Kael walked alone through the stone-carved streets of Vire’khaal, his boots clicking against polished obsidian tiles that shimmered faintly underfoot. The sky above was a seething sea of storm-lit clouds, yet here—on the floating mountain that scraped the heavens—the sun pierced through like holy fire, casting shadows as long as spears.

  This was Drakenborne territory.

  This was Duskar Cradle—a mountain suspended in the sky by ancient leylines and bound in flame-tethered chains thicker than city walls. A fortress kingdom of high towers and sharp silhouettes, it was the ancestral home of Kael’s people: proud, ruthless, and burning with the blood of dragons.

  And below them? The "lowborn" world.

  As Kael moved through the upper ring of the city, dozens of other Drakenborne passed by—some in gilded cloaks and noble attire, others in warplate forged with glowing

  runes. They towered, sneered, whispered. Eyes trailed him—not in scorn, not anymore—but in curiosity. The boy with the necromancer’s sigil. The one who spoke to the dead.

  A group of robed initiates stepped aside for him. One of them—eyes sunken, clearly a fire-adept in training—murmured, "Soulbrand…" under his breath.

  Kael smirked.

  The path to the Adventurers Guild took him through the Bazaar of Cinders—a sprawling market built along the cliffside, where smoking chimneys rose from blacksmith forges, and merchants barked prices for wyvern scales, skyroot lumber, and potion flasks that shimmered with liquid shadow.

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  Tall, gothic-style buildings lined the streets. Towering arches loomed overhead like fanged jaws, and the air reeked of spice, ozone, and mana-scorched steel. Floating braziers drifted lazily above the streets, casting flickering violet and gold light over the cobbles.

  There were vendors selling bloodfruit, raw dragon marrow, and enchanted talismans made from enemy bones. One drakenborne boy passed Kael carrying a chain leash—at the end of it, a floating skull moaned softly, begging for release. The boy laughed.

  Kael only nodded in silent approval.

  Beneath all this luxury, far below the clouds, lay the “others”—the lesser races.

  The humans. The elves. The dwarves. The beastkin. They lived in grounded cities and rain-soaked villages, building their lives out of mud and sweat while the Drakenborne reigned from above.

  Most Drakenborne had little love for them. “Dustcrawlers,” they were called. “Skybeggars,” “Groundbloods,” or simply “Ashkin.”

  Only a few families even bothered trading with them. Kael’s family wasn’t one of them.

  But Kael… didn’t care for the insults. If anything, he was curious. The dead didn’t care what race you were—they screamed the same in every tongue.

  The Adventurers Guild stood near the edge of the floating city, perched just shy of the wind barrier that shimmered like a wall of invisible fire. The building was a gothic cathedral twisted into a fortress, its stained-glass windows depicting great beasts and fallen kings. A wyvern’s skull hung above the grand entrance, its fangs longer than Kael was tall.

  He stood before the heavy iron doors and breathed in the scent of ozone and blood.

  This was the place where warriors, mages, and monsters came to prove themselves. A crucible of quests, death, and coin. A place where reputation was forged in combat—and Kael would need both infamy and strength if he was to descend into dungeons and seek the power his soul craved.

  He stepped forward.

  Let the others fear the dark, he thought. I’ll make it kneel.

  The doors creaked open before him.