Contents

Chapter Page

iv Prologue                                                          3-4

I A WHISPER OF THUNDER                 5-13

II          ALONE WITH ASHES                          14-21

III        THREADS IN THE FOG                    22-30

Prologue

 

Thay sat hunched in the dark, the only light a candle struggling against the silence of the room. Its flame danced, but the dark pressed heavier, swallowing the corners, clinging to the rafters like cobwebs. The air smelled of coals and old ale, of wood left too long in the damp. Somewhere in the walls, a board creaked, as though the inn itself shifted uneasily in its sleep.

The cracked leather book sagged toward the fire, its worn pages whispering of secrets best left forgotten. He did not draw it back. Perhaps he wanted the flame to take it. Perhaps he wanted the flame to take him.

The book had no title, no sigil, nothing to mark it but the scent of dust and time. Yet even closed, it seemed to breathe, each draft from the shutter stirring something deep within its spine. There were men who would kill to possess it, and others who would die to keep it hidden. Thay knew both kinds, because once—long ago—he had been both.

The candlelight caught his face — sharp features worn thin by years, dark hair hanging loose around eyes the color of stormlit water. He wasn’t old, not yet, but the world had carved its years into him all the same. The kind of age that came not from time, but from everything time had taken.

For a moment, his hand trembled, thumb brushing the edge of the cover. He had sworn never to open it again. Not after what it had cost. Not after what it had taken. And yet, as the candle guttered lower, he felt the pull of its weight, as though the book itself remembered him.

The cracked leather groaned as he shifted it in his hands. Most would call it blank, a useless ruin of parchment and rot. But Thay knew better. The book was never empty; it was waiting.

He brushed a thumb across the page’s edge. Words bled up from the fibers, faint as ink rising through water. His breath caught. They were his words, written in a hand that was his and not his. A life spelled out line by line, with no care for yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

The candle leaned low, its smoke smearing the air, and still the letters grew. He read the last line he had ever dared to see: The inn was quiet. Thay poured the ale, and said nothing more. That had been long ago, and yet the page had written itself true.

Now, a new sentence was forming beneath his gaze, curling and dark, a line he had never seen before. His hand snapped the cover shut before the ink could finish. The silence after was deeper than the dark. And still, the book waited.

Beyond the room, the inn lay hushed. Tables sat empty, chairs pushed askew, a hearth gone cold. Outside, the wind clawed at the shutters, bringing with it the long stillness of a village that had long since ceased to laugh. Once, travelers had sung here, fires had warmed the walls, and Thay’s name had been spoken with wonder. Now, only the dark kept company, and only the book remembered.

A sound broke the silence. Faint, at first, but insistent.

Knock.

It came again, sharp against the wood of the inn’s door. A pause, then another.

Thay’s eyes lingered on the book a moment longer. Then, slowly, he set it aside. The candle’s flame shrinking into the shape of a dying star.

The knock came once more. Whoever waited outside was patient, or desperate.

Thay crossed the empty common room, each step echoing louder than it should have in the silence. He reached the door, his hand hovering above the latch, and for a breath he thought of turning back. But the sound came again—soft this time, almost a plea.

He opened the door, and the voice that spoke his name from the dark was one he thought buried forever.

Chapter I

 

A WHISPER OF THUNDER

The city of Rovemire never slept. Its markets bellowed by day, its taverns roared by night, and in the alleys between, the rats and children fought over whatever scraps were left behind. Smoke from the forges clung to the streets, mingling with the sharper stench of tanneries and fish left too long in the sun. Merchants shouted, hammers rang, and boots trampled the cobbles—but for all the noise, Rovemire had no ears for the small or the hungry.

Thalen moved through it like a shadow. He knew which stalls tied their purses loose, which alleys cut deepest between the guard patrols, and which corners to vanish into when the city remembered to notice him. 

He wasn’t yet grown, but the city had already carved its lessons into him. His shoulders were narrow, his face still soft in places, though his eyes carried a kind of tiredness that belonged to men twice his age.

“Late again,” a voice hissed from the rooftop above.

Thalen looked up. Rill crouched there, wiry and sharp-eyed, her black hair tied in a rough knot that left stray strands falling across her face. Her skin was the pale-gray shade of someone who lived more in shadows than in sunlight, and her clothes hung in layers that made her seem part of the rooftops themselves. 

She was older than Thalen by a few hard seasons, and it showed—not in wrinkles, but in the stillness of someone who’d stopped believing in luck. All elbows and angles, lean as a half-starved cat, with a grin that showed more daring than kindness.

“You’ll miss your chance if you skulk all day,” she said, her voice as thin as the wind between the eaves.

Thalen frowned. “Careful lasts longer than lucky.”

Rill smirked, dropping to the cobbles beside him with the ease of someone who’d made the rooftops her second home. She dusted her hands and nodded toward the market square. “There’s a baker just set out the day’s bread. Ironhands won’t circle back for a few minutes. We move now, we eat tonight.”

His stomach groaned at the thought of warm bread, the smell of yeast still fresh. Hunger made him reckless, but not blind. He scanned the street—too many eyes, too many hands.

Rill saw his hesitation and rolled her eyes. “You worry too much. The others are already waiting.”

The others. Thalen bit back a retort. Rill knew he wouldn’t walk away, not today. Not when his belly felt so hollow it ached.

“Fine,” he muttered, tugging his hood lower. “But if we’re caught, I’ll swear it was your idea.”

Rill grinned, sharp and satisfied. “Good. Because it was.”

They slipped into the press of the marketplace, the crowd swallowing them whole. Rovemire’s market square was a beast with a hundred mouths—fishmongers shouting over butchers, spice-sellers waving their wares beneath noses already clogged with the stink of leather vats and horse dung. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and hunger, and Thalen felt it clawing at him as sharply as the ache in his belly.

Rill led him past a row of carts, weaving between ankles and horses with the ease of someone who had been born to the gutters. She stopped at the corner of a bakery stall, where the heat of fresh bread drifted like a promise. The loaves were stacked high, their crusts golden, their smell almost dizzying.

Garn leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest, thick shoulders blocking the view of a smaller boy beside him. Garn was broader than the rest of them, his patched tunic stretched across a chest that looked carved from stone. A crooked nose and a scar on his lip told the story of fights he’d survived, and his heavy-lidded eyes watched the square with the patience of a predator.

Beside him stood Milo. The boy gnawed his fingernails raw, ribs sharp beneath a tunic that hung like a ragged flag. His hair stuck up in a dark, tangled mess, and his eyes—too large for his hollow-cheeked face—darted from guard to bread to gutter as though danger lurked in every shadow.

“Finally,” Garn grunted. “Thought you’d crawl back to your hole and starve.”

Thalen ignored him, though his ears burned. He looked to the bread again, then to the guards beyond. Hunger and fear battled in his chest.

Rill only smiled,  “So,” she whispered, “who’s hungry enough to be brave?”

Milo’s voice piped up before Thalen could answer.

“I’ll do it,” the boy said, stepping out from behind Garn’s bulk.

Thalen’s stomach sank. “No,” he said sharply. “You’ll trip before you get two steps. Let Rill or—”

“I can do it!” Milo’s voice cracked, half-whine, half-plea. He glanced between them, cheeks flushed, hands curling into fists. “You never let me. I’m not just a tail to drag along. I can take one loaf—just one—and get back before anyone sees.”

Rill lounged against a post, every line of her body loose but coiled, like someone who could spring any moment. Her dark hair framed a narrow face, and her smile curved too sharply, the kind that never reached her eyes.

“Let the pup try,” she said, voice light and cruel. “He wants to prove himself.”

“Or get himself caught,” Thalen muttered.

A rough laugh answered him.

“Better him than me,” Garn said with a shrug. “If he’s quick, we eat. If not…” He jerked his chin toward the other stalls, unconcerned. “There’ll be bread tomorrow.”

Thalen clenched his teeth. Milo was trembling, but his eyes burned with stubborn fire. Hunger made boys bold—and boldness got them killed.

“Please,” Milo whispered. “Just once. Let me try.”

The ache in Thalen’s belly warred with the dread in his chest. He wanted to refuse, to drag the boy back into the alley and tell him to shut up. But the others were watching, and pride was a dangerous thing to crush in the gutters.

“Fine,” Thalen said at last, his voice low. “But keep your head down, grab the loaf closest to the edge, and don’t look back. Understand?”

Milo nodded eagerly—too eagerly. He yanked his ragged hood low over his mop of hair, then slipped into the press of the crowd.

Thalen’s breath caught in his throat. He hated himself for letting the boy go.

From their corner of the square, the three of them watched. Milo slipped between two shoppers, small enough to vanish in the press of legs and skirts. For a heartbeat, Thalen thought the boy might actually pull it off.

But Milo hesitated.

His hand darted for the first loaf at the edge, just as Thalen had told him. The baker didn’t notice. The boy clutched the bread, tucked it under his arm—success.

Then Milo’s eyes flicked higher, to the warm golden loaves stacked above. His throat bobbed. His free hand wavered, trembling, reaching for more.

“Don’t,” Thalen whispered under his breath.

The second loaf tumbled, then a third.

The baker’s hand shot out, hard as iron, clamping down on Milo’s thin wrist.

The boy yelped, bread spilling to the ground.

“Thief!” the merchant roared, voice booming over the clamor of the square. Heads turned. Guards straightened. The crowd surged like a tide.

Thalen’s heart dropped to stone.

The baker’s shout drew the guards like wolves to a cry. Two pushed through the crowd, spears in hand, their armor catching the late sun in sharp flashes. One seized Milo by the scruff, yanking him from the stall and slamming him hard against the cart.

“Little rat,” the guard growled, twisting the boy’s arm until Milo cried out. “Think you can steal from honest folk?”

The second guard kicked the spilled loaves aside, eyes sweeping the crowd for more urchins. Thalen’s chest clenched. If they dragged Milo away now, he’d never be seen again.

Rill hissed, “Now or never.”

Garn didn’t wait. With a grunt, he barreled forward, shoving the nearest guard off balance. Rill darted to the other side, quick as a shadow, snatching up a stone and hurling it at the baker’s head. It cracked against the baker’s head, knocking him to the ground.

The marketplace erupted—shouts, curses, merchants grabbing for their wares, children scattering like rats from fire.

Thalen lunged into the chaos, heart hammering. He grabbed Milo by the hood and tore him from the guard’s grip. For an instant, their eyes met—the guard’s wide with surprise, Thalen’s with fear—and then they were running.

Boots thundered behind them.

“Go!” Garn bellowed, plowing a path through the panicked crowd.

They broke into the nearest alley, the marketplace noise swallowed by the narrowing walls. The sun sagged low, bleeding gold across the rooftops. Shadows stretched long, reaching for them like claws.

Thalen’s lungs burned, the air slicing thin as knives. Milo stumbled, clutching his wrist, but Thalen yanked him onward. Behind, the guards’ shouts scraped the walls like metal on stone.

“Stop, thieves!”

They careened through twisting lanes, over broken fences, splashing through the stinking runoff from the tanneries. Rill led the way, her small frame slipping through gaps that the others barely fit. Garn followed, cursing, forcing his bulk where she had slid with ease.

The guards pressed closer, their torches flaring in the gloom.

They doubled back, ducked under an arch, and scrambled up a pile of broken crates. Still the voices pursued, closer now, closer—

Then, at last, silence.

The children huddled in a narrow courtyard where the alleys knotted together. The guards’ torches flared and faded in the distance, the shouts dissolving into the thickening dusk.

Rill crouched, panting, her eyes glinting with wild amusement. “Now that,” she said, “was fun.”

“Fun?” Garn spat, clutching his side. “Nearly got us gutted.” He rounded on Milo, who shrank against the wall. “And you—idiot boy—you dropped the bread!”

Milo’s face crumpled. He opened his hand as if to prove it empty, then looked down, shame flooding him.

Thalen put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Enough,” he said, though his own voice trembled. His heart was still pounding from the run, from the sight of Milo’s thin wrist caught in the guard’s fist. “We made it out. That’s what matters.”

The sun dropped even lower, smearing the rooftops in bruised gold and red. The light thinned to nothing, leaving only the hush of dark corners around them. Rovemire seemed to hold its breath as night crept in.

Garn spat into the dirt. “All that running, and we’ve  got nothin to show for it.”

Rill leaned back against the wall, a smirk tugging her lips. “Except a bruised pup who almost fed the IronHands his bones.”

Milo flinched but said nothing, hugging his thin arms to his chest.

“That’s enough Garn,” Thalen muttered. His breath was still ragged, and his legs ached from the sprint. “We can’t stay here. Not with the streets crawling.” He glanced toward the far end of the alley, where the glow of torches bobbed in the dusk. “Come on. Back to the den.”

They moved through the winding lanes as the city changed around them. Shutters slammed. Lanterns flickered to life. Merchants pulled in their wares, muttering about thieves, while rats picked at the leavings in the gutters. The laughter of taverns rose in the air, mingling with the tramp of boots as guards made their rounds.

At last, they slipped into the ruin they called home—a sagging husk of a building wedged between the bones of the old wall. Half its roof had fallen in a couple of seasons ago, leaving beams exposed to rain and rot. The floor was littered with straw and rat droppings, but it was all they had, and for now, it was hidden.

The ruin stank of damp straw and smoke, but it was the only roof they had. Shadows pooled in the corners as the night settled, broken beams crossing above them like the ribs of a long-dead beast.

He was waiting for them.

The den’s leader, a man named Carrow, sat on an upturned barrel near the center of the room. His coat was a faded velvet, a relic from better days, and a silver ring glinted on his finger as he tapped it against the hilt of a short knife. He wasn’t rich, not by Rovemire’s standards, but next to them, he was a king, and he made sure they never forgot it.

“You come back empty-handed?” Carrow’s voice was low and dangerous, more accusation than question. His eyes settled on Milo, who shrank behind Thalen’s shoulder. “Whose fault was it?”

No one answered. Garn looked away, jaw tight. Rill picked at her nails as if the dirt under them was suddenly very interesting.

Carrow stood, slow and deliberate. The knife gleamed faintly in the torchlight. “Weakness is poison down here. Poison spreads. If one pup can’t hunt, the rest starve.” He reached out and caught Milo by the collar, dragging him forward.

Milo yelped, kicking, clawing at the man’s hand. “I—I can do better! Next time, I swear!”

Carrow slammed him against the wall. Dust rained from the rafters. “Next time,” he growled, pressing the blade until a bead of blood welled at Milo’s throat, “you’ll cost me more than bread.”

Thalen’s heart thundered in his chest. He could hear Milo’s breath hitch, could see the boy’s wide eyes glistening with terror. Garn didn’t move. Rill didn’t step forward either. They knew better.

Thalen knew better, too.

But something inside him broke.

“Stop,” he heard himself say. His voice shook, but it cut through the den like a spark in the dark. Carrow’s head turned, and his smile was cruel.

“You?” The man’s laugh was dry as dust. “You’ll stop me?” He shoved Milo harder against the wall, raising the knife.

Thalen lunged before he could think. His hand caught Carrow’s wrist—and the world cracked.

A shock tore through him, wild and hungry. Light flared from his skin, blinding white, edged in blue, crawling like fire across Carrow’s arm. The knife shrieked as the metal melted, dripping in glowing rivulets onto the straw.

Carrow screamed. The sound was swallowed by a crack of thunder that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. His body convulsed, eyes rolling back, then collapsed in a smoking heap. The ring on his finger glowed red before splitting down the middle.

Silence fell. The smell of burnt flesh and ash filled the ruin.

Thalen staggered back, the bite of iron and smoke sharp on his tongue. Faint arcs of light crawled over his skin, hissing out one by one.

Rill’s mouth hung open. Garn’s face had gone pale beneath the grime, and neither moved.

Only Milo broke the silence, his voice trembling with awe. “Yo… you’re a Sparkblood.”

The word was gutter slang, the kind of thing street kids spat half in fear, half in wonder—a child’s name for something they didn’t understand.

Rill’s mouth closed. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, narrowed on Thalen’s sparking hands. When she spoke, her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its bite.

“No,” she said. “Not a Sparkblood. He’s Stormwrought.”

The word hung in the air, heavy as the smoke that drifted from Carrow’s corpse.

Garn swore under his breath, staggering back a step. His broad frame, usually so immovable, looked suddenly small in the ruined torchlight. “You’re cursed,” he hissed, his voice thick with fear. “Cursed blood, cursed hands. Get that away from me.”

Milo shrank against Thalen’s side, clutching his sleeve like a child clings to a parent. His eyes glistened with terror and wonder both, as though he couldn’t decide if he should run or fall to his knees.

Rill didn’t move. She only watched him, her sharp eyes unreadable, her lips pressing tight over whatever else she might have said. The flicker of the torchlight made her look older, harder, as if for the first time the mask of a gutter rat didn’t quite fit.

Thalen’s chest heaved. His hands still trembled, faint threads of light crawling over his skin before fading into nothing. He looked at them as though they belonged to someone else.

Carrow’s body lay twisted on the floor, smoke still curling from the ragged edges of his ruined coat. The stench of char and blood filled the den. No one spoke. Even the rats had gone silent.

Thalen swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to…” The words broke apart in his throat. He backed toward the shadows, shaking his head. “I didn’t—”

“No one will believe that,” Garn cut in, his voice low and harsh. “The Ironhands will come. They’ll see this. You think they’ll ask questions? You think they’ll care?”

Milo whimpered, pressing closer, but Rill’s gaze never left Thalen.

Stormwrought.

The word echoed inside him like a tolling bell, as if it had been waiting for him all along.

For the first time in his life, Thalen felt the storm not above him, but inside. And he knew—whether curse or gift—it would not let him go.

The thought barely formed before his knees buckled. The room spun, his breath tore short, and darkness swallowed him whole.

ALONE WITH ASHES

Thalen woke to silence.