THE DEVOUER OF ROSES

PROLOGUE: BLOODLINES

The summer air in the slums was stifling, thick with the smell of sweat and rust. Zain Veirk, just nine years old, sat on the dirt outside the tiny one-room shack he called home. His clothes were tattered, his face smeared with grime, but his eyes burned with the quiet defiance of a boy who had already learned life owed him nothing.

"Zain, stay close," his mother called from inside. Her voice was weary, strained — the voice of a woman fighting battles far too large for her shoulders.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he stared at the children playing in the distance. Their laughter seemed alien to him, a language he didn’t understand. For Zain, survival didn’t leave room for games.

That was the moment everything changed. A sharp yell rang out as a boy ran past him, clutching a loaf of bread. Zain recognized him — one of the street kids who dared to steal from the vendor near the train tracks.

The vendor wasn’t far behind, shouting and cursing as he gave chase. Zain turned to watch, a small part of him envying the boy’s bravery. But when the boy tripped, his stolen prize tumbling into the dirt, Zain’s heart clenched.

Without thinking, Zain darted forward. "Hey! Over here!" he shouted, drawing the vendor’s attention.

He didn’t think about what he was doing. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand by and watch someone else suffer. But the vendor was faster than he’d anticipated. When Zain tried to escape, his foot caught on a jagged piece of metal.

Pain exploded in his leg, and he crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled around him, dark and terrifying. The vendor stopped, his anger melting into panic as he saw the injury. "Kid, you’re bleeding bad," he muttered, his voice uncertain.

By the time Zain’s mother arrived, the world was already spinning.