The air of the Satellite slum smelled of rot and decay, thick with the stench of overflowing sewage and the acrid smoke from fires burning too close to wooden walls. Narrow alleys, slick with filth, snaked through the haphazard structures, where bare-footed children scurried like rats, their eyes hollow, their faces smeared with grime. In the distance, muffled screams and bickering echoed through the damp air, blending with the relentless sound of dripping water.

Beneath a streetlight, a group of ragged men huddled together. One of them—a grizzled figure with a deep voice, as coarse as the ground beneath him—spoke, his tone flat, as if recounting something trivial.

“The king is dead.”

Those words sliced through the air like a knife.

A boy standing nearby froze. His heart stopped for a moment, then pounded violently in his chest. His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his dirt-streaked face. The king—dead? No, it couldn't be. The king was the only hope they had in this forsaken place. He had promised change, hadn’t he? To lead a world where the Blighted would reign supreme. To lead them out of the world caged by steel walls. 

The boy shook his head, taking a step back, his legs weak beneath him. “No…” he whispered, his voice trembling. “He can’t be.”

His stomach twisted, a cold knot of fear tightening in his gut. He felt like he was falling, spiraling down into some bottomless pit. The king had always seemed invincible, like a distant star shining above the filth of their world. Without him… what was left? The boy’s breath quickened, his chest heaving as panic clawed at him. His mind refused to accept it. 

The king can’t be dead. He can’t be… But the words echoed in his skull, over and over, until they were all he could hear.

Ken walked slowly through the alleys, the familiar mix of trash, dirt, and the sharp smell of smoke filling the air around him. The slum was always busy—people shouting, kids running—but to Ken, it all felt distant today. 

His head was still spinning from the news he’d heard. The King is dead.

This has got to be information warfare right? 

He kicked at a loose stone, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he neared the old, crumbling building he called home. It was barely standing, with shattered windows and sagging walls, but it kept the rain off, most days. The place was packed with other orphans, kids who came and went so often Ken didn’t bother learning most of their names anymore. 

Well, people tend to disappear pretty quickly in the slums so remembering names wasn't too important. 

But today, someone new had caught his eye. Sitting in the corner by herself, nibbling on a piece of bread, was a girl who looked completely out of place. Her hair was pure white, like fresh snow—so bright against the dingy walls—and her eyes were the deepest blue he’d ever seen. 

She was stunning, like someone from another world. Ken couldn’t help but glance her way again and again, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. There was something about her, something that made everything else in the room seem dull by comparison.

Before he could get too lost in thought, Marek, one of the older orphans, barked out a laugh behind him. 

“Still hung up on that King crap, Ken?” Marek scoffed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He always had a sneer on his face, like the world owed him something. “He’s dead. Get over it. He was just some no-name terrorist who thought he was more important than he was.”

Ken’s jaw tightened. “He gave people hope.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Hope?” Marek rolled his eyes. “All he did was screw things up for the rest of us. Now we’re stuck picking up the pieces while the Peacekeepers tighten the leash. You think it’s hard now? Just wait. Life’s only going to get worse from here on out, especially for “commoners” like us.”

Ken shot to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. "Shut up, Marek!"

The room fell still. Marek rose slowly, his eyes narrowing, the smug grin never leaving his face. He took a step forward, filling the space between them. “Oh? You gonna do something about it?”

Ken’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. His muscles tensed, ready to swing. But his body wouldn’t move. The weight of Marek’s stare pinned him in place. His heart raced faster, his pulse pounding in his ears, but no matter how much he willed his arms to rise, they stayed frozen.

Fear. Anger. A strange mix, swirling in his chest, keeping him stuck.

Marek saw it—the hesitation. His grin widened. “Didn’t think so.”

Then Marek shoved him. Hard. Ken stumbled back, barely catching himself. Fury sparked hot in his chest, and without thinking, he lashed out, his fist flying toward Marek’s head.

Marek dodged. Effortlessly. He barely had to move.

“That all?” Marek sneered. Then, he hit back.

The punch slammed into Ken’s stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He gasped, doubling over, but something felt off. It wasn’t just the pain. His body—it felt heavy, like his limbs were suddenly dragging him down. He tried to straighten, but Marek’s next punch caught him in the ribs. Then another to his jaw. Ken’s legs wobbled, his body sluggish, like it was being weighed down from the inside.

Marek moved fast, too fast for Ken to keep up. Another fist to his ribs, a sharp jab to his side. Every hit made Ken feel like he was sinking. His fists were slow, clumsy. He tried to swing again, but Marek dodged it easily, barely shifting to avoid the punch.

Ken’s arms fell limp at his sides, his chest heaving. It was like something was dragging him down, pulling at him from the inside. Marek’s final punch knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing to the floor. His body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, too heavy to move, too heavy to breathe.

He lay there, gasping, the cold floor pressing into his skin. Marek stood over him, fists still clenched, smirking down at him. "You’re weaker than I thought."

"That’s it?" Marek taunted, shaking his head. "You’re not even gonna fight back with your Curse? I thought you'd at least try something."

Ken’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t say a word. He lay on the floor, his body heavy with exhaustion, pain radiating through his limbs. Every breath felt like a mountain pressing down on him, and now, Marek’s words cut deeper than any punch.

Marek paused, narrowing his eyes as he studied Ken's expression—the confusion, the sadness, the helplessness. And then, something seemed to click. Marek’s eyes widened, and his grin twisted into something even crueler. He leaned down slightly, the realization dawning on him, and he laughed.

"Oh, don’t tell me..." Marek’s voice was dripping with mockery, a sick amusement lighting up his face. "You’ve been locked in here, living this pathetic life, all the while never knowing what your Curse even is."

He laughed again, louder this time, his laughter echoing through the room. It was obnoxious and harsh. Marek stepped back, clutching his sides as he let out another fit of laughter, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just discovered.

"You’re even more useless than I thought!"

Then, without warning, a massive arm lunged out of the shadows, seizing Marek by the shoulder with brutal force. Marek’s eyes widened in sheer terror, a fleeting expression of fear replacing his usual sneer. In an instant, he was yanked backward, his body slamming against the nearby wall. The impact reverberated through the cramped space, sending shards of plaster flying as the wall cracked under the sheer power of the throw.

Marek crumpled to the ground with a thud, the breath knocked out of him, his body limp and unresponsive. 

Ken stood frozen, his breath catching in his throat. The unnatural weight that had been pressing down on him began to lift, as if an invisible hand had withdrawn its grip. It was a disorienting sensation, like surfacing from deep, dark waters into the sudden brightness of daylight. 

His gaze slowly shifted to the figure standing over Marek’s unconscious form. To his shock, it was the girl—the one with the white hair. She stood calmly, her expression unbothered, as the grotesque, oversized arm that had thrown Marek began to recede. The massive limb rippled unnaturally, the thick muscle and flesh slinking back into her petite frame like liquid retracting into a mold. Her body absorbed the monstrous appendage, shrinking down until she was once again the delicate, quiet girl who had been nibbling on her bread just moments before.

She dusted her hands off lightly. I’m trying to enjoy my meal,” she said, her tone almost bored, as if nothing unusual had just happened. “Can you boys keep it down?”