Kyren ran.
His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he didn't stop. He couldn't—not yet. Not until he was sure no one was behind him.
The night air was thick and heavy, pressing in like a weight he couldn't shake. Alleyways blurred past him. Cracked pavement. Shattered windows. Flickering lights. Then—finally—his body gave out. He slammed against a chain-link fence topped with curling strands of barbed wire. His vision swam as he slid to the ground, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, there was silence.
When he awoke, something sharp jabbed his cheek.
Kyren groaned, eyes fluttering open to see a stick poking through the fence.
"Who are you?"
A little girl, maybe six or seven, stood on the other side, grinning as she jabbed him again. Blonde pigtails bounced as she giggled.
Kyren swatted the stick away, groggy and disoriented. "Stop that."
She giggled harder. "You're funny."
With a deep breath, Kyren pushed himself upright, every joint stiff with soreness. "I'm Kyren. Who are you?"
"Irene!" she declared proudly, as if the name alone should mean something to him.
"Nice to meet you, Irene." He rubbed the side of his face. "Where… exactly am I?"
"Grandma's orphanage!" she chirped. Then her eyes lit up. "Hey! Wanna meet her?"
Kyren froze. Orphanage.
The word struck him like a slap. He had never said it out loud—never even let himself think it—but deep down, he knew. His father had abandoned him. His mother was gone. He was alone. Unwanted.
He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "Yeah… I'd like that."
Irene beamed and scampered off to unlock the gate. Kyren followed her into the shadows of a weathered three-story house. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. The place smelled of old wood and faint cinnamon. Worn down, yes—but not cold.
Not like the other places.
At a small wooden table near a flickering oil lamp sat an elderly woman. Her skin was dark and soft with age, her curly brown hair streaked with silver. But her eyes—sharp, gray, unwavering—seemed to cut through the years and straight into his soul.
She looked up. "Come in, young one. Sit. Tell me your name… and how you ended up here."
Kyren hesitated. But her tone—firm but kind—held no judgment.
He sat down.
And for the first time in years, he told his story.
By the time he finished, she'd led him upstairs. At the end of the hall, she stopped beside a narrow wooden door.
"This is your room," she said gently. "This is your home. This is your family now."
He didn't know what to say.
Before he could speak, she wrapped her arms around him. Her embrace was strong. Warm. Real.
For a moment, he stood stiff with disbelief. Then, slowly, he let himself lean in.
When she pulled away, she left him to unpack. The room was simple—a bed, a dresser, a small window—but it was his.
Kyren sat across from her days later, still unsure how to repay her.
"What do you mean, 'help,' darling?" Grandma Windy asked, her voice honey-smooth. "I'm here to help you."
Kyren hesitated, guilt gnawing at him. "I just… I don't want to be a burden."
"If you feel like you must do something," she said, "bring the kids food when you can. Help with a few coins here and there. We'll call it even."
He nodded, but it wasn't enough. Not for him.
From that day on, Kyren woke early. He hit the streets looking for odd jobs. He worked during the day. He trained at night—running, climbing, sparring, stretching. Pushing his body harder than anyone else. He clung to hope like a dying flame: maybe he could still awaken a power.
But dreaming didn't feed mouths.
So he trained his body instead. If he couldn't have power, he'd earn strength. Speed. Precision. Skill.
And when the jobs didn't cover everything, he stole.
Kyren became a ghost in the streets. Quick. Silent. Every week, he hit the same shop for snacks and essentials. The aging shopkeeper never saw him coming. No one did.
Four years passed this way.
"It's the eve of your seventeenth birthday!"
Kyren barely had time to brace before Irene's voice echoed through the halls. He rubbed his temples as he came down the stairs.
"I know, I know, Irene," he groaned in mock gruffness. "No need to scream it."
She shrieked with laughter, dashing past him in a blur of pigtails.
He smirked, pretending to chase her before letting her go.
Stepping outside, he took a long breath. The air smelled of dew and distant smoke. Morning in the outskirts.
This place… it was his home.
Not the Warhammer estate. Not Epsilon's shining towers.
Here—with Grandma Windy, the kids, Irene—he had found family.
But he had also learned loss.
Every time a child developed a power, the Power Commission came for them. It didn't matter how weak the ability was. If you had power, you were taken to the academy. Molded. Repurposed. Reassigned.
Kyren had watched it happen over and over again.
He stopped counting.
And deep down, he knew—his time had passed. Even if he did awaken now, it wouldn't matter. Seventeen was too old for the academy.
Too late to matter.
"The only good thing about being powerless," he muttered, "is that no one expects much from you."
He shoved the thought aside and headed off to find his first job of the day.
Today's work was simple: road expansion.
Hard labor, but better than some gigs. The crew was mostly powered—guys who could lift boulders with a grunt or melt pavement with their touch. There was only one other powerless worker: a fourteen-year-old still holding out hope.
Kyren checked in with the foreman, grabbed his tools, and got to work.
Four hours of backbreaking labor followed. Dust. Sweat. Muscle strain. But Kyren didn't complain. He never did.
Then—
A deep, guttural growl echoed from the treeline.
Everyone froze.
The air turned thick. Still.
From the brush, a massive black panther emerged—sleek, low, deadly. Its yellow eyes gleamed with hunger, its paws silent on the dirt.
It didn't growl again.
It just watched.
Waited.
And then—
Chaos.