PRE-RP HISTORY
Adyn learned his firsts of the world through the walls of a brothel in the Port Alyxandryan slums. His mother gave him what she could: her hands when they were gentle, her absence when they weren't, and how to survive when it was the only option left.
When fever took his mother, he was only three years old.
Samson Thorne was a frequent visitor - wealthy, older, and growing ill in a way that made men wonder about gods and souls and all the things they should have done differently in the past.
When Samson saw the boy, he saw his own face looking back, and perhaps something else - a chance to balance things before the gods came to settle old accounts. Divine providence, he called it. Redemption with a child's eyes.
Adyn became his father's son in every sense of the word - the same sharp jaw, the same gray eyes, the same easy swagger of a person with a lot to prove and nothing to lose. Aria was the one other mercy in that house, Samson's stepdaughter from Lynessa's first marriage, and the only person who looked at Adyn without measuring what his presence cost.
The money was easy enough to wear. The rest seemed to follow him, unwelcome. Peers and their families wagged their tonges. Lynessa's mouth would thin whenever he entered a room. Even the servants had something to say about him.
So Adyn learned to move through the world as if none of it mattered - shoulders loose, smile crooked, words carrying promises he knew he wouldn't keep. He learned which of Aria's friends would meet his eyes and which wouldn't. He learned to read what small treacheries took place in drawing rooms, the way loyalty bent toward power like plants toward the suns.
And when some kept to the idea that the streets would always remain in his blood by nature, Adyn gave them exactly what they expected. The gilded pen was never meant for black sheep anyway.
At seventeen, Adyn learned what he'd always suspected: that love, even the threadbare kind, could be withdrawn with the same swiftness as it had been given.
Samson died in the night - no fanfare, just the quiet cessation that came to men who'd lived too long with doubt. Lynessa moved quickly after that. Within days, she'd arranged for Adyn to apprentice with the Alyxandas, old friends of the family, people of substance and reputation. One of them was among the few Adyn trusted, which somehow made it worse. So he took the one thing still his to take: the choice to leave.
The streets welcomed him back with indifference, which was its own kind of honesty.
He'd forgotten how hunger gnawed. How cold settled in. How the absence of Aria's voice - her way of saying his name, half-exasperated, wholly fond - could hollow out a day. But Adyn made a home again in Port Alyxandrya's shadows, and discovered he had a gift for the ungentle commerce practiced there. The coin came easier than it should have. So did the reputation.
Lynessa heard, of course. She tightened her grip on Aria, building walls between them, and the last threads binding Adyn to anything resembling home frayed, then snapped, one by one.
The thieves guild had no name that Adyn ever learned. Names, he'd discovered, were for things people wanted found. What mattered was that they took him in when he needed, and that they asked no questions about who he had once been. With them, Adyn learned the power of loaded dice, when to bluff, how to spot the silences that precluded deadly stakes. He also learned that nothing was ever free.

When the creditors came for him, they came with fists and clubs. They left him in an alley with broken ribs and barely a voice to speak with. He laid there long enough to understand that some debts compounded beyond all reckoning, and not just for the one in debt.
The decision, as such, wasn't difficult. Port Alyxandrya had given him what it could - which was everything and nothing at all. He left carrying only what fit in his pockets and could be stolen back if necessary. He also left a sister who deserved better. A city that had raised him twice and buried him once.
Adyn found himself in Aelyria Prime eventually - though "found" suggested intention, and there had been little of that. The city simply appeared one day at the end of a long road, and he was too tired to walk any further. There, in a boarding house, he finally wrote to Aria - a letter that took him three drafts and a half-bottle of cheap wine to finish.
Her response was quick and heavy with news. She had married. There would be a child. Their mother's shadow no longer fell across her, and her husband was, she promised, kind.
Come home, she wrote.
But Adyn had seen his reflection lately in shop windows and tavern mirrors. He knew what he'd become, what he carried with him. The debts were still there, of course, as debts always were, but it wasn't really about the money. It was about being the sort of brother who could stand in a doorway without apology, who wouldn't make his sister's neighbors draw their children closer when he passed.
So he enlisted. The city guard didn't ask many questions of men his age with nothing in their pockets. They gave him a uniform that almost fit and a regular pay. Honest work, he told himself. The kind that might, given enough time, scour him clean.
Unfortunately for Adyn, war forges and destroys in equal measure. The Xetan hordes moved through the borderlands, and with them came the conscription officers, their lists growing longer each day. Adyn found himself swept into service to bolster the legion's numbers.
The battles left marks that went deeper than skin. He learned the real heft of a blade, the importance of trust within a unit, the ringing that followed cannon fire, the way a man's eyes changed in the moment just before. These things became imprints that would never truly leave him in the eras to come.
The letter after, regarding Aria and her daughter, arrived on ordinary paper, in ordinary ink. The chaos of war had reached them, and they were simply... gone.
After his discharge, Adyn discovered that grief could be measured in empty bottles, that tavern floors were surprisingly accommodating, that dawn came whether he wanted it to or not. His sister had been the thread that tied him to something almost like hope. The few friends who'd seen past his worse qualities had drifted away or gone silent. And without any of the old anchors, those treacherous currents caught up to him easily enough.
The shadows he'd left behind in his youth had never really forgotten him. They simply remained, waiting for the moment he no longer had anything left to hold onto. And by then... he didn't.
So he let them take him in once more.