The ground trembled beneath Finn's feet as he stumbled through the narrow alley, the storm winds howling like an ancient beast at his back. It was always this way—the storm. Never-ending. A distant, angry roil of ash and blackened clouds, choking the very sky above them. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burning iron and blood rising from the streets. Finn's heart raced, each breath shallow, desperate, as though the world itself was trying to suffocate him.
He was just a kid. Fifteen, almost sixteen, and yet, here he was—running from something he didn't even understand.
His shoes scraped against the rough cobblestones as he turned a corner, hoping for some escape, but there was nowhere to run. No place safe. The whole city was suffocating in the smog of fear and corruption. People spoke of it in hushed tones—the Shattering. The event that had torn the world apart, leaving ruins in its wake. Some said it was an accident. Others claimed it was punishment. A world made of dust, crumbling under its own weight.
Finn had never really paid much attention to the old stories. They were the tales of the old ones—those who'd seen the world before the Shattering, before everything fell apart. But now, now it seemed as if the stories were coming true.
A scream echoed from ahead. It was a raw, guttural thing that pierced the storm, sending a chill down Finn's spine. His pulse quickened as he pressed his back against the cold stone of the alley wall, his breathing quick and shallow. Not again…
It was them. The Inquisitors.
They had come for him, just as they had come for others. Finn wasn't special. He wasn't one of those cursed with power, not like the "marked" ones they hunted. But somehow, in some twisted stroke of fate, he'd been caught in their net. The Inquisitors—the faceless shadows that served the King's wretched rule—had seen him, taken his name, and marked him for death.
It was a mistake. Finn didn't know why they were after him, but the whispers had made it clear enough: they came for anyone, for everyone who might pose a threat. Power didn't matter; the King's paranoia did. And those who didn't bow to his will were bound to end up in the depths of his iron prison.
Finn had tried to hide, to disappear, but the city had no mercy. The people, too lost in their own suffering, barely looked up when the Inquisitors dragged someone away. What were they to do? Protecting themselves was all they could manage.
He pushed off the wall, squinting through the haze of ash and smoke. The street ahead was deserted. No one dared venture out in the storm, not unless they had to. Even in the broken city, there was an unspoken rule: stay out of sight, keep your head down, and you might survive another day.
But Finn had never been good at that. He couldn't keep his head down. Not when the world was already broken.
He pushed forward again, his footsteps muffled by the dampened air, until he reached the corner. He pressed his back against it, waiting for the right moment. The wind screamed louder now, the roar of the storm becoming deafening. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were close. He could feel the weight of their presence, like the shadow of death itself drawing near.
Then he saw them. The Inquisitors. A group of them, cloaked in black, their faces obscured by the dark hoods they wore. They moved like ghosts, silent and unyielding, their eyes glowing faintly with a sickly green light. The mark of the King's power.
Finn froze. His heart slammed against his ribcage. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to die.
But as they passed, one of them turned sharply, their gaze landing directly on him.
"There."
Finn didn't think. He couldn't. His feet were already moving, tearing him down the alley and through a series of tight streets, his pulse thundering in his ears. He didn't look back. He couldn't.
The world seemed to collapse in on him. The air was suffocating, thick with the ash and dust that had become a constant companion. His legs burned as he ran, his vision blurred by the haze, but he couldn't stop—not now, not when the Inquisitors were this close.
A sharp pain tore through his side. Finn gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He glanced down, seeing the dark stain spreading across his tunic. He didn't know when he'd been hit. Didn't know how. But there was no time to dwell on it. He pushed harder, faster, each step becoming more of a struggle.
The world twisted. The storm. The city. His life—it all blurred together into a haze of misery and pain, and then…
He hit the ground.
Everything went dark.