THE SUNLESS HEIR

The ash fell like snow over the cobbled streets of Oakhaven, carrying the metallic scent of burnt iron. Kaelen pulled the fur-lined collar of his cloak higher, his amber eyes scanning the crowded tavern across the square. He hated the border towns. They reeked of desperation and cheap ale, a perfect breeding ground for the Crown’s enemies. For a month, he had tracked a whisper—a rumor of golden light in a world that had not seen the sun in a decade. Inside the Broken Anvil, the air was suffocatingly warm. Kaelen moved through the throng of mercenaries and scavengers with the silent grace of an apex predator. He didn't need to draw his blade to command fear; the obsidian crest of the Inquisition pinned to his chest did the work for him. The crowd parted instinctively, conversations dying in his wake. His gaze locked onto a figure in the far corner. A young man with unruly chestnut hair, hunched over a scarred wooden table, nursing a mug of something dark. He didn't look dangerous. He looked exhausted. But as Kaelen approached, the air pressure shifted. The shadows clinging to Kaelen’s armor recoiled, hissing faintly in his mind. "Elian Vance," Kaelen’s voice was a low rumble that cut through the ambient noise of the tavern. The young man didn’t flinch. He slowly took a sip from his mug, sighed, and looked up. His eyes were a startling, unnatural shade of gold—an automatic death sentence in Aethelgard. A small, almost mocking smile played on his lips. "I was wondering how long it would take the Crown's favorite attack dog to catch my scent," Elian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He leaned back, spreading his bare hands on the table. Beneath his pale skin, a faint, pulsing warmth began to glow, turning his veins into rivers of liquid sunlight. "Tell me, Inquisitor. Did you come to arrest me, or did you just want a light for your cigar?" Kaelen’s hand dropped to the hilt of his broadsword. "I came to put you in chains. Alive, if you cooperate. As ash, if you don't." Elian’s smile sharpened into something entirely feral. "Then you had better be wearing fireproof gloves."