One of the oldest legends ever told is the war of crimson blood. The battle of the vampires and hunters that echoed through 500 years into history and the crimson Stone that followed.
He awoke in a damp cardboard box, his eyes heavy and his body cold. This was the place he had always called home, nestled between the dark, cold alleyways of Lumoria Avenue, which were covered in rainwater and morning dew.
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He stood up and rubbed his arms, trying to chase away the goosebumps. He was used to it—the cold of the morning, the craggy, uncomfortable touch of the rough ground, and the unwelcoming stares of those who crossed his path.
This was the only life he knew, the only life that made sense to someone who grew up without a home.
Since the beginning of his time on the street, Kaden Hamilton had always wondered what it would be like to have a home—a place to rest, to feel safe, to not always be hungry and thirsty. It was a nice thought, but one he tried not to dwell on.
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Kaden stood up and yawned. He patted down his dirty black jacket and wiped the dirt from his ripped pants. With a tired expression, he began to walk down the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.
He had a destination in mind, one that took him through block after block. After almost a mile of walking, he stood before the place he wanted to see: an old bookstore on the corner of Clement Street.
"Finally here," Kaden said, brushing off the sweat from his forehead as he looked up at the sign that read "Backward History."
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