Page 2

TWO

CASSIAN

T he kid wasn’t supposed to be there.

Cassian crouched in the brush just outside a crumbled stone waystation deep in the Borderlands, his hand resting on the hilt of a rust-bitten blade that looked more like scrap than weapon. Around him, dusk sank like a sigh, painting the world in ash and copper. The air hung heavy with rot.

The bounty had said “Ravager-class Hollowborn, northeast sector, traveling alone.” No mention of survivors. No whisper of children.

But the voice had been clear—sharp, panicked, and small.

"Help!"

He swore under his breath and shifted his weight. The grass crackled beneath his boot. He was supposed to wait, watch, confirm the kill zone. Do it clean. Walk away with coin and no questions.

But godsdammit, he had a soft spot for screaming kids.

He slipped down the ridge, body low, steps silent despite the rubble. His long coat flared behind him in the rising wind, the dragonsteel clasps clinking like chimes for the dead. Storm clouds boiled overhead. They always did when his blood stirred too fast.

Easy, he told himself. Just a kid. In and out. No fire.

Yeah. Like that ever worked.

The station's interior was a collapsed mess of charred beams and warped stone. He scanned the shadows, ears straining. The smell hit him first—wet death and scorched magic. Hollowborn.

And then he saw it.

It had once been a man. Maybe. Now it was just skin stretched wrong, bones growing where bones shouldn’t, its face split down the center like a cracked mask. Veins pulsed with black light beneath its translucent skin, and its eyes—void-black with no white—fixed on something behind the wreckage.

Cassian followed the gaze.

The kid—barely ten winters, limbs trembling, grime-streaked face wet with tears—clutched a jagged stick like it could stop death.

Cassian didn’t think. He moved.

The Hollowborn lunged, and Cassian was already there, blade out, parrying the blow with a grunt. The force rattled through his arm, the creature stronger than its mangled form suggested.

"You don't touch kids," Cassian growled.

It shrieked. The sound was wrong—like metal grinding bone.

They fought fast. Ugly. Cassian ducked a clawed swing, jammed his knee into the thing’s gut, spun behind it, and slashed deep into its spine. It screeched and twisted unnaturally, trying to latch onto him.

His blade wasn’t enough. Not for this one.

Cassian felt it then—deep in his chest, like a storm trying to escape.

“No,” he hissed. “Not here. Not?—"

But the Hollowborn lunged again, and instinct won.

Stormfire ripped through his veins like a scream.

It burst from his hands, raw and wild—lightning laced with white-blue flame, searing the air with ozone. It hit the creature square in the chest and exploded it into bone dust and shadows, burning the remnants into nothing.

Silence followed. Even the wind held its breath.

The kid stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open.

Cassian panted, hands trembling as the last flickers of Stormfire danced across his skin. He turned away, jaw tight.

"You alright?" he asked gruffly.

The kid nodded mutely, still clutching the stick.

Cassian crouched and gently pried it from his fingers. “Not much of a sword, kid.”

“I—I thought it might help,” the boy mumbled.

“It did,” Cassian lied. “You slowed it down.”

He scanned the ruins again, but they were clear. For now.

He stood and rubbed a hand down his face, grit mixing with the day’s sweat and soot. That fire… It was getting harder to hold back. Harder to hide.

He glanced down at the scorched path the Stormfire had left through the rubble. Someone would see it. Someone would talk.

Fuck.

"Come on," he muttered, lifting the boy onto his hip with one arm. "Let's get you outta here before the rest of 'em show up."

They walked through twilight, the boy half-asleep against his shoulder. Cassian's muscles ached, old wounds twinging. He could still feel the Hollowborn’s claws, the memory of death too close. Again.

The kid stirred. “Are you a dragon?”

Cassian snorted. “Not quite.”

“But you burned it. Like real fire. Blue fire.”

“Stormfire,” he said softly. “It’s… special.”

“Cool.”

Cassian chuckled, surprised. “Most folks call it cursed.”

The boy shrugged against his coat. “Still saved me.”

He’d grown up in the back alleys of the Secret Borderlands, where no one saved anyone for free. He’d learned to fight before he learned to read. Magic was survival—dirty, hungry, and always hungry for more. No House. No legacy. Just a name people spat like poison.

Cassian Veyne. The bastard with lightning in his blood and no place to call home.

“Where’s your family?” he asked after a moment.

The boy stiffened.

Cassian sighed. “Right.”

He adjusted the kid’s weight, his gaze scanning the horizon. Veil twilight was creeping in now, and the glow of Aethermoor’s hidden lights shimmered in the far distance.

He dropped the boy off with a traveling medic caravan before dawn. They didn’t ask questions. He didn’t give answers. Just pressed a few coins into a wrinkled hand and said, “Keep him safe.”

Then he turned and walked into the smoke-drenched dawn.

By midmorning, he was back at his hideout. A broken watchtower buried deep in the Borderland ridges, hidden by storm wards and the general stench of old ruins.

He tossed his blade on the stone slab that served as a table and collapsed into a chair with a grunt.

“Stormfire again,” he muttered, staring at his hands.

The lightning still lingered beneath his skin. It always did. Coiled. Waiting.

The bounty had gone sideways. The kid… the power surge…

Too much attention. Too much risk.

He needed to move. Disappear. Again.

But as he leaned back, something sharp clinked beneath him. A messenger’s token—iron etched with a familiar insignia.

House Drakar.

His gut clenched.

He turned it over. The seal was scorched into the back, and scrawled beneath it: “Summoned. Meet at Aethermoor threshold. No delay.”

He stood slowly, jaw tightening.

Drakar didn’t summon rogues. They hunted them.

Unless they needed something worse than themselves.