To most, Ashveil Crossing was little more than a dusty road flanked by crooked shacks and sunbaked storefronts—but to the scattered mountain hamlets nearby, it was a city.
Only the naïve or untraveled called it that aloud.
Veterans like Gatewatcher Bram, who had stood beneath the rotting wooden archway for over fifteen years, scoffed at such delusions.
The main road ran east to west. A lopsided inn stood near the center, flanked by the Hollow Hearth—a tavern with a slanted roof and a fading signboard that whispered of better days. The scent of broth and smoke drifted from its chimney, betraying a warmth the exterior did not promise.
A worn carriage rattled down the road, coated in dust, pulled by a weary old horse. The driver barely glanced at the tavern as he passed. His destination lay deeper in.
From the carriage stepped a round-bellied man with a sweat-shined face and a mustache so neat it seemed drawn with ink. He adjusted his silk belt with the air of someone well-practiced in self-importance. Behind him emerged a dark-skinned boy, no older than ten, his eyes scanning everything with quiet curiosity.
The man was known as Master Hanric, keeper of the Hollow Hearth. The boy? A stranger.
"Who's the runt?" someone muttered nearby.
"Probably one of Hanric's bastards," another jeered, drawing scattered laughter.
Hanric only chuckled. "He's my nephew. From the mountains. Sharp little thing."
The boy's name was Kael, though no one asked. Nor did he speak. He simply followed his uncle through the tavern and into the quiet courtyard beyond.
"You'll stay here," Hanric said, gesturing to a plain side room. "Keep your head down. Someone important's coming soon. I'll call when it's time."
Kael nodded. The journey had worn him down to the bone. The moment he saw the bed—straw and patched linen—he collapsed onto it and slept without hearing the door close.
Evening brought a hot meal—simple, but filling. Later, Master Hanric returned, more relaxed, spinning tales beneath a lantern's warm glow. Kael listened, silent at first, then smiling. Stories of trickster monks and bumbling bandits turned into laughter. The space between them softened.
The next day passed in much the same way. And the next.
Then, on the third night, a new carriage arrived.
It was pitch-black, polished to a gleam. Its wheels were reinforced with iron, and the horse pulling it was no village nag—it was a lean, golden-tinged warhorse, muscles taut, bearing scars from battles long past.
A triangular banner fluttered from the side: black cloth, silver sigil, red trim. The symbol was foreign to Kael, but he felt its weight all the same.
Those who lived near the Hollowpine Range knew it well.
The Celestbound Covenant had arrived.
Once a mighty sect that ruled across provinces, the Covenant had faded after the fall of its founder, the Ash-Seven Patriarch. Driven into the crags of Emberfall Ridge, they still held sway over scattered towns like Ashveil.
Their only true rival was the Red Fang Collective—raiders turned mercenaries, brutal and chaotic. Clashes between them had grown frequent… and bloodier.
In the growing storm, the Covenant sought new blood.
From the carriage stepped a tall, narrow-faced man in his forties. His eyes were steel, and he moved like a blade—deliberate and cold.
He passed through the tavern without a word.
"Protector Wynne," Hanric greeted with a deep bow. "An honor. I didn't know you'd come in person."
"The roads are dangerous," Wynne replied. "The Elders ordered caution." His gaze shifted to Kael. "This is the candidate?"
"My sister's boy," Hanric said. "Strong. Quiet. Quick to learn."
He slipped a pouch into Wynne's sleeve with practiced subtlety.
Wynne weighed it without looking. "You've done well." His voice softened—slightly. "He rides with us. We leave now."
Kael stood. No hesitation.
Whatever lay ahead, he was ready to follow.
He didn't yet know that this moment marked the true beginning of his journey—one that would carry him far from the dust of Ashveil Crossing, into the realm of forgotten arts and immortal ambition.
He would not inherit a farmer's life.
He would forge a fate of his own—shaped by fire, steel, and soul.