Kael returned to camp at dusk. The sky was dim and bruised, the dying light caught behind a veil of smoke. The soldiers who saw him approach said nothing at first. They stood in their armor, faces drawn and hollow from battle, yet something in their eyes flickered with unease. Even the horses shifted and whined when he passed, their nostrils flaring as if catching a scent that should not exist.
The camp itself was in disarray. Fires burned low, men huddled in quiet circles, and healers worked in tense silence. Yet as Kael stepped through the rows of tents, a path opened for him, not out of reverence, but fear. No one dared speak to him. His armor still smoked, faint trails of ash lifting from the joints. The blood on his sword had not dried, and the steel hummed softly as though something alive still clung to it.
He reached his tent and stopped. Inside, a small lantern burned on the table, its light dim against the dusk. He sat down heavily on the stool and placed his sword on the ground beside him. His hands trembled faintly when they met the edge of the wooden table. For a moment, he stared at his reflection in the steel of his gauntlet. His face looked almost human again beneath the grime, yet his eyes were hollow pools of gray. He blinked once and saw nothing behind them.
The tent flap moved. A young soldier hesitated in the opening. His armor was too large for him, his voice quiet when he spoke. "Sir Kael. Commander Equito requests a casualty report. She said you should rest first, but the king's scribes will want numbers."
Kael turned his head slowly, and the boy froze. "Numbers," Kael said, his tone as flat as stone. "There are no bodies to count."
The boy swallowed, his throat working hard. "Sir, we need-"
Kael stood, and the boy stopped breathing. The knight's shadow filled the tent, his eyes empty, his body moving with an unnatural stillness. He walked past the boy without another word, leaving the tent open behind him. The air felt heavier after he left, as if the light itself dared not follow.
Outside, a few soldiers were gathered around the fire. They looked up as Kael approached. The firelight reflected faintly in his armor, and for a heartbeat, they saw their own faces in it. One man lowered his gaze. Another whispered to his companion, too softly for Kael to hear, yet he caught every word. "He killed them all by himself. Gods above, what kind of man does that?"
Kael stopped. The whisper died. His expression did not change. He sat by the fire without a sound. The soldiers shuffled away one by one, their unease spreading like smoke. Soon he was alone again, watching the fire crackle and sputter.
He did not feel tired. He did not feel hungry. He only watched. The flames reflected in his eyes, twisting like something alive. For a moment, he thought he saw faces in the embers. Familiar ones. Seret's laughter. Equito's cold stare. His father's voice echoing like it came through water.
He blinked, and the faces were gone.
A soldier approached cautiously. The man carried a bowl of broth, shaking slightly as he offered it. "You should eat, sir. You fought longer than any of us. Commander's orders."
Kael looked at the bowl, then at the man. "Do you fear me?"
The soldier hesitated. "No, sir."
"You should."
The words came out so softly that the soldier almost thought he imagined them. Kael took the bowl and drank, his movements calm and deliberate. When he finished, he handed it back. The soldier bowed and retreated, nearly tripping over the uneven ground in his haste to leave.
Kael stared into the fire again. The camp was quiet now, though he could hear distant murmurs in the dark. Words carried easily at night, and he knew the kind of stories they whispered. Some said he was blessed by gods of old, others said cursed. Some called him the king's revenant, a weapon given flesh.
He knew none of it mattered.
The fire flickered low. His hand drifted toward his sword, his fingers brushing against the runes etched into the blade. They pulsed faintly beneath his touch, alive, awake, hungry. He closed his eyes and listened to the faint whisper that had never left him since the day of his rebirth.
It spoke in the language of silence, in the rhythm of a heart that no longer beat for anything human.
You are not theirs. You are not his.
He opened his eyes and saw the dying flame collapse into smoke. The night swallowed the camp whole. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled.
Kael rose and looked toward the horizon where the enemy lands waited, dark and endless. His hand found the hilt of his sword again. For a long time, he stood there, motionless, the only living figure in a sea of shadow and ash.