Whisper of the Forgotten Gods

The stench of rot and damp stone filled the narrow alleyways of Ardros' lower district, where the city’s unwanted clung to life like rats. Kiran Vale, barely seventeen, was one of them. He had no family, no home—just quick hands, sharp eyes, and an instinct for survival.

Tonight, the slums whispered rumors of a secret gathering beneath the city, where cloaked figures paid in gold and blood for something they called “the offering.” Kiran didn’t care about their rituals—only the gold. Anything worth worshiping was worth stealing.

Clutching the dagger at his belt, he followed them.

---

The city’s underbelly was a maze of ancient tunnels, remnants of a forgotten civilization. Kiran had spent enough nights dodging guards and rival gangs to know his way around, but something about this night felt different. The air was thick, heavy—like the city itself was holding its breath.

He kept his distance as the cloaked men disappeared into a ruined cathedral, its entrance hidden beneath ivy and stone. Two guards, their faces obscured by iron masks, stood watch. Armed. Disciplined. Dangerous.

Kiran licked his lips. No easy way in.

He circled the ruin, slipping into a side passage where the stone had crumbled away. He squeezed through the gap, heart hammering as he descended into darkness.

---