The Pit was a wound carved into Ravenmark's underbelly — a place forgotten by the city's bright towers, swallowed by filth and despair.
It smelled of stale smoke, spilled ale, and lost dreams.
Ash adjusted his cloak and stepped inside.
The murmur of drunken voices filled the air, punctuated by occasional laughter and the sharp clink of mugs.
Kael stayed close, eyes scanning, fingers twitching near his blade.
"This is where your ghost lives?" Kael whispered.
Ash didn't answer.
Ahead, a figure sat alone at a battered table.
The man's hair was wild, silver strands tangled with grime.
His eyes, sharp but haunted, fixed on a cracked tankard.
Ash approached slowly.
"Darius Varn?"
The man looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Who wants to know?"
"A man who needs a spine."
Darius snorted.
"You don't know the meaning of the word."
Ash held his gaze.
"I know enough. I'm building something — a fire that can burn this city down. I want you to help me."
Darius laughed, bitter.
"Help you? Why would I help a shadow rising from the mud?"
Ash's voice lowered.
"Because if we don't burn it down, it will crush us all."
Darius studied Ash, the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders.
"Maybe you're mad."
"Maybe I am."
That night, as the Pit's fires guttered, Ash laid out his vision.
"A force built from the broken. Fighters, thieves, outcasts — but more than that. We're a kingdom in the making."
Darius shook his head.
"You're dreaming."
Ash smiled.
"Dreamers are the ones who change worlds."
Kael watched the exchange, tension tight in his chest.
"Will he join us?" Kael asked quietly.
Ash looked at Darius, whose eyes flickered with something almost like hope.
"Not yet," Ash said. "But he's listening."
Outside, beneath the city's golden towers, shadows shifted.
Lord Velron's men were already moving, seeking to crush the rising fire before it could grow.
But Ash Draven was no longer just a shadow.
He was the spark.
And soon, the whole city would burn.