Date: September 15, 540, from the Fall of Zana the Dishonored
The sun, rising over the ridges of low northern hills, no longer provided any warmth. Instead of a gentle autumn coolness, a prickly, pre-winter cold hung in the air, seeping under Kaedan's simple woolen jacket. He had been walking for five days now, and his initial euphoria of freedom and open space was gradually giving way to a tired but firm persistence. The road he had so confidently chosen had turned into a narrow, rutted track winding between increasingly gloomy and bare rocks.
"North," he thought, clenching his fists. His gaze fell on the backs of his hands. He concentrated mentally, and a familiar, barely perceptible shiver ran over his skin. For a moment, the outlines of the stone bracers appeared—ghostly, translucent, but undeniably real. They were his shield, his weapon, his proof that he wasn't just one of many. Yesterday, these bracers had helped him split a thick log blocking his path with one blow. The day before, they had scared off a pack of hungry jackals whose yellow eyes gleamed in the twilight. They made him strong. Invincible. Or so it seemed to him.
The trail narrowed sharply, entering a short but deep gorge—a place the locals, had Kaedan been able to ask them, would have called the "Wolf's Maw." Two stone blocks, overgrown with tenacious moss, formed natural gates. The width between them was no more than ten paces, and the high rock walls cast a thick, cold shadow. Rare drops of meltwater fell from the cliffs, like ticking clocks counting seconds in the deathly silence.
It was this silence that made Kaedan wary. Even the distant cries of birds had ceased. He slowed his pace, his instincts, honed by years of living in the orphanage where he always had to be on alert, blared a warning alarm. He summoned the bracers again, this time fully. Heavy, cool, and reliable, they covered his arms up to the elbows, and a familiar wave of confidence flooded him. This was power. And with power, there was nothing to fear.
He took his first step into the shadow of the gorge.
It was then that the first figure rose from behind the rocks on the left. He was no soldier or ballad outlaw. He was a coarse, stocky man in a worn leather jacket, with a weathered, unkind face. In his hands was not a saber, but a heavy club studded with nails—a simple and effective tool for coercion.
"Hey, kid!" a raspy voice rang out loudly, breaking the silence. "Don't be in such a hurry! Where are you headed?"
Kaedan stopped, clenching his fists inside the stone gauntlets. "Alone. I can handle this."
"My own business," he answered harshly, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
"Business?" A second man appeared from behind the right boulder, thinner, with the sly face of a rat. He held something resembling a crossbow, but the bolts were blunt, with massive knobs. A hunting air crossbow. For subduing. "Your business looks interesting, I see. What's with your hands?"
They knew. They had been watching him. An icy shiver ran down Kaedan's spine. This was no chance encounter.
"Leave me alone," he snarled, adopting the fighting stance he'd learned from street fights at the orphanage.
"Hear that, Gart? He's asking us to leave him alone," the thin one smirked, aiming the crossbow.
Stocky Gart stepped forward.
"We're not leaving. We're offering you a job. A good one. Strong hands are always in demand in the Empire's mines."
Empire. Rakash Dynasty. A vague memory from the merchant's conversation at the orphanage flashed through Kaedan's mind. These men were slavers.
Rage, hot and blind, flooded him. He would not be a slave. He was Kaedan, the chosen one, with the spirit of armor! With a cry, he lunged at Gart, the closest one. His stone fist, capable of splitting a log, whistled through the air.
But Gart was not a log. He was an experienced fighter. He didn't try to take the blow; he simply jumped back like a cat. The stone fist passed inches from his chest.
"Aggressive one!" the thin man shouted.
A short, popping sound rang out. Something blunt and heavy struck Kaedan in the back with immense force, just below the shoulder blade. It wasn't a sharp bolt, but a heavy blunt projectile. The blow was stunning. Kaedan howled in pain and fury, stumbled, but stayed on his feet. Adrenaline and spirit-power dampened the pain. He spun around to attack the shooter.
And that was his second mistake. While his back was turned to Gart, the man did what he had planned. He didn't attack Kaedan himself. Instead, he swung his club down onto the ground, right in front of the boy's feet.
The blow was calculated not to hit the body, but to create an obstacle. A sharp stone, dislodged from the ground by the club, flew up and struck Kaedan directly in the knee. He cried out from the sudden, piercing pain and collapsed onto one knee.
At that moment, two more emerged from behind the rocks. Now there were four of them. They moved in coordination, like a pack of wolves. They didn't engage in close combat with his terrible fists. One held a net woven from thick ropes, the other two had long, flexible poles.
"Get his arms! Grab his arms!" Gart commanded.
Kaedan, snarling with helpless rage, fought back. He caught one of the poles and easily snapped it in two, but at that moment, the net enveloped him. He strained, the ropes pulled taut but didn't break. His strength was great, but not limitless. Maintaining the spirit and his rage was draining him.
"Spirit! More!" he whispered, feeling the bracers begin to lose density.
He made one last, desperate attempt. Gathering all his will, he forced the bracers to flare up again with new strength, trying to tear the bonds. He almost succeeded—several strands of the net snapped with a crack.
But that almost was only enough to bring one of the men with poles, the thin one, within reach. Blinded by rage, Kaedan lunged at him.
And then his world plunged into darkness.
He didn't see, didn't feel the one who had crept up behind him. A fifth man. The one who had been silently waiting all this time in the deepest shadow of the "Wolf's Maw." An experienced bounty hunter specializing in unconventional targets.
A stunning blow from a massive, leather-wrapped lead gauntlet landed squarely on the back of Kaedan's head.
Sounds—the men's shouts, his own heavy breathing—ceased. The bright light of day faded, replaced by crimson flashes. He felt his stone bracers crumble to dust, vanishing along with his consciousness. The last thing he registered before his body crumpled limply onto the cold stones was not pain, not fear, but a bitter, humiliating realization of his own stupidity. He was not an invincible warrior. He was a boy, outmaneuvered like a pup. Strength without reason had proven useless.
Gart breathed heavily, approaching the prone body.
"Damned pup... Almost tore the net." He kicked Kaedan in the side with his boot, but he didn't stir. "Valuable merchandise. With abilities like that, he'll replace ten men in the mines. Or become a gladiator. He'll fetch a high price."
The thin man, still trembling from fright, came closer.
"Told you, Gart, his spirit is artifact-level, combat type. We took a risk."
"But now he's ours," Gart chuckled, starting to roll up the net. "Put chains on him. Strong ones. And be quick. More than one caravan will pass through this Maw. We're lucky today."
They lifted Kaedan's unconscious body and dragged it deeper into the gorge, towards a cart hidden around the bend. His adventure in the North had just begun. And it had turned into a nightmare.