"The Hidden Flame"

The city of Velkora breathed smoke and secrets.

Caelan Virel crouched by the edge of a broken fountain, fingers slick with blood—not his own. The boy beneath him whimpered, chest rising and falling in jagged rhythms. Another street brawl. Another gang fight. Another forgotten life.

“Hold still,” Caelan muttered, tearing a strip of linen with his teeth. “You’re lucky your heart didn’t get pierced.”

The boy, no older than twelve, coughed, and blood speckled Caelan’s cheek.

He didn’t flinch.

He pressed his palms to the wound. The warmth came slowly, like sunlight behind thick clouds—gentle, reluctant. It crept into his hands, across his fingertips.

Then it flared.

The boy gasped as the wound hissed shut. Caelan winced and pulled his hand away. Smoke rose where skin had once split. A faint silver shimmer lingered a moment too long.

Someone saw it.

A man across the street—a watchman—froze, eyes narrowed. Caelan quickly dipped his head, wiping his hands on his dark coat, turning his face into shadow.

No one must know what he was.

No one must see the light.

...---------------...

By nightfall, the alleyways of Velkora were already closing in.

Caelan’s boots kicked through puddles of rotwater as he turned down Ashglass Row, the poorest district in the poorest corner of the city. He lived in a half-collapsed temple, surrounded by ivy-choked statues and broken faith. It was quiet. Forgotten.

Just like him.

He had once had a name people feared. Revered.

Now, even the rats didn’t remember it.

He stepped over the temple threshold, unbuckled his satchel, and set a jar of salve by the fireless hearth. A scrap of salted bread was his dinner. Tomorrow, he’d earn a copper or two patching up more cuts. That was enough.

Enough to stay invisible.

Until the knock.

Three sharp raps at the door.

His heart clenched. No one knocked in this part of town. Not unless they were desperate—or dangerous.

He rose slowly. “Who is it?”

Silence.

Another knock.

He reached for the rusted dagger under the floorboards and opened the door—

—and stared into the eyes of a stranger cloaked in black.

A woman. Hooded. Still. Unmoving. Her gloved hand dropped to a dagger at her side.

Caelan’s stomach dropped.

“Wrong house,” he said.

She stepped inside.

“Caelan Virel,” she said, voice smooth as wine and sharp as winter. “Your past says hello.”

...----------------...

Caelan lunged. She was faster.

Steel met rusted steel. Sparks flew. He dodged a sweep, slammed his shoulder into her, sent her sprawling. But she twisted mid-fall, flipped, and landed like a cat.

“Not bad,” she said. “For someone who’s been hiding like a ghost.”

“Who sent you?” Caelan growled.

She smiled—and that smile frightened him more than her dagger. “You’ll understand soon enough. They’ve been waiting. And so have I.”

She struck again. Blades clashed. Caelan stumbled back, barely parrying in time. He felt something buzz in his chest. A strange heat. The flame.

No. Not now.

The assassin pinned him against the altar.

“One cut,” she said. “And it all begins.”

She raised the blade—

And stopped.

She stared at him. Something in her expression cracked. A tremor. As if she'd seen something... familiar.

“Your eyes,” she whispered.

He didn’t wait. He grabbed her wrist, twisted, and flung her across the room. She hit the wall hard, grunted, and rolled. The dagger skidded across the stone.

But she didn’t rise.

She lay there, panting, watching him.

Not with hatred.

With confusion.

“You should be dead,” she said softly. “They said you were—” She stopped herself. “What are you?”

Caelan’s voice shook. “I don’t know.”

Outside, the wind howled like a wounded god.

Inside, the flame awoke.

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