Ashes of the Forsaken

Kieran stepped out into the slums, the weight of the night pressing against him. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rotting wood, distant smoke, and something more subtle—unwashed bodies and quiet desperation. The city was alive even in the darkness, but not in the way the noble quarters thrived with music and feasts.

Here, life clung on with bare teeth.

He adjusted the cloak draped over his shoulders, pulling the hood lower over his face. His clothes were still tattered, his body weak, but he was alive. And in a city like this, being alive meant there was still a game to play.

The slumlord's people were still awake, scattered in the ruins of what had once been a noble estate. Kieran had recognized the cracked pillars, faded sigils, and ruined marble paths that spoke of a past grandeur long since buried.

Now, it belonged to those who had no home, no coin, and no future.

Kieran walked forward, his steps measured. He had learned long ago—in a different life, in a different time—that the way you moved determined how you were perceived. The desperate shuffled. The arrogant strode too boldly. The dangerous walked like they belonged.

He needed to be the latter.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A young boy, no more than ten or eleven, lingering near a stack of broken crates, his eyes darting toward Kieran's belt—where a dagger should have been, but wasn't.

Kieran sighed. "Don't bother."

The boy froze.

"You're too obvious, and you're standing in the open. If you're going to steal, at least do it well."

The boy scowled but didn't move closer. Instead, he melted back into the ruins, disappearing into the alleys like a shadow.

Good. The kid was smart enough to retreat.

He continued forward.

A few feet away, the slumlord's second-in-command—the wiry man with the dagger at his belt—watched him with narrowed eyes. He didn't stop Kieran, but his expression made one thing clear: Step out of line, and you won't walk away.

Kieran inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the silent warning.

Then he moved past him.

There was no use in waiting. He needed information, a plan, and resources if he was going to survive.

And to get that, he needed to find work.

The slums were a maze of narrow alleys, half-collapsed buildings, and market stalls selling everything from stolen goods to mystery meats. The deeper he went, the thicker the crowds became.

People muttered in hushed voices. Deals were made with quick handshakes and sharper knives. A man argued with a merchant over the price of dried meat, while another sat against a crumbling wall, his hand outstretched in silent plea.

Kieran kept walking.

He had no coin. He couldn't buy information. But that didn't mean he was helpless.

A group of men had gathered near a makeshift fighting pit—a ring of crates forming a rough boundary while two men inside brawled with bare fists. Blood stained the dirt, and cheers rose as one of them collapsed.

Fights meant gambling, money, and desperate people.

Kieran moved closer.

The pit was loud, filled with shouts, curses, and the sound of fists meeting flesh.

A man in a patched leather coat stood at the edge, collecting coin from onlookers. His sharp eyes flicked toward Kieran, sizing him up in an instant.

"New face." His voice was rough. "Here to watch or to bleed?"

Kieran let the words sit in the air for a moment. Then he rolled his shoulders, testing his body. He was still weak, but weakness could be hidden.

"I'll fight."

The man's grin was all teeth and bad intentions. "Brave. Or stupid. What's your wager?"

Kieran spread his hands. "I have nothing to bet."

The man clicked his tongue. "Then you're wasting my time."

Kieran held his gaze. "But I have something better. A deal."

Interest flickered in the man's eyes.

"I win, and I take half the purse."

The crowd murmured. No one in the slums got that kind of cut. Fighters took scraps, and the real money belonged to the bookkeepers.

The man laughed. "And if you lose?"

Kieran's lips curled. "Then I won't have to worry about it."

Another laugh, but this time, there was something else in the man's eyes—calculation.

Kieran wasn't a fool. He knew the man was considering whether it was worth letting him win once to keep him hooked.

That was fine. Kieran didn't need to win. He just needed to survive long enough to get what he wanted.

The man motioned to the pit. "Let's see if you're worth my time."

The crowd surged as Kieran stepped into the pit. The dirt was rough beneath his boots, uneven and packed with dried blood.

His opponent was a brute of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and already grinning as he cracked his knuckles.

Kieran exhaled slowly.

He was not strong. Not yet.

But he was smart.

The brute charged, swinging wide.

Kieran ducked.

Too slow. Too predictable.

He pivoted, shifting his weight, letting his opponent overcommit. The brute stumbled forward, cursing.

Kieran struck. Not hard—but precisely.

An elbow to the ribs. A sharp jab to the throat. Small, controlled movements.

The brute snarled and came back harder, fists swinging wildly.

Kieran avoided most of it, but not all. A blow clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling. His body was still too weak, too unfamiliar.

The brute took advantage, slamming into him with a knee to the gut.

Pain exploded through his ribs.

Kieran hit the dirt.

The crowd roared.

He forced himself to breathe through the pain. He had to finish this quickly.

The brute loomed over him, ready to stomp down.

Kieran moved first.

He rolled sideways, grabbing a handful of dirt and sand.

Then he threw it straight into the man's eyes.

The brute reeled back, blinded for half a second.

Half a second was all Kieran needed.

He surged forward, wrapped an arm around the man's throat, and locked in the choke.

The brute thrashed, but Kieran held on.

Seconds passed.

Then—the body went limp.

The crowd exploded in noise.

Kieran let the man fall.

Then he stood, breathing hard, but victorious.

The brute hit the dirt with a heavy thud, his massive frame kicking up dust. The once-rowdy crowd fell into a stunned silence, save for the few who had bet on Kieran and were now laughing with newfound enthusiasm.

Kieran didn't immediately move. He took slow, measured breaths, letting his heart rate settle. His ribs ached from the earlier blow, his arms felt like lead, and his vision swam just enough to remind him how weak his body still was.

But he had won.

A shadow fell over him.

The bookkeeper—the one who had allowed him to fight—stood at the edge of the pit, arms crossed. His sharp eyes flicked over Kieran, taking in the way he moved, the way he calculated each strike.

Then, a slow grin spread across his face.

"Not bad, bastard prince," he mused, loud enough for those near the pit to hear. "For someone who walked in here with nothing, you made me a fair bit of coin."

Kieran exhaled through his nose, stepping back from his unconscious opponent. He had expected the bookkeeper to keep the winnings, to claim some loophole and refuse him his prize.

But instead, the man tossed him a small leather pouch.

It hit Kieran's palm with a satisfying weight.

He opened it just slightly—silver coins. Enough for food. Enough for information.

Not enough for safety.

The bookkeeper smirked, as if reading his thoughts. "You're not stupid," he said. "I like that. You know how to fight, but more importantly—you know how to win."

Kieran didn't respond. He was still waiting for the catch.

Sure enough, the bookkeeper's smirk faded, replaced with something more measured. "I could use another body in the pit," he said. "More fights, bigger purses. You play it right, and you won't have to sleep in the dirt much longer."

Kieran had expected this. The man wanted to keep him close—not out of generosity, but because he saw opportunity.

It was tempting. He needed money, and this was an easy way to earn it.

But fighting for sport wasn't survival—it was entrapment. Fighters who won became trapped by expectation. The moment you became valuable, people started thinking they owned you.

Kieran wasn't going to let that happen.

Still, he couldn't reject the offer outright. Not yet.

So he played the game.

"I'll think about it," he said, keeping his tone neutral.

The bookkeeper chuckled. "Smart answer." He clapped Kieran on the shoulder—harder than necessary, a reminder that Kieran was still seen as a weakling. Then he turned, already moving toward another group of gamblers eager for the next fight.

Kieran rolled his shoulders, adjusting his cloak. He was done here.

For now.

He left the fighting pit and disappeared into the city's maze of narrow alleys and crumbling streets. The slums stretched out before him, a patchwork of forgotten ruins and makeshift homes, each building leaning just slightly in defiance of gravity.

Despite the late hour, the city didn't sleep.

Merchants still whispered deals under torchlight. A group of thieves haggled over stolen goods, while a beggar rattled a wooden cup, his eyes hollow and sunken.

Kieran moved through it all like a ghost.

His coin pouch was hidden inside his tunic, secured to the cloth with a small knot—not impenetrable, but enough to make a thief think twice.

For the first time since waking up in this body, he had something of value.

And now, it was time to spend it.

He found what he was looking for in the back of a rundown tavern. The building was barely standing, its wooden beams splintered, the smell of old ale and mold thick in the air.

A few men were slumped over in their chairs, unconscious from drink.

But Kieran wasn't here for them.

He spotted his target at the farthest table—a thin man with ink-stained fingers, hunched over a pile of crumpled parchment.

A scribe.

Not an official one, of course. This was the slums. But men who wrote for coin still existed in the underbelly of the city. And they were exactly the kind of people who overheard the most valuable secrets.

Kieran sat down across from him.

The man looked up, blinking in surprise. "...You're not a regular."

"No."

The scribe exhaled, rubbing his temples. "If you're here for debts, I already told Erwin I—"

"I don't care about your debts." Kieran placed two silver coins on the table.

The scribe stopped talking.

Kieran leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low. "Tell me about House Valtheris."

The scribe's expression shifted instantly. His previous nervousness vanished, replaced by something more cautious. Wary.

"That's a dangerous name to ask about," he murmured.

"I know."

The scribe hesitated, glancing at the coins again. Then, after a moment, he took them.

He tapped his fingers against the table, as if deciding where to begin.

"The Valtheris estate is still intact," he said finally. "But their influence has been... fractured. After your execution, your father—Lord Edgar Valtheris—remained silent. Didn't defend you. Didn't even acknowledge the trial."

Kieran's fingers curled slightly.

Not surprising. But still... he had hoped for something.

The scribe continued, voice lower now. "Officially, the execution was for treason. But unofficially? A lot of people say it was to cover something up."

Kieran narrowed his eyes. "What kind of something?"

The scribe shook his head. "That's where it gets complicated. Some say it was political—an internal dispute between noble houses. Others say it had to do with forbidden magic."

That sent a pulse of something cold through Kieran's chest.

"Veilcraft?" he asked, careful to keep his voice steady.

The scribe hesitated. "Not... exactly."

Kieran leaned in. "Explain."

The scribe swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. "There's been talk. Quiet rumors about... something old stirring. About powerful people hunting for knowledge that was meant to stay buried."

Kieran's thoughts raced.

This was more than a political execution. This was something deeper.

And the fact that his past self—or rather, the previous Kieran—had been executed for being near it?

That meant he had been close to something important.

The scribe lowered his voice further. "I don't know what's true and what's not. But I do know one thing."

Kieran waited.

The scribe met his gaze. "Whatever you were involved in before you died? It didn't end with you."

Kieran sat back, digesting the words.

Someone had wanted him dead. Someone had needed him gone. But they hadn't stopped there.

The pieces were starting to take shape.

Kieran wasn't just dealing with a wrongful execution.

He was dealing with a game that had already begun before he even woke up.

And now, he was playing blind.

But that wouldn't last.

Not for long.