Felix moved through the city streets with purpose, his hood drawn up to obscure his features. The training session had left him drained, but he had no time for rest—Varrel had summoned him, and when Varrel called, you came.
His destination was an unassuming residence nestled between a tailor's shop and a candle maker's storefront in the heart of Oryn-Vel. From the outside, it appeared no different than any other home in the district, but Felix knew better. This was one of Varrel's personal sanctuaries, hidden in plain sight.
Felix knocked twice, then once more after a pause—the signal. A moment later, the door unlocked from within, and he stepped inside.
At first glance, everything seemed normal. The familiar scent of old parchment and burning incense hung in the air, the dim candlelight flickering across the dark wooden walls. But something felt off.
His sharp eyes scanned the room, picking up small details. The chair by the desk was slightly out of place. A stack of books had been disturbed. One of the drawers was left ajar. Varrel was many things, but careless was not one of them.
Felix's fingers twitched toward the hilt of his dagger as he advanced deeper into the house. Then he saw him.
Varrel was seated in the study, hunched over an ancient tome with a singular intensity, his long fingers tracing over the pages with reverence. The Book of Ashes.
Felix exhaled slowly, releasing the tension in his shoulders.
"You summoned me," he said, keeping his voice casual as he leaned against the doorway.
Varrel didn't look up. "Felix." His voice was smooth, composed. "You came promptly. Good."
Felix stepped forward, glancing at the book in his leader's hands. The Book of Ashes… It had been buried in the depths of the Syndicate's archives for years, forgotten even by most of the higher-ups. And yet, Varrel had specifically requested him to retrieve it.
He crossed his arms. "I'll ask again—what's so important about that book?"
Varrel finally lifted his gaze, his piercing eyes meeting Felix's with an unreadable expression. "Curiosity is a fine trait, Felix. But some knowledge is earned, not given."
Felix narrowed his eyes. "That's not an answer."
Varrel leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "No, it's not." He studied Felix for a long moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, he exhaled and closed the tome with a soft thump.
"You've been with the Syndicate long enough to know its purpose," Varrel said, his voice taking on a measured, almost philosophical tone. "But do you know why I began it?"
Felix furrowed his brow. "To gain power. To control Oryn-Vel's underworld. To challenge the nobility."
Varrel let out a quiet chuckle. "Simplistic. Wrong, but not entirely without merit."
He stood, pacing toward the nearby window, gazing out at the darkened city. "Thirty years ago, this city was already rotting from within. The Valkar War had just ended, leaving a wound that never truly healed. The nobility grew fat and complacent, while the common people suffered. The Valkar—those who survived—were shunned, discarded like refuse."
Felix remained silent, listening.
"I was not born into wealth," Varrel continued. "I was born in the dirt, like so many others. I witnessed firsthand what happens to those who have no place in this world. And so, I built one. The Syndicate was not merely a criminal empire—it was a necessity. A sanctuary for those who had nowhere else to go."
Felix crossed his arms. "And yet, it became what you once despised. Exploitation. Violence. Power struggles. You may have started with noble intentions, but let's not pretend the Syndicate is anything but a beast now."
Varrel turned back to him, smirking. "Ah, Felix. Ever the realist. Yes, we are a beast. But tell me, is the beast any worse than the so-called order of this city? The nobles and their games? The Holy Church and its fanaticism? The Guilds and their stranglehold on commerce? Oryn-Vel is ruled by predators. We are merely the ones who admit it."
Felix exhaled. "So what now? What does the Book of Ashes have to do with your plans?"
Varrel ran a hand over the book's cover, his expression unreadable. "The past holds answers, Felix. And history… has a way of repeating itself."
Felix didn't like the way he said that. But he knew better than to push further. Not yet.
Instead, he met Varrel's gaze. "Then what do you need me to do?"
Varrel smiled. "Patience, Felix. All in due time."
And somehow, that made Felix even more uneasy.
*
Fifteen Years Ago…
The smoke still clung to his clothes. Even after weeks of wandering, of scavenging, of keeping to the alleys like a rat, Felix could still smell it—the burning flesh, the wood turned to embers, the last screams of his family echoing beneath the crackling flames.
He had stopped crying days ago. Tears were useless. No one cared about a boy whose home had been reduced to ashes, whose parents had been nothing more than bodies in the street by the time the fire died down.
Felix was ten years old, and he was alone.
And yet, something burned hotter in his chest than the fire that took everything from him.
Revenge.
He didn't know who started the blaze. A mob, the rumors said. No names, no faces—just men with torches and shouts of fury, claiming justice while leaving nothing behind but death. Felix had no way of finding them. Not yet.
But he would.
For now, he survived. He scrounged food from market stalls when the vendors weren't looking. He learned to run, to hide, to wield a broken dagger with shaky hands. He grew bolder as his hunger deepened, slipping into the fringes of gang territory, where men barked orders and blood spilled in the streets.
Tonight, he prowled near the southern gate, drawn by the scent of a supply cart left too long unattended.
But he wasn't the only one lurking.
The voices carried through the quiet streets—low, tense, filled with warning. Felix crouched behind a stack of crates, peering out toward the scene unfolding in the moonlight.
Two groups stood opposite each other in the open space before the gate. One, clad in dark coats and insignias he didn't recognize. The other, marked by a symbol burned into their leather armor—a red scorpion curled into a striking pose.
Gangsters.
Felix knew enough to stay away from them. But the cart was close—so close. If they were distracted, he could grab something and slip away.
A man at the center of the group in dark coats took a step forward, his voice carrying across the distance.
"You're pushing your luck, Jask. The Scorpions don't belong here."
The other man—Jask, presumably—grinned, resting his hand on the hilt of his curved sword. "This city doesn't belong to you, Varrel."
Felix stiffened.
The name Varrel was familiar. He'd heard whispers of it in the alleys, murmured in warning.
The Syndicate.
Felix swallowed. If they were involved, then this wasn't just some gang squabble. This was territory.
And territory disputes always ended in blood.
He moved carefully, inching toward the cart while the men continued their exchange. His fingers brushed against a sack of bread—when suddenly, a heavy hand yanked him backward.
Felix gasped as he was thrown onto the dirt, staring up into the face of a scarred, sneering man from the Scorpions.
"Well, well," the man rumbled. "What do we have here?"
Felix's breath hitched. His body screamed at him to run, but the man was already gripping his shirt, hauling him up like he weighed nothing.
"A little thief," the Scorpion sneered. "Maybe I should teach you a—"
Felix moved before he thought. His fingers scrabbled over the ground and closed around a loose rock. He threw it with all the strength his small body could muster.
The stone struck the man square in the forehead. He staggered, cursing.
Felix didn't hesitate. His hands found the man's own sword, still sheathed at his hip. With all the desperation of a starving animal, he wrenched it free—
—And drove it straight through his attacker's gut.
The Scorpion gasped. His hands clawed at the blade now buried in his stomach, eyes wide with disbelief.
Felix wrenched it back out, blood spilling across his arms.
The man collapsed.
Felix took a step back, panting, staring down at the lifeless body before him.
His first kill.
His stomach churned, but there was no time to dwell on it.
Gunfire exploded through the night.
The Syndicate and the Red Scorpions erupted into violence, blades flashing, bullets tearing through the air. Felix ducked, scrambling for cover as chaos unfolded around him.
The fight lasted minutes, but it felt like hours. When the gunshots finally faded and the dust settled, the Scorpions lay dead or fleeing into the shadows.
Felix exhaled shakily. His limbs trembled. He had survived. He had—
A shadow loomed over him.
He turned sharply—only to find himself staring into the sharp, calculating eyes of the man called Varrel.
The Syndicate leader regarded him with curiosity, his dark coat lightly splattered with blood. He glanced down at the dead man Felix had killed, then back to the boy himself.
Felix tightened his grip on the stolen sword, his heart pounding.
Varrel didn't attack. He merely smiled.
"What's your name, boy?"
Felix hesitated.
Then, his lips parted.
"…Felix."
Varrel tilted his head, considering. Then, to Felix's surprise, he crouched down to meet him at eye level.
"You handled yourself well," he mused. "Most boys your age would have run."
Felix swallowed. He said nothing.
Varrel studied him for a long moment before standing again. He glanced toward one of his men, nodding.
"Take him."
Felix's eyes widened. "What—?"
"You have nowhere else to go," Varrel said simply. "And you're not bad with a blade."
Felix opened his mouth—to refuse, to protest, to something—but the words died in his throat.
Nowhere else to go.
No home. No family.
Only revenge.
Slowly, his fingers loosened on the sword.
The Syndicate soldier beside Varrel reached for him, but Felix didn't resist.
Varrel smiled.
And just like that, Felix Cailen joined the Syndicate.