped Ashwood, Ackah lay awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The city's distant hum, a symphony of aetherium-powered lights and bustling life, was a constant reminder of his own powerlessness. He clenched his fists, a silent vow echoing in his heart. He would find a way. He had to. For his mother, for Aya, for himself. He would rise from the ash, even if it meant clawing his way to the top.