The throne room of the Obsidian Citadel was built to intimidate.

High, black stone walls. Iron sconces spilling dim violet light. Pillars carved with twisted figures of half-human, half-beast forms. And on the raised dais at its heart sat King Rhys III, his heavy cloak pooling around him like a shroud.

His face, gaunt and lined, was shadowed beneath a circlet of black steel.
Sharp eyes flicked toward the man kneeling before him.

Varek Durn, the king’s spymaster, spoke in a voice low and precise.

“A report from the south plains, Majesty. One of Vorak’s patrols encountered something unusual. A creature killed by shadow — and witnesses claim a human boy wielded it” Varek said.

The court fell silent.

Rhys’s thin lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile.

“Another pretender?”

Varek hesitated. “It may be more, sire. Vorak confirms the description matches no one from Vortrex. And the darkness… it reacted to him.”

Rhys leaned forward.

“His name?”

“Not yet known” Varek replied.

Rhys’s hand curled around the arm of his throne.
“Find it. Find him. Anyone wielding the dark walks under my law. I will have him… or his corpse.”

A tense moment passed before Rhys rose, his voice filling the chamber.

“Double the bounty. Post it from Emberfall to Frostmere. I want him marked.”

Varek bowed.
“It will be done, my king.”

Rhys’s gaze lingered on the dark flames crackling in the iron braziers.

Another one… after all this time.

And this one… could be useful.

Darian Vorak spit into the dirt, watching the spymaster’s messenger ride off into the haze.

The warband gathered around him, waiting for his orders.

He held up the rolled parchment, sneering at the royal seal.
“New word from the Citadel,” he muttered.

One of the soldiers — a wiry, scarred brute called Jorrin — scowled.
“What’s it say?”

Vorak ripped the wax seal and read.

“By order of His Majesty Rhys III, the outsider known as The Black Tear is to be taken alive. All other priorities secondary.”

A ripple of muttering passed through the men.

“Alive?” someone spat. “Since when do we chase pups like prize hounds?”

Vorak crumpled the parchment in his fist.

“I don’t like it either,” he growled. “But we’re paid to bleed, not question.”

He turned, his voice rising.

“Spread the word — double patrols. Every outpost, every pass. Anyone matching the description — human, outsider, carrying the dark — I want them pinned and gagged before sunset.”

The soldiers barked assent and scattered.

Vorak let the crumpled parchment drop into the dust.

He didn’t know what made this one different.
Didn’t care.

But orders were orders.

And if the Black Tear was out here, Vorak planned to be the one dragging him in by the throat.

The camp was quiet when Shadow found him.

Mazen sat alone by the low fire, chewing what passed for food, his thoughts a knot of worry and frustration.

Shadow crouched beside him without a word.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Shadow said, low and flat,
“Your face is spreading.”

Mazen blinked.
“What?”

“Bounties. Patrols. Messengers riding to every hold and outpost by morning. They’re using your face and calling you The Black Tear.”

Mazen’s stomach turned.

“But… I didn’t ask for any of this. I just— I need to find—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shadow cut in. “This world doesn’t care about what you want.”

He looked toward the mist beyond the camp.

“You stay here, you die. You run blind, you die faster. You need to decide something now, boy.”

Mazen swallowed hard.
“Decide what?”

Shadow’s gaze locked onto his.

“Whether you’re going to learn how to survive… or be another corpse we step over.”

And without waiting for a response, he rose and vanished into the dark.

Mazen sat there, the fire crackling low, knowing the choice wasn’t a choice at all.

The road ahead narrowed to a jagged pass, shadowed by dying trees and sharp stone.

Shina’s legs ached. She hadn’t stopped moving since the hunt began.

Mirra walked ahead, silent as always, eyes sharp.

Then, as they rounded a bend, the land dipped and opened.

In the valley below, flickering fires stretched like scattered stars in the dark.

Encampments. Dozens of them.
Tents. Barricades. Wagons. Armed figures moving through the gloom.

A massive banner hung from a broken stone arch — a crimson wolf’s head on black cloth.

Mirra glanced back.
“Emberfall.”

Shina stared. It wasn’t what she expected.

These weren’t soldiers. Most were scarred, ragged, armed with mismatched weapons and salvaged armor. Some looked barely older than her.

But their faces told the story — tired, hard, and ready to bleed.

Mirra pointed toward the largest tent.
“That’s where you’ll find answers. But careful. Not everyone out here cares where you came from. Only what you can offer.”

And with that, she started down the slope.

Shina hesitated.
Then followed.

By nightfall, word had spread.

In taverns, border holds, and rebel camps alike, scraps of parchment passed from hand to hand.

On each one: a rough but clear sketch of a young man’s face. Dark hair, sharp gray eyes, and a single black tear streaking down his cheek.

Beneath it, the words:

“THE BLACK TEAR — WANTED: ALIVE OR DEAD. BY ORDER OF RHYS III.”

The reward was high.

Too high to ignore.

In a grimy outpost on the edge of Emberfall, a mercenary flicked a dagger at the paper, grinning.

“Poor bastard,” he muttered.

In the shadows, another man took one look at the face and slipped away.

And by the next dawn, every bounty hunter, cutthroat, and warband in Vortrex would be after the same prize.