The sky was ablaze. A perfect alignment of stars stretched across the heavens, their light intertwining like celestial threads, weaving something unseen, something powerful. Beneath this cosmic event, on a barren, windswept plateau, a boy stood alone.

He had no name, no family, no home. Only the tattered cloak that wrapped around his shoulders like a second skin, shifting and breathing as if it were alive. He did not remember when it first became part of him, only that it had always been there, whispering in the wind, shielding him from harm.

Tonight, the whispers grew louder.

The boy clutched his head as pain shot through his skull. A voice not his own echoed inside. A presence, ancient and powerful, stirring within him.

Protect.

The word was not spoken but imprinted into his mind, searing into his very soul. He gasped, his breath turning to mist in the cold night air. Then came the visions.

A dying god, its form fading into oblivion. A burst of divine energy, scattering across the cosmos. A single fragment, hurtling towards the boy's world, embedding itself within him.

And then... the cloak.

It had not been given to him. It had become him.

As the divine fragment burned within him, the boy collapsed to his knees, his body trembling under the weight of its power. He could feel his very essence unraveling, reshaped by forces beyond his comprehension. The air around him twisted and churned, darkness folding into light. The fabric of his own shadow lifted from the ground, wrapping around him in threads of midnight and stardust. The wind howled as if mourning the birth of something unnatural, something divine.

The boy's screams were swallowed by the night as his body was engulfed in the shifting shroud. His skin burned, his veins alight with an energy that did not belong to mortals. And then, in a final surge, the pain ceased.

He stood, breath ragged, as the cloak settled around his shoulders. It was no longer fabric it was an extension of his soul, a guardian bound to his existence. He flexed his fingers, watching the inky material ripple and shift as though responding to his very thoughts. He did not understand it, not yet. But he knew one thing: he was no longer just a nameless wanderer.

He then wanders until he found a city it was crowded to the brim, he was lost at a marketplace, The marketplace was loud, filled with the scent of roasted meats and the clinking of stolen coin. Merchants shouted over one another, peddling goods that ranged from fine silks to illicit wares smuggled in the dead of night.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The boy moved through the crowd, silent as a shadow. His cloak rippled unnaturally, warning him when too many eyes lingered. He knew better than to trust this place, but hunger drove him forward.

He had been living on scraps, scrounging what little he could from abandoned alleyways. Days had turned to weeks, his body growing weaker, his movements sluggish. He had avoided the city for as long as he could, but starvation had forced his hand. Stealing was dangerous too many enforcers watched the streets. But he had no choice.

Then he felt it a gaze, lingering too long.

"Boy," a gruff voice called.

He turned slowly. A man sat behind a wooden stall, his fingers adorned with rings of silver and bone. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but his golden teeth flashed in a sharp grin.

"You move like a thief," the man said. "But you don't steal. That makes you either retarded or very smart."

The boy said nothing.

The merchant leaned forward. "I have an offer. Work for me. A boy like you, with that... thing on your shoulders? You'd do well in my employ."

The cloak tightened around the boy, sensing danger. But he ignored it. Work meant food. Food meant survival.

"What kind of work?" he asked.

The merchant chuckled. "The kind that pays heh."

The boy learned quickly. The merchant known only as Vash had a network that stretched through the underbelly of the city, dealing in things best left unspoken. The boy became his runner, delivering messages and goods that no honest man would touch. In time, he learned how to fight, how to negotiate, how to survive.

Vash did not train him out of kindness. The man saw potential, a tool to be sharpened and used. The boy ran errands, learned the routes of black market deals, and grew accustomed to the shadows of the city. He became efficient, dangerous, and invaluable.

Years passed in a haze of deals and deception. The nameless boy grew into a feared figure in the shadows, his cloak now a legend whispered among thieves. But it was never enough. No matter how much coin he earned for Vash, the merchant always wanted more.

So the boy became a mercenary.

His hands, once empty, now held blades. His missions became bloodier, his name more feared. The cloak protected him, but it could not silence the whispers of the lives he had taken.

Yet, through it all, one thought lingered in his mind.

This is not my purpose.

And so, The boy waited. Waited for the day he would walk away from the black market. Waited for the moment his fate would shift once more.

He did not know it yet, but that day was coming. And with it, the first steps toward something greater than he had ever imagined.

Weeks have passed

The boy had been summoned to Vash's hideout, a dimly lit chamber behind the black market's main hall. Vash leaned back in his chair, smoke curling from the pipe in his lips, his sharp eyes studying the boy like a merchant inspecting goods.

"I have an important job for you," Vash said, exhaling slowly. "You will be paid good."

The boy remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

Vash smirked. "You're to escort a princess. Simple enough. But here's where it gets tricky by the time she gets home, she can't be alive."

The boy stiffened.

Vash chuckled, seeing his reaction. "Don't act so surprised. This isn't the first time you've gotten your hands dirty. You're good at what you do. That's why I chose you." He leaned forward, voice dropping lower. "One well-placed blade, a little misdirection, and the blame falls on a poor bastard who won't see another sunrise."

The boy nodded, though his stomach twisted. He had done many things to survive, but this was different. She was not a criminal. Not an enemy. Just a girl being sent home.

Still, money spoke louder than morals.