Raphael stepped out of the cave, the boy close at his side. The sky above was dark, streaked with bruised clouds and the first whispers of dawn. He pulled his hood over his face, shielding the glow of his ancient eyes.
"You still remember the way?" he asked quietly.
The boy, "the Spark," nodded. "Mostly. I ran blind for a while, but I remember the river bend. The smell of iron and smoke. The sound of screams."
Raphael gave a slow nod and said nothing more.
They moved through the forest like ghosts, silent and swift. But by midday, shadows fell across their path—figures wrapped in dark cloth, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with hunger.
Bandits.
Without hesitation, they attacked.
Steel clashed with celestial bone as Raphael blocked the first blade with the edge of his ruined wing, spinning and slamming the attacker into the trees. Another leapt for the boy—but the Spark moved fast, faster than Raphael expected. The child ducked low, snatched up a fallen dagger, and drove it cleanly into the assassin's side.
And again.
And again.
When the dust settled, Raphael stood over two unconscious bodies and a third writhing on the ground. The rest were dead.
But the boy—he had killed his targets. Each one. Eyes cold. Breath steady.
Raphael stared at him.
"You were meant to leave one alive," he said, his voice edged with sternness and disbelief.
The boy's expression didn't change. "They would've killed us. I made sure they wouldn't."
Raphael sighed and turned to the one assassin barely clinging to life. He knelt beside the bleeding man, grabbed a fistful of his collar, and growled, "The House of Ash. Where is it now?"
The man coughed, blood spilling from his lips.
"You'll… never reach it…" he wheezed.
Raphael's grip tightened.
"You're already dead. The only choice you have now is how."
The assassin's resolve broke. Pain and fear were more honest than loyalty.
"Beneath the city," he gasped. "In the old underground. The place they used to call Cinderdeep. They moved it there months ago—bigger rings, more coin. They say the new Ash Lord never leaves now. Never."
"The Ash Lord?",I thought the formal lord died yesterday,am i right?"Raphael frowned.
The assassin laughed weakly. " You are right,but they are others who needed the position but are working behind the scene. This particular one came… from the Pit, like you, yes your wings. I guess he liked it. The chaos and death. He announced his arrival yesterday night. Many loved his idea,becoming part of it. A king of crows and chains."
Raphael let go, and the man slumped, unmoving.
The boy stood beside him. "He said the Ash Lord's like you?"
Raphael rose slowly. "He's nothing like me."
The boy looked up at him, eyes unreadable. "Good. Because I want to kill him."
Raphael studied the child for a long moment. Not with judgment—but with a strange sadness.
"We'll need more than knives," Raphael said at last. "We'll need allies. Secrets. Shadows."
"Then we get them," the boy replied.
Raphael's broken wings twitched behind him. He looked toward the horizon, where the city's crumbling skyline pierced the gray.
"To Cinderdeep," he said.
And together, they began to walk.
What would happen? Would they be able to survive in the House of Ash, or dive into Raphael's memory of who the new Ash Lord really is?