Veyla sat on the edge of the creek behind Marcel's village, eyes watching the way moonlight shimmered across the water's surface. Emberjaw lay nearby, its massive stone frame curled in the tall grass, obsidian hide absorbing the coolness of the night. The beast's breath was steady, molten veins glowing faintly in the dark. Veyla reached over, placing a palm gently on its cheek. "You remember, don't you?" she murmured.
She had found Emberjaw in the Ashen Gulch of Dravaria—the seventh domain—a forgotten place where storms never stopped and the ground bled fire. The beast had been caged, tortured by poachers and slavers hoping to break it and sell it to the highest-ranked bidder. But Veyla had seen something in its eyes—a fury that matched her own, and a loneliness she understood too well. She had shattered its bindings using a half-broken relic and her raw will. It didn't trust her at first. Neither did she. But she gave it a name: Emberjaw. And something ancient had answered in kind.
They were bound since then, through hardship and blood.
Most people in the domains wouldn't believe a Rankless could tame such a beast. But most people didn't understand the truth of the world's power system.
Veyla was born Rankless, like most citizens across the Nine Domains. In a world where strength was measured through ranks—from E, the weakest, to SSS, the highest and rarest—Rankless were often overlooked, abandoned to menial labor or peasant life. But rankings, determined by artifact systems during guild evaluations, weren't always absolute. Luck, ancient pacts, relic exposure—these could elevate or warp a person's power beyond their designated tier. Some said fate smiled on a few. Others believed in hidden blessings.
Even the powerful weren't safe. Veyla's parents had once held favor in a border duchy. Scholars, rebels perhaps. When they vanished, the whispers began—some claimed corrupt officials erased them; others believed ranked hunters silenced them for what they uncovered. Veyla never found their bodies.
She never stopped searching either.
Her path eventually led her to Nareth, the Ninth Domain. A land shrouded in broken maps and forgotten rules. Nareth was divided into empires, dukedoms, sovereign states, megacities, and smaller counties, cities, and scattered villages like Marcel's. It was a place where bureaucracy tangled with buried magic. Where city lords and elders ruled beneath layers of old power.
And still, above all stood the Nine—ancient figures more myth than flesh, stronger than even SSS-ranked beings. Slumbering, they said, ruling in dreams. Each domain was their throne, though no one dared call them kings. Even the Sentinels—mysterious figures whispered to surpass all known power tiers—had uncertain origins. No ranking artifact had ever assigned them a rank. Most believed they were myths. But the oldest texts suggested otherwise.
Unknown to Veyla, the Sentinels were not chosen by the Nine. They were created by the Ancient One, a forgotten being said to have forged the relic systems and hidden truths now buried across the world. Their true purpose was to guard secrets and guide balance—but such knowledge was beyond even Veyla's reach.
She pulled her cloak tighter as the wind rose.
Inside the house, Marcel watched Lira trace the mark on her wrist. His palm still bore the shard's symbol, and every night since the dungeon, it pulsed with more strength. He remembered being Rankless. Weak. Looked over. Now, the shard had elevated him, but the guild's system hadn't confirmed anything. By speculation and the intensity of his trials, he might sit at D-rank. But that, too, remained untested.
When the time came, they would have to visit the nearest city—Mireholt, a fortified county seat governed by Elder Vess, a retainer of the regional City Lord of Eastern Nareth. There, the guild would use their artifact system to assign ranks to each of them. Lira. Tarin. Himself. And whatever lay dormant in their bloodlines or the marks would be laid bare.
And still, the questions lingered—where had their parents gone? Dead? Taken? Left willingly?
Veyla didn't ask. She couldn't. She had only just arrived in Nareth. Her instincts told her the siblings carried their own burdens—and their own ghosts.
She returned her gaze to Emberjaw. "They'll need you too," she whispered. "You're not just my bond anymore."
The beast rumbled low, eyes narrowing toward the horizon.
Somewhere far, in the vast lattice of Nareth's sleeping power, something ancient turned in its slumber.
And the threads of fate pulled tighter still.