Cassian Ashrose had once been the Chosen One—but those days were long gone. The songs of his triumphs had faded, leaving only a man worn thin by years of battles, betrayals, and regrets. Now, he was just another adventurer, scraping by to pay rent and keep himself fed. The world called him a hero, but to Cassian, that title was a chain—one he’d rather forget.

You didn’t notice him at first. Why would you? You were too busy getting knocked to the ground, again, in swordplay practice. The older kids stood over you, laughing, their wooden blades held with arrogant ease. But you got up anyway, fists clenched, bruised but determined, ready to swing again even though your arms ached and your pride was in tatters.

“Stay down,” one of the bigger boys sneered before shoving you back to the dirt.

Just as you gritted your teeth and prepared to rise once more, a shadow fell across the boy.

“Enough,” a low, gravelly voice cut through the air like steel on stone.

You blinked up at the figure standing over you. Pointed ears peeked from brown, unkempt hair, and his amber-glowing eyes held a dangerous glint, sharp as a sword edge. He wore beaten armor that looked like it had seen too many battles—and probably ended them, too. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a sword that looked anything but friendly.

The biggest kid shrank back under the weight of the man’s steady gaze.

“Pick on someone your own size,” Cassian said, voice rough with years of use, but edged with dry humor. “Or don’t, if you’d rather spend the rest of the day eating through a straw.”

The boy’s face paled. The group mumbled excuses and scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving you sprawled on the ground, confused and aching but strangely victorious.

Cassian knelt slowly, his massive frame folding with surprising ease, and held out a scarred hand. “You’ve got guts, kid,” he said, his voice softer now but carrying the weight of experience. “Not a lot of sense—but guts, sure.”