For a split second, Sorin stood there, dumbfounded at how completely he’d been duped. Celeste had set him up, and he had fallen for it. He had to say he admired her a bit for it; he hadn’t even questioned following her and had ignorantly been led into what was essentially enemy territory.

“Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, casting a quick glare toward the carriage disappearing into the distance. “Nice one, Celeste.”

Then he bolted, adrenaline sparking through him. He sprinted away from the academy and toward the bustling streets of the city, off in the distance, his boots pounding against the dirt path. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Silverblade Acolytes gaining on him, their voices echoing with curses and threats. One had already raised a blade, pointing it at Sorin as though marking him for a duel.

“Maybe next time I’ll just walk into a lion’s den,” he muttered. “Would have been just as intelligent.”

As he neared the end of the Silverblade Masters’ campus and the bustling city streets, the safety of the crowd seemed within reach. He was almost there—just a few more strides, and he’d be off Silverblade territory and surrounded by civilians.

He could hear the pounding of heavy boots close behind, but he didn’t dare look back. He focused entirely on the stretch of street leading to the city’s crowded market district, where he hoped the noise and people might offer some cover.

As he reached the bustling streets, he threw himself into the throng of city folk, weaving through clusters of shoppers and carts laden with goods. A sharp turn took him into a line of stalls, and he hurdled over a stack of barrels, nearly tripping on a pile of wood as he landed.

“Get back here, Warbringer scum!” one of the Silverblade Acolytes shouted from just behind him, causing several pedestrians to stop and gape.

Sorin rolled his eyes. “Not today,” he muttered under his breath, sidestepping between two burly merchants and using a market table to vault over a crate of vegetables. He landed cleanly on the other side, only to find two more Silverblade Acolytes flanking him on the left. Without missing a beat, he ducked and veered right, sprinting full speed down a narrow lane filled with merchants peddling fabric.

One of his pursuers was nearly on top of him, reaching out to grab his collar. Sorin twisted just in time, pivoting to use the momentum of the turn to roll himself under the Acolyte’s grasp, coming up in a sprint. He darted around a street corner, skidding slightly, only to come face-to-face with a fruit cart blocking his path. In one swift move, he jumped onto the cart, kicked off a stack of crates, and launched himself to the other side, spilling fruit and crates in his wake.

The Silverblade Acolytes weren’t far behind, but the pile of scattered fruit caused two of them to slip and fall, buying Sorin a precious second to gain ground.

“Get him!” a voice shouted, and Sorin grimaced, spotting another group of Silverblade uniforms cutting across a nearby street.

He took a sharp left, leading him into a narrower alley. His shoulders brushed against the close stone walls as he pushed himself to full speed. Just ahead, a towering pile of crates blocked part of the alley, and without hesitation, he scaled them, each jump and push calculated to keep his momentum going. As he reached the top, he vaulted off the crates, landing in a roll on the other side.

Glancing back, Sorin saw one of the Silverblade Acolytes following, nearly scaling the crates with the same ease. But then the Acolyte's foot slipped, and he fell back into the alley with a frustrated curse.

Sorin rounded a corner and finally spotted an open alleyway branching off to his right. Sorin stumbled into the dark, narrow alley and felt his heart drop as he realized it was a dead end. The sounds of his pursuers grew louder; he could hear them shouting and cursing as they approached. Frantically, he looked around for a way out, scanning the stone walls that boxed him in. He really wished he knew how to Shadow Stride right about now. Just as he was about to resign himself to being found, a faint squeak drew his attention upward.

On a high windowsill, a small rat peered down at him with bright, curious eyes.

"All right," he muttered, “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

He gripped the rough stone and began to climb, pulling himself up brick by brick until he could grab hold of the windowsill. With one final push, he hoisted himself up and slipped through the window just as his pursuers entered the alley below. Catching his breath, Sorin watched them search the alley, muttering curses before splitting up to continue the hunt.

When the alley finally fell silent, Sorin exhaled in relief and took in his surroundings. The room he’d climbed into was dim, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the grimy window. Dust clung to every surface, layering the sparse furniture—a simple wooden table, a rickety chair, and a low bed frame without a mattress. The air was stale, and the faded walls hinted that this room hadn’t been used in years.

He glanced back at the rat, who was perched further into the room, watching him with that same intense curiosity.

“Thanks, I guess,” Sorin said with a wry smile, half-joking. He stood, brushing off his hands, and began moving toward the window again, ready to climb back out and leave. After all, it was just a rat, and he wasn’t one to usually thank rodents. But as he prepared to exit, the rat let out a sharp, insistent squeak.

Sorin turned, surprised by the noise. The rat stared at him, its gaze fixed, and squeaked again before scurrying over to the door at the far end of the room. It scratched at the door, then darted back to Sorin, squeaking once more as if urging him toward it.

“You… want me to try the door?” Sorin asked, raising an eyebrow. It seemed absurd to take a rat’s cue, but he had nothing to lose. Besides, his options were limited, and he wasn’t eager to return the way he came.

He walked to the door, turning the handle cautiously. It was unlocked and creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond.

Sorin glanced at the rat, half-expecting it to be a figment of his imagination. “Well,” he muttered, “you’re a clever little rodent, aren’t you?” The rat merely stared at him, grooming its whiskers, looking unbothered by Sorin’s odd remarks.

With a sigh, Sorin rubbed his eyes. “Or maybe I’m just losing my mind. Wuthum’s spells must’ve lingered on me, and now I’m following hallucinations,” he added, half-joking.

As if offended, the rat squeaked and darted through the open door, running down the hallway. But halfway down, it paused, looking back over its shoulder expectantly. When Sorin didn’t immediately follow, the rat scurried back and let out an insistent squeak, its tiny eyes locking onto his.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “I guess you’re leading the way now.”

With a glance behind him to ensure the coast was clear, Sorin followed the rat. It led him down the dim hallway, weaving through shadows and out a back exit, emerging into the twisting streets of the city.

Out in the open, the rat was surprisingly fast, darting ahead, weaving between carts and around clusters of people with ease. Sorin struggled to keep up, sidestepping pedestrians and nearly crashing into a few as he hurried after the tiny creature. The narrow streets twisted and turned, and he was too focused on keeping sight of the rat to notice much of his surroundings.

As they rounded a corner, Sorin’s heart dropped when he heard a familiar shout. One of the Silverblade Acolytes, spotting him from across the street, yelled for his friends. Sorin cursed under his breath, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline as he saw several of them closing in.

“Thanks a lot, rodent; you have led me right to them again,” he muttered, but he quickened his pace, staying on the rat’s tail as it darted through alleyways and narrow streets. He weaved between buildings, his breaths coming in short gasps as he raced after his unexpected guide. Glancing back, he saw his pursuers shouting and pointing, some scrambling over obstacles as they tried to keep up, but the twisting alleys and tight turns worked in his favor.

Finally, after what felt like a dozen wrong turns, Sorin found himself in a part of the city he didn’t recognize—a rundown area filled with dilapidated homes and narrow, shadowed alleys. The Silverblade Acolytes’ shouts had faded into the distance, and he realized he’d lost them, at least for now.

The rat paused up ahead, watching him with an oddly satisfied look before darting around a corner toward a large, crumbling house at the end of the street. Its faded paint and broken shutters gave it an eerie, abandoned look, and weeds crept up around the foundation, swallowing the cracked stone path. Sorin glanced around, but the rat was already scurrying toward the house, slipping through a gap beneath the weathered front door.

With a mix of curiosity and wariness, Sorin approached, pushing the door open. The inside was dim, with beams of light filtering through the holes in the boarded-up windows. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling in the faint streams of light, and a stale, musty smell filled the room. Old, broken furniture was scattered across the floor—a splintered table, a few overturned chairs, and a cracked mirror that leaned crookedly against the wall. Tattered curtains hung limply by the windows, fluttering slightly in the draft.

At the far end of the room, the rat sat as though waiting for him. It tilted its head, squeaking softly.

“Fine,” Sorin muttered, stepping cautiously into the room. He felt a strange mixture of gratitude and unease toward this peculiar creature, but it had helped him so far. “Lead on.”

The rat led Sorin down a long, winding hallway, each step kicking up clouds of dust that floated lazily in the stale air. The whole building looked abandoned, a forgotten relic of some past era. Loose wallpaper peeled from the walls, and broken floorboards creaked beneath his feet. But as they approached the end of the hallway, Sorin noticed the air felt slightly less stale, and a faint hint of warmth greeted him as he entered a room that looked distinctly different from the rest of the house.

The room was cluttered, scattered with a seemingly random assortment of items—piles of clothes in varying states of disrepair, stacks of books on every available surface, and a mess of trinkets strewn across the floor. A cold, unused fireplace sat against one wall, and a battered couch, a few mismatched chairs, and a bed with tangled sheets completed the scene. But Sorin’s attention was quickly drawn to the figure slumped in an ancient armchair, the only occupant of the room.

The man looked like he hadn’t slept in years. His hair, dark and streaked with gray, hung in a matted mess around his face, and his beard was wild and unkempt, with strands sticking out in odd directions. He wore layers of threadbare clothing that had once been fine but now hung in filthy tatters, patched up with mismatched fabrics that clashed against each other. The collar of his shirt was frayed, his coat looked as though it had seen decades of wear, and his trousers were patched and worn down to rags.

But it was his face that held Sorin’s gaze. The man’s skin was sallow, stretched over high cheekbones, and his eyes—haunted, hollow, and impossibly weary—gazed at Sorin with a lifelessness that seemed etched into his very soul. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his face was etched with lines of despair and exhaustion. Despite his frail, worn appearance, there was a faint, almost imperceptible strength radiating from him—something ancient and dormant, like a slumbering beast beneath layers of neglect.

Sorin took a hesitant step into the room, swallowing his discomfort as he sensed the man’s latent power. The man’s eyes flicked up at him with a slow, lethargic movement as though even that small effort required too much energy.

“Um… hello?” Sorin ventured, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet room. He shifted awkwardly. “The rat… it led me here.”

The rat scurried over to the man, climbing onto the arm of the chair and then perching comfortably on his knee. The man reached out with a trembling, dirt-streaked hand, running his fingers over the rat’s fur with a surprising gentleness.

“Thank you, Veslin,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and unused. He didn’t spare Sorin a glance, his gaze remaining fixed on the rat with a faint, almost affectionate sadness.

Sorin felt a strange chill run down his spine as he watched the interaction. The man—whoever he was—seemed to be almost the same strength as Zane or Magnus Warbringer but also nearly broken, bound to his place in the chair as though by an invisible weight.

The man shifted his hollow gaze to Sorin, his eyes faintly gleaming as he straightened, if only slightly. "I’m Carcose," he murmured, his voice like gravel scraping the bottom of a well. "Carcose the Rat."

Sorin hesitated, unsure of how to respond. “I’m… Sorin,” he replied awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Carcose let out a long, tired sigh. “I know who you are,” he said softly, the faintest hint of sadness shadowing his words. “Tell me, Sorin… have you heard of me?”

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Sorin blinked, taken aback. “I… can’t say that I have. I’m still new to the city, so—”

“Yes, of course,” Carcose interrupted, his tone heavy with resignation. “Why would anyone speak of me? Forgotten, unseen—just as I am.” He cast his gaze downward, fingers absently scratching at the rat on his knee, his posture slumping deeper into the chair.

Sorin watched him, perplexed by the mixture of sadness and despondency emanating from the man. Carcose exuded strength, yet he appeared utterly defeated, his words tinged with an unbearable weariness.

After a moment, Carcose looked back up, his expression more intent. “But you’re not here to humor an old man’s regrets. I called you here because I know you’re Magnus’s apprentice.”

Sorin’s heart jolted at the mention of Magnus. Unsettled, he hesitated before speaking. “How… how do you know that?”

Carcose’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “The rats,” he replied, gesturing toward the small creature perched on his knee. “They tell me of things that matter. They mentioned you—a new face in Warbringer Academy, one that bears a striking resemblance to Magnus’s skill. It only took a few whispers and a bit of watching to obtain the full story.”

He paused, his gaze sharpening with unexpected insight. “You know the lost Warbringer style, Sorin. That style isn’t one Zane could teach you, not with any mastery. It’s beyond him, despite his status. Zane has his strengths, but his weapons do not suit the subtleties of that style.” Carcose leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Your practice… It’s too refined and too familiar with the deeper movements. Only Magnus could have taught you that. That, in addition to what you have spoken within the halls of Warbringer Academy itself, has confirmed that you are Magnus’s disciple.”

Sorin’s pulse quickened, feeling exposed under Carcose’s knowing gaze. This man—whoever he was—seemed to know more than he let on. “And… what about Magnus?” Sorin asked, guarded. “Why do you care?”

“Because I need to know where he is,” Carcose said, his voice growing softer. “And if he is well.”

Sorin hesitated, the weight of the question settling heavily on him. He could see the faint spark of hope in Carcose’s gaze behind all the despair and sadness.

Sorin hesitated, watching the man slump further into his chair. “Were you… were you Magnus’s friend?” he asked, trying to piece together the fragments of Carcose’s cryptic statements.

Carcose didn’t answer right away. His tired gaze drifted to the fireplace as if he were searching for something long lost in the shadows. “Something like that,” he finally murmured.

Sorin sensed a deep, unspoken weight behind those words. Whatever connection Carcose had to Magnus, it didn’t feel like one of enmity. If he were Magnus’s enemy, he wouldn’t be here asking after him with such weary resignation. Taking a deep breath, Sorin took a chance.

“Magnus died,” he said, voice thickening, “protecting me.”

Carcose let out a deep, shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. “So it’s true,” he whispered. “The rats… they told me things they’d overheard between you and Zane. But I needed to confirm it.” For a moment, he looked as though he’d say something else, but instead, he slumped back in his chair. “You can go now, Sorin.”

As he shifted in his armchair, his shoulders sagging under some unseen weight, Carcose closed his eyes as if this discussion had exhausted the last of his interest. Sorin stood there, stunned. This man—who looked worn to the bone—had just claimed to have information from within the Warbringer Academy and from someone as strong as Zane Warbringer, all through rats casually monitoring the city. And now he was simply… dismissing him?

As Carcose seemed to settle, Sorin called out, “Wait! One more thing… You said your rats overheard me with Zane. Did they spy on my first meeting with him?”

Carcose didn’t open his eyes. “Yes,” he replied, his tone as listless as before.

Sorin’s pulse quickened. “So… they told you everything that happened?”

“Yes, Sorin,” Carcose replied in a tired tone, “they told me everything. I know exactly who you are.” His eyes still closed, he added, “Sorin, son of Vesperos.”

The words struck Sorin like a bolt, his mind reeling. “But you… don’t care?” He couldn’t mask the disbelief in his voice.

“Not in the slightest,” Carcose murmured, his voice low.

As if he were already drifting toward sleep.

A strange sense of relief and confusion washed over Sorin as he stood in silence, Carcose’s indifference baffling him. He swallowed, finding the words awkwardly. “You’re… not planning to tell anyone, are you?”

At this, Carcose’s lips curved into a faint, almost bitter smile. “Tell anyone? And who would listen to me, even if I did?” He let out a weary chuckle. “If I shouted it from the rooftops, they’d dismiss me as a half-mad hermit with a pack of rats. I’m hardly the one anyone would believe.”

The weight of his response settled over Sorin. Here was a man who held one of the most significant secrets in the city—and had no intention, or desire, to use it.

“But… but… Why wouldn’t anyone believe you?” Sorin asked, confused.

At Sorin’s words, Carcose's weary, hollow eyes seemed to spark with a flicker of life, though it was tinged with bitterness. He studied Sorin in silence for a long moment, his thin, chapped lips twisting into something halfway between a smile and a snarl.

“Why not indeed?” he murmured. “Why wouldn’t they want access to all I know? Rats see every corner of the city and know every secret whispered in dark alleys and locked rooms. Yet no one values what I have.”

He spat on the dusty floor, his hands gripping the arms of his old chair with sudden intensity. "Why do they dismiss me? Because I am Carcose the Rat, son of no one and nothing they see as worthy. The unwanted child of a whore. They think I am mad—think my rats are mere rodents. They refuse to see me as anything more."

The room fell silent, tension thickening the air between them. Carcose’s anger wasn’t directed at Sorin but at the world that had shunned him. His fingers, which had idly stroked the rat’s fur, stilled, and he looked at Sorin with a strange, almost challenging glint in his eye.

“Tell me, Sorin,” Carcose asked, his voice low, “if someone could not fight, was weaker than you, would you value them?”

Sorin considered the question, understanding the challenge in Carcose’s gaze. “It depends,” he replied slowly. “It depends on what they bring to the table. Even a simple farmer can be of value. He grows the food we all rely on. He’d have more value than a lowly Acolyte foot soldier in times of peace.”

At this, Carcose’s expression softened, a glimmer of something almost approving in his gaze. Then he asked, his voice rough and blunt, “And what of the son of a whore?”

Sorin raised an eyebrow, sensing that this question was more than rhetorical. “Well,” he replied thoughtfully, “it depends on what the son of a whore does.”

Carcose’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “I speak to rats who, in turn, watch and listen and learn everything,” he said bitterly, confirming Sorin’s guess about his background. “Does that hold value?”

“With an information network and the secrets you hint at holding, I would be surprised at how you do not control the city,” Sorin replied.

“But you are right about something.” His eyes narrowed. “Information is power. Power to control, wield, and carve your place in a city like Cestead.”

Sorin nodded, sensing he was treading on delicate ground. “But gathering secrets for the sake of having them—without wielding them—that’s a waste. Vesperos, the God of Secrets, teaches us that secrets should be used. To squander them is to squander the very potential that makes you valuable.”

Carcose's smile was tinged with pride and melancholy. “I never thought I’d hear a Demigod, the son of Vesperos, say that to me,” he murmured, almost to himself. The rat on his knee let out a tiny squeak as if in agreement, and he glanced at it with a strange fondness.

“But Sorin,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “if I were to wield my secrets, who would believe me? Belief is a curious thing. If no one believes a secret, it’s like a shadow—shifting, elusive, perhaps even weightless.”

“Where I grew up, there were not many who were religious. They were simple farmers who did not have the everyday influence of followers and Gods in their lives. In a place where no one believes in the Gods and Goddesses of the world, do they still have power? The power is still there because there are believers elsewhere. The Gods’ powers are irrefutable,” Sorin explained.

“You are right, Sorin. Some don’t believe in the Gods, yet that doesn’t change their power.” He paused, a calculating glint flickering in his gaze. "I just need to find those who’d believe me beyond these streets. Those who do not know my background. Or perhaps I become someone else entirely."

Sorin nodded, his admiration evident. “I’d believe you, Carcose. What you’ve done here is… incredible. Setting up an information network that spans the whole city without a single ally? That’s no small feat.”

A crooked smile spread across Carcose’s face, tinged with something almost dangerous. “Oh, my reach goes far beyond Cestead,” he said, a glint of pride in his eyes. “Rats are everywhere—farther than even I can say. I’ve likely got ears in half the continent… maybe more. It’s been ages since I tried to check.”

Sorin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Half the continent?” he echoed, genuinely impressed. “Carcose, that’s… remarkable. People have been fools to underestimate you.”

Carcose laughed—a rasping, bitter sound that softened as he gazed at Sorin. “It’s been dozens of years since anyone complimented me or believed in my work. I like you, Sorin.”

Sorin smiled, nodding. “I like you too, Carcose. You’re a visionary, even if others don’t see it.”

The older man chuckled, though a flicker of sadness remained in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But compared to a Demigod, I suppose my vision is narrow-minded. I can’t fathom the plans you have. The schemes of someone with divine blood…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Sorin laughed softly, almost self-deprecatingly. “Plans? Not yet. Right now, my focus is just on growing stronger. And probably fighting in this tournament soon.”

Carcose's lips twisted into a smirk. “Ah, the Ranking Tournament… yes, that is approaching, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s time I do something useful for my alma mater.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a faint trace of his old ambition.

Sorin’s brow rose. “You went to Warbringer Academy?”

“I did,” Carcose replied, his voice softening as he remembered. “Back when I still had ambitions—dreams that I’d show the world a follower of Noxar, the God of Small Animals and Nocturnal Creatures, could be just as formidable as any other. I graduated… but not without hardship. Fighting wasn’t exactly my strength.” His eyes clouded over, the bitterness returning. “I focused on information instead. But no one wanted to work with me, given my background… except Magnus. He was different. He didn’t care about my blood or my reputation.”

Carcose fell silent, his gaze growing distant as he continued. “Magnus kept the more ambitious, stronger students off my back, and for that, I was grateful. I never knew if he considered me a friend, but he protected me, and that was enough for me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into a small, knowing smile as he looked back at Sorin. “But if Wuthum succeeds in reviving Magnus, I suppose I’ll have a chance to ask him in person, won’t I?”

Sorin’s eyes widened slightly, surprised once again by Carcose’s depth of knowledge. “You… I suppose you would know about that, wouldn’t you?”

Carcose let out a low chuckle. “In this city, my ears are everywhere. I hear every word that matters.”

“I believe that anyone as talented and an asset to the Warbringer Academy, Magnus would consider his friend,” Sorin responds.

Carcose chuckles at the response. He waved his hand, and the rat that was on his lap leaped down onto the ground and padded its way to the door.

“Return to the academy; it is getting late. Veslin here will lead you back to the academy. You have lit a bit of a spark within me again, and I feel some of my old ambitions returning with the thought that my dream was not for nothing. Thank you, Sorin, for your words. I promise that I will assist you in any way I can. It wouldn’t hurt to have a Demigod’s backing once you grow into your power,” Carcose thanked.

“I would be honored to have the backing and services of The Great Rat King,” Sorin said with a smile and a slight bow. Carcose began to smile.

As Sorin turned to leave, Carcose's lips curved into a broad smile at the parting words. “The Great Rat King,” he echoed quietly, the phrase rolling off his tongue as if tasting its strange grandeur. He watched as Sorin departed, his expression thoughtful, almost wistful.

Once the door closed behind Sorin, Carcose chuckled, a low, rasping sound that grew into laughter, rich with something close to joy but tinged with a dark undercurrent of irony. And as he laughed, a curious thing happened—the flicker of tiny, red eyes began to dot the dim corners of the room. Dozens, then hundreds of rats, emerged from the shadows, their glistening eyes peering up at Carcose, all of them silent and attentive, as though awaiting his word.

Carcose looked down at his loyal companions, a look of pride flickering in his weary eyes. “The Great Rat King,” he repeated, voice soft, almost reverent. “No one has ever called the son of a whore anything as grand as a king.” His chuckle turned into a wry smile as he scratched the head of the rat on his knee.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to work to live up to that title, won’t I?” he murmured to his silent audience, nodding to himself.

As Sorin walked through the shadowed streets, the small rat leading the way, his mind replayed Magnus’s words from long ago, spoken in the solitude of the Abil Mountains. Magnus had always spoken with purpose, a man shaped by his beliefs and unwavering in his loyalty.

Sorin could still remember Magnus’s deep voice, steady and unyielding, saying, "A man without an objective is like an iron ingot—useless on its own. But when given a shape, a point, it becomes a deadly weapon. To live with purpose, every man must have an objective and see value in that objective. When you meet someone with no direction, give them one, and they will be yours forever."

Magnus had taught him that the faithful could endure with belief alone, but true purpose came from action. “Faith can sustain,” he’d said, “but without a war to fight, without a cause for their God, many in the Dark Pantheon become directionless, lost. Gather them, give them a purpose, and you’ll have an army.”

These words weighed heavily on Sorin tonight. Carcose had been a testament to that very principle—a man brimming with potential but one who had languished without a goal due to no one seeing his value. Sorin had seen it in Carcose’s eyes, and that spark re-ignited. He’d given Carcose a title, The Great Rat King, and with it, a purpose. In the shadows of the city, it would likely mean more to Carcose than any weapon or coin could. And if he could gather others, those without an aim, he might indeed wield a powerful force.

As he followed the rat through the winding streets, Sorin’s steps felt lighter, yet his mind was working with newfound clarity. Celeste’s words about reputation and influence in Cestead, Carcose’s knowledge that reached far beyond the city walls, and Magnus’s teachings all seemed to align like pieces in a puzzle. He was here to grow stronger, yes, but he was beginning to understand that strength wasn’t merely in physical power or the ability to wield shadows. True strength lies in guiding others—becoming a beacon of purpose.

The rat led Sorin through an unlit alley, dodging between refuse piles and scurrying into the crumbling alleys that formed a labyrinth of narrow, forgotten paths. Behind him, the city was falling to a hush, its citizens retreating to the comfort of their homes while others whispered in hidden taverns or planned in the cover of darkness.

Finally, they reached the outer gates of the Warbringer Academy. Sorin looked down, but his little guide had already scurried away, disappearing into the maze of the city. With a slight smile, he whispered a word of thanks to the rat and stepped back inside the Academy gates. Tonight, he had taken his first step toward building something greater. He could create an army, a force to take over this continent and impose his will upon it. He would craft a world where he would be in control and shape it into something he desired.