Ash awoke to the ache in his spine and the subtle dampness clinging to his clothes. Mildew crept along the cracked alley walls around him, the morning air tinged with rust and rot. He groaned softly, shifting his back against the sheet he'd laid out the night before, the one he'd stubbornly returned for after fleeing the train yard. His bag was still tucked beneath his arm, and beside it, the bread Nibs had given him lay half-eaten.
The burn at the back of his hand still tingled—faint now, but constant. A reminder.
He sat up, dust clinging to his sleeves, and leaned his head back against the crumbling wall. The sky above was pale and washed out, painted in hues of gray-blue, like it hadn't made up its mind whether to storm or shine.
And there they were again.
Nine chains now.
Ash blinked once. Rubbed his eyes. Counted again.
Nine.
His voice broke the quiet: "So I really wasn't hallucinating, huh?" He let the sigh follow naturally, heavy but resigned. "Great."
His eyes lowered, hand tracing over the smooth edge of the crown nestled in his bag. Even hidden, he could feel its presence, as if it had nested within his thoughts.
The memory of last night returned to him in pieces: the white-winged figure blurred beyond reality, the binding of the thugs with nothing more than his voice and a whisper of will. That moment… that rush. The fear he had instilled. The power he had wielded.
And the words he'd spoken: Manifest truth
"I don't even know what the hell that means," he muttered. "Just popped into my head like some divine epiphany and—bam—suddenly I'm some hooded prophet."
He scoffed, shaking his head as he stretched his arms, bones cracking.
What the hell is this crown? he thought, reaching out to brush its rim again. And this… mark? His gaze fell to the back of his hand.
A symbol etched into his flesh—faint, burned in silver-white. He didn't remember ever having it before. It hadn't been there before the Crown. Had to be tied to it.
The implications weighed down hard.
Sure, he'd heard the stories. People like shamans, god-touched priests, and silver-blooded nobles wielding otherworldly abilities—seers, stormcallers, flameweavers. But they were myths wrapped in titles. Untouchables at the top of the world. Not someone like him.
And yet…
Here he was. A street scammer in a moldy alley, touching the veil of something ancient.
He sighed again, dragging a hand through his unkempt hair. "Guess I'll just go ask a random guy on the street," he muttered. "This kind of stuff's gotta be common knowledge. Supernatural chains in the sky? Ancient marks? Gods and wings and all that? Real easy to figure out."
He pulled the crown deeper into his bag, covering it with the folded remains of his sheet before shouldering it and stepping into the light of the waking city.
Already, the streets were beginning to stir—traders wheeling carts, vendors setting out cracked fruits, children dashing barefoot through puddles. Ash tried to blend in, slipping into the stream of people, head down.
But he felt it. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
Eyes.
People turned to look at him. Briefly. Glancing his way as if something had shifted just enough to catch attention—but they didn't know why. They would frown, blink, and turn away, none the wiser. But he noticed.
The world's looking back, he thought, something about that idea clinging uncomfortably to the corners of his mind.
He needed answers. Real ones.
That brought him to an old name.
Crookjaw.
One of the weirdest bastards he'd ever run with. Crookjaw had always known things he shouldn't. Highborn debts, nobles' secret vices, who was sleeping with whose wife—and, most importantly, how to spin that knowledge into profit. Ash had used him more than a few times for target research.
The man kept to the same place, a rotting cellar beneath a mold-slick tavern in the city's Lowbell quarter.
Ash found him hunched at the corner table under flickering lamplight, surrounded by damp stone and the scent of spoiled ale.
Ash slid onto the stool beside him. "Water flows backward."
Crookjaw snorted. "But the fish keep swimming."
The code was still the same.
Ash leaned in. "I need information."
"Your teeth look too clean for info," the older man rasped. His jaw was twisted off-kilter, one side bulging with a scarred bone break that had never set properly.
Ash smirked. "Don't worry. I've got something better than coin."
"Better than coin?" Crookjaw chuckled darkly. "Ain't heard that joke in years."
"I want to know about the Chains."
That got the man's attention. His laughter stopped, and his one good eye narrowed.
"You're diving deep, Ash. Too deep."
"I saw them," Ash said plainly. "In the sky. Ten at first. Now nine."
Crookjaw exhaled slowly, tapping the table. "The Ten Chains of Revelation," he murmured, voice barely audible. "Seals. Old ones. Few see them, fewer survive it."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "And what are they sealing?"
Crookjaw gave him a slow, toothy grin. "You think that's the kind of info you get for free?"
"I did say I had something better than coin," Ash quipped.
Crookjaw snorted. "And you still don't."
Ash rolled his eyes. "You've basically said nothing but ominous riddles."
"That's all most truths are, boy. But I'll give you this: once a Chain has been seen, the world starts to see you back."
The words clung like frost to Ash's spine.
He stood, shaking his head. "I'll be back when you've got a translation key for your cryptic poetry."
Crookjaw chuckled behind him. "Run along, Crowned Boy. Try not to let too many eyes stick to you."
Ash stepped back into the daylight, mind swirling.
That's when he felt it.
Eyes.
Real ones.
He spun—just in time to catch the glimpse of a robed figure slipping into a crowd. Pale fabric. No face.
His heart raced. He darted forward, weaving through startled pedestrians, but by the time he reached the alley where they'd vanished, it was empty. No trace.
Except for one.
A symbol etched into the wall in silver chalk. The exact same one on the back of his hand.
Ash's breath caught.
He stared at it for a long time before stepping back and tucking his hands into his coat, heart hammering. He needed something—anything—to ground him.
Pawnshop, he thought. I've still got things to sell.
But the shopkeeper scowled and waved him off the moment he approached.
"I don't want anything from you."
"What?" Ash blinked. "It's silver. It's real. What are you—?"
"Just leave," the man snapped.
It happened again. And again.
Every pawnshop. Every market stall. Rejection. Unease. Eyes that lingered on him like he was something twisted just beneath his skin.
"The hell's gotten into these people?" he muttered under his breath. "You dummies used to buy rat skulls if I painted them gold and added a sob story."
His grip clenched tighter around the strap of his bag.
That night, he slipped into a safer place—an abandoned squat he hadn't used in a while. Old beams, shredded blankets, crates for walls. It smelled of smoke and memories.
He sat, hands trembling slightly, eyes on the mark that refused to fade.
It was a circular pattern of interlocked arcs, spiraling like a sun around a closed eye. Radiating lines jutted out like jagged rays, and beneath it all, fine, recursive symbols in a language he couldn't read hummed softly beneath his skin.
Burn this into your memory, he told himself.
Then, he pulled the crown free again.
It glowed faintly. Whispered like distant thunderclouds.
He placed it on his head and braced himself.
Nothing.
No vision. No binding force. No rush of power.
"Huh. Great. Cool crown. Very useful."
He sighed and leaned back, letting sleep pull at him. "I'll figure it out tomorrow…"
He fell asleep with the crown still near his side.
And then he dreamed.
─── ✦ ───
He floated in an endless void—black, endless, studded with cold, dying stars. No warmth. No gravity. Just the quiet sense of being seen.
Nine chains drifted slowly in a perfect circle, as if orbiting something vast and ancient. Each one was bound by intricate seals—symbols that shifted and rearranged themselves in patterns Ash couldn't follow, written in a script older than words.
The first chain was fractured.
Hairline cracks etched along its length like veins of lightning frozen in time. The others remained intact, but pulsed with dull, rhythmic light, as if they were waiting for something.
Then—
He appeared.
A being of gold and bone, larger than the sky, blindfolded by cloth that wrapped around a skull crowned with hollow thorns. Limbs curled inward like folded wings. Its body was formed from gilded plates and fossil-like fragments, ribcage rising and falling with no breath.
It opened its mouth—
And screamed.
But there was no sound.
Only silence. Deafening, complete.
The chains trembled.
Ash jolted awake with a sharp gasp, hand flying to his chest. His body was slick with sweat.
A drop of blood slipped from his nose, tracing the curve of his lip.
He wiped it away with trembling fingers.
The city was still sleeping outside, unaware.
But he wasn't.
Not anymore.