The city of Veyrholdt was a furnace built by tyrants.
Winds howled across its charred iron walls, brushing through sandstone alleys stained by blood and rust. Dominion banners fluttered above the streets—each stitched with a golden lion mauling a crowned skull. Beneath them, the people walked with eyes downcast and lips sealed, their voices stolen by fear.
At the heart of it all stood the Dominion Arena, an earthen coliseum carved deep into the bones of the land. It wasn’t just a stage for combat. It was a symbol. A graveyard disguised as sport.
And today, the sand drank more blood.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The chant pounded like war drums as the crowd leaned forward, eyes gleaming with savage hunger.
Two men stood in the center of the pit—barefoot, breath steaming in the heat. One was a hired killer from the Southern Wastes, blade dripping red. The other…
The other had no weapon at all.
His wrists were bound in broken iron. Ankles chained together. No shirt. Scarred back glistening with sweat. And yet—he stood tall.
Silent. Calm.
Eyes like molten silver stared down his opponent.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.
He didn’t need to.
His name was Kaen Rook.
They called him The Gilded Chain.
---
In the dim, shadowed tunnels below the arena, a lone figure moved silently through the stench of blood and burning spice. He wore a tattered traveler’s cloak, hood drawn low, steps light but purposeful. His name wasn’t known in this city yet.
But it would be.
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Ryker Vance kept his eyes forward, following the echoes of steel and screams.
He hadn’t come to watch a fight.
He came to recruit a legend.
Word had spread across every back alley and outlaw den in the southern provinces:
> “Kaen Rook killed twelve Dominion officers before they finally chained him.”
“Still breathin’. Still killin’. And still smilin’.”
But Ryker didn’t care about the stories. He wanted the man beneath them.
As he reached the cell block, the torchlight flickered—illuminating a figure crouched in a cage of rusted bars.
Kaen sat in silence, his chains clinking with every breath. His head was down. Shoulders still trembling from the last kill.
No. Not trembling.
Vibrating.
The floor beneath Ryker’s feet… was humming.
He cleared his throat.
“Kaen Rook.”
Kaen didn’t look up. “If you’re here to gawk, you’ve got ten seconds before I decide your bones are decorations.”
Ryker stepped closer.
“I’m not here to gawk. I’m here to offer you freedom.”
Kaen’s eyes finally lifted.
Cold. Intelligent. Exhausted.
And burning.
“You got a key?” he asked flatly.
“No. But I’ve got something better.”
Ryker reached into his cloak and revealed a small bronze medallion—etched with a swirling flame and wind crest. Old. Worn. A relic of a rebellion that had died before he was born.
“I’m starting something,” Ryker said. “A crew. One that’ll cross the Sundered Realms and find the Golden Grant.”
Kaen’s lip curled.
“You’re another dreamer.”
“I’m more than that,” Ryker said. “And so are you.”
Kaen studied him. “You’re not even marked. No Dominion branding. No title. You’re just some rat in rags.”
Ryker smiled.
Then he opened his palm.
A spiral of air and heat swirled into life—tiny embers dancing between his fingers.
Kaen’s eyes widened slightly.
“Dominion Ring?” he asked.
Ryker nodded. “Touched by it. Not ruled by it.”
A pause.
Then Kaen stood.
He was taller than Ryker expected. Broader. His presence pressed into the space like gravity.
“I’m in,” Kaen said.
Ryker blinked. “Just like that?”
Kaen’s grin was savage. “I’ve been waiting for a damn excuse to tear this place down.”
---
The breakout was chaos.
Alarms wailed. Guards swarmed from every corridor, weapons drawn, shouting for blood.
Kaen shattered his shackles on the first guard’s face.
Chains whipped like serpents around his arms as he spun through the soldiers, breaking bones and armor with raw, devastating precision.
Ryker moved like a phantom beside him—dodging spears, redirecting crossbow bolts with bursts of spiraling wind.
Together, they tore through the underbelly of Veyrholdt.
As they reached the sunlit gates of the arena, a Dominion Warden dropped from the upper platform—clad in black armor lined with red crystal.
“Halt!” he bellowed. “That man is a Class-S criminal!”
Kaen raised a fist. The last link of chain on his wrist glowed white-hot.
He didn’t answer with words.
He answered with a punch.
The Warden’s shield imploded. Stone cracked. Screams followed.
And then they were gone—vanishing into the dust storms beyond the city walls.
---
Night fell.
They sat on a hill overlooking Veyrholdt. The arena still burned in the distance.
Kaen was shirtless, bruised, but grinning.
Ryker pulled something from his bag.
A cloth. Faded gold and ash-gray, with a flame-etched insignia. He held it out.
“My brother gave me this,” he said. “Said it belonged to rebels once. Told me to give it to someone I’d trust with my life.”
Kaen took it.
Slowly, reverently, he tied it around his forearm.
“This,” he said softly, “is a better symbol than chains.”
Ryker looked at him.
“So?”
Kaen stood.
“I’m with you. For now. Until I find a reason to stay… or a reason to die.”
Ryker nodded.
“Then let’s set the world on fire.”
---
[– A Tattered Poster on a Marketplace Board]
> “WANTED — RYKER VANCE, ALIAS: EMBERBRAND”
Threat Level: Severe
Known Associates: Gilded Chain (Kaen Rook)
Bounty: 3,200 Royal Marks
“Pursue with caution. If spotted, alert the nearest Dominion post immediately.”
