Rain fell in Oakhaven almost constantly, churning the broken roads into a grey mire of mud, coal dust, and manure. The small border town lived off the mines, and everything within it—from the wooden roofs to the faces of the passersby—was coated in a uniform layer of soot.
Seven-year-old Ezekiel sat in a narrow alleyway between a tavern and a butcher's shop, his knees pulled tight to his chest. He wore someone else's discarded rags, tied together with a scrap of rope, and his short black hair was soaked through. The only things that stood out on his pale, emaciated face were his unnaturally deep, coal-black eyes. There was no childhood fear or tears in them. Only a cold, unblinking alertness.
Ezekiel had no parents. He didn't remember their faces and didn't even know who they were. To this town, he was simply a "blank space"—one of a dozen homeless orphans who scuttled through the streets in search of scraps.
Loud laughter erupted from the tavern doors, and a dwarf stepped out onto the street, swaying slightly, dressed in a luxurious coat embroidered with gold thread. He was one of the masters of the Miners' Guild—the true rulers of Oakhaven. The dwarves held all the mines, all the money, and all the power in the region. This particular master was fat, reeked of alcohol, and gold rings glinted on his fingers. His personal guard—a tall human clad in leather armor and a massive, seven-foot-tall orc—followed closely at his heels.
The orc looked terrifying: coarse green skin, fangs protruding from his mouth, and scars crisscrossing his face. Yet, on his chest, right over his steel breastplate, hung a clean, polished-to-a-shine silver token—a sun and a heavy hammer. The symbol of the Church. This orc was one of those who had accepted faith in the One God, and now fanatically served the local priest, proving his "righteousness" with his fists.
"Praise the Almighty, business is booming," the dwarf rumbled in a deep voice, wiping his greasy lips with his sleeve. "Tomorrow we send a new shipment of obsidian to the capital. Has Father Thomas blessed the wagons yet?"
"He has, Master Brock," the human guard replied with a grim nod. "The Church took its tithe. The priest prayed that the fiends from the Forbidden Forest won't covet our goods."
The dwarf spat into the mud with disgust and walked on. As he went, he pulled a half-eaten piece of meat pie from his pocket and, wincing because it had gone cold, tossed it straight into a puddle.
For Ezekiel, who hadn't eaten in two days, that piece of greasy pastry in the mud was a matter of life and death.
Like a shadow, the boy slipped soundlessly out of the alley. His small, filthy fingers snatched the pie from the puddle with lightning speed before it could be trampled by a passerby's boots.
But his luck failed him. The orc guard, possessing beast-like reflexes, whipped around sharply at the rustle. His small black eyes locked onto the seven-year-old boy.
"Hey! You filthy little thief!" the orc roared. His thunderous voice made even the pedestrians flinch. "You have defiled food thrown away by a righteous master! Godless little imp!"
The orc took a wide stride forward, intending to crush the child's bones with his heavy, iron-shod boot. There was no pity in the mercenary's eyes—the Church taught that poverty and deformity (and Ezekiel's eyes, black as the abyss, were seen by believers as a sign of a curse) were God's punishment for sins.
Ezekiel didn't scream or beg. The survival instinct, honed by years of beatings, kicked into his mind instantly. He darted sharply to the side, slipping right between the orc's massive legs. The orc swung his fist with a whistle but missed, nearly losing his balance in the slippery mud.
"Catch him!" the dwarf shouted, clutching his coin purse. "These little rats are always stealing!"
The human guard drew a short truncheon and rushed to cut him off. Ezekiel weaved between wagons, gasping for air as he ran. His heart hammered wildly in his small chest, and his fingers held the muddy pie in a death grip. He was only seven years old, weak and exhausted, but he possessed something these well-fed adults did not—an absolute, primal will to live.
The exit from the town was blocked by carts. The only path left open was the road leading up the slope, to where the trees grew thicker and the sunlight faded.
The Forbidden Forest.
A place from which no one returned. A place crawling with monsters and ancient curses, feared panically by both superstitious dwarves and devout orcs.
Without hesitating for a single second, Ezekiel threw himself straight in there, into the darkness between the twisted tree trunks covered in black moss.
"Stop, you fool! You can't go in there!" the human guard shouted, braking sharply at the very edge of the forest. He looked with dread at the closing canopy of trees.
The orc ran up behind him, breathing heavily. He lifted his silver symbol of the Church as if shielding himself from an invisible evil, and spat after the fleeing boy.
"Leave him," the orc wheezed out. "He has stepped onto the cursed land of heretics. The forest will devour his soul before sunset. Good riddance."
The guards turned around and walked back toward the tavern, certain that the seven-year-old urchin was already dead.
...Meanwhile, Ezekiel ran deeper into the forest, reckless of the path. Branches scratched his face until it bled, and roots tripped his feet. He ran until his strength finally failed him entirely. The boy stumbled over a moss-grown boulder and went tumbling down a slope.
The ground beneath his body suddenly cracked. An old, rotten covering of roots and dry leaves, which hid a deep fissure in the rock, could not bear the child's weight.
Ezekiel plummeted downward, into the absolute, pitch-black darkness of the underworld. Into a world where he was destined to spend the next eight years of his life.