NOVEL NEXT Chapter 1: Chapter 1: From Nothing to Something
Rynkar woke up on a hard cot in the orphanage dormitory, a thin blanket barely keeping out the cold. He was five, a skinny kid with messy black hair and a chipped tooth from a fall he couldn't recall. The room was full of old beds, loud with snoring kids and smelling of dirt and sweat. Another boy coughed in the dark, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. Rynkar held a small pebble he'd picked up outside, his only thing, and muttered to it, "I'll get out of here someday." His voice was quiet but stubborn. He didn't know his parents—they'd left him here, strangers he'd never see.
One day at seven, he got caught. He'd snuck into the kitchen to grab a piece of bread—the matron only gave them one slice at dinner. She grabbed his arm, her fingers like a claw. "Thief!" she yelled, dragging him to the dormitory. She made him stand in the corner all night, no blanket, while the other kids slept. His stomach growled, but he didn't cry. He just held his pebble tighter and thought about running away. That bread was worth it—he'd felt alive for a second, even if it hurt later.
Time passed fast. By ten, Rynkar knew how to survive—stay low, avoid the big kids, grab extra food when the matron wasn't looking. She was a tall, mean woman who yelled a lot. "No more food, you brats!" she'd shout, waving her wooden spoon like a club. One night, a bully named Tommy stole a book Rynkar had hidden—a worn-out story about a dragon rider he'd found in the garbage. Rynkar fought back, hitting Tommy in the face and cutting his lip. The matron locked him in the basement for a week as punishment, but he kept the book, holding it tight in the dark. It was his escape.
When he turned 18, he was done with that place. The orphanage felt like a jail, and he couldn't stay any longer. He packed a bag with a shirt, his falling-apart dragon book, and some bread, then left in the middle of the night. The city was tough—cold and noisy, with no one to help. He worked odd jobs: washing dishes, carrying bricks, anything to eat. He slept outside when money ran out. He didn't make friends—too risky. By 25, he got a job at a warehouse, working long hours for a guy named Carl, who shouted all the time. "Hurry up, Ryn!" Carl would snap, spitting on the floor. Rynkar kept going, even if his hands got rough and his back hurt.
By 29, he was worn out. Life had taken everything—his hands were scarred, his eyes tired, and he coughed all the time now. The warehouse was awful, and Carl made it worse. One day, Rynkar dropped a box, and it broke on the floor. Carl laughed loud. "You're no good, Ryn!" Rynkar didn't fight back—he never did—and walked home in the rain. His apartment was a mess: dirty walls, a sink full of old dishes, a bad-smelling bed. That night, he got sick—really sick. His body burned, and he coughed up blood. He pulled a torn blanket over himself and said, "Twenty-nine years, and this is it?" No one was there to answer. He took a few more breaths, then stopped. Everything went dark.
Then, a loud cry woke him up. Rynkar opened his eyes to bright light. He couldn't move right—his arms were small and chubby, like a baby's. A woman was singing a soft song he didn't understand, her voice calm and nice. A man laughed and picked him up from a wooden bed, his hands big and warm. A little girl with curly hair looked at him and smiled, touching his face with her tiny hand. The room had wooden walls and a fire going, smelling of bread and clean clothes. The woman kept singing, the man said something funny, and the girl laughed again. Rynkar had died with nothing—but now, he was born again into a place that felt like something real.