The mark on Kael's chest no longer pulsed.
It throbbed.
Every heartbeat echoed through the sigil like a second drum in his ribcage—one not entirely his own. He could feel it whispering in ways he couldn't explain. Sometimes it told him which way to go. Other times, it warned him of danger before he even saw it.
He'd spent two more days wandering the outskirts of the Witherdeep, surviving on snowmelt and whatever strange, black-rooted mushrooms he didn't recognize but somehow knew wouldn't kill him.
Something in him had changed—something that wasn't just strength or reflexes.
Memory. Language. Awareness.
Kael knew things he shouldn't. Words he'd never learned slipped into his thoughts. Names of stars. Forgotten beasts. A rune language that lit up behind his eyes whenever he blinked.
But with the power came something else:
The hunt.
It began on the fourth morning.
Kael stood atop a frozen ridge, watching smoke rise from the valley below. It wasn't natural smoke—it smelled sharp, oiled, controlled.
Campfire. Soldiers.
He crouched low and watched.
There, on the riverbank, a party of six men stood near a rowboat, dressed in Blackridge colors—grey cloaks, wolf-crested shields, and chainmail beneath leather jerkins. One of them was holding something.
A parchment.
Kael's stomach twisted.
They were bounty hunters. And the parchment was a wanted poster.
His face. Scar and all.
He listened.
"…orders from Lord Draven himself," one of them was saying. "Wanted alive if possible. Dead if necessary."
"Why dead?" another asked. "He's just a bastard."
The first one grunted. "He's not just anything anymore."
Kael didn't run.
He waited until the sun dipped behind the trees and shadows began to crawl over the ice.
Then he moved.
Quiet. Focused.
He slid down the ridge in near silence, gripping the bone-handled dagger he'd carved from the beast he'd slain. It wasn't pretty, but it felt alive in his hand.
The first man he reached didn't even hear him.
A clean slice across the throat.
No sound.
The second turned too late. Kael's knife plunged into his side, then across his throat before the man could scream.
The other four heard the collapse and turned, blades drawn.
"Who's there?!"
Kael stepped from the shadows.
Blood smeared down his arm. His silver eyes glinted in the torchlight.
"You were looking for me," he said quietly.
One of them recognized him.
"It's him! The cursed bastard! Draw blades!"
They came at him.
Kael didn't retreat.
The first soldier lunged, sword raised. Kael ducked low, drove his knife into the man's thigh, then grabbed the sword as it fell from his hand. He spun, parried a second attacker, and slashed upward through chainmail and flesh.
By the time it was over, the river ran red.
Kael stood alone, panting.
The last man—still alive—crawled backward through the snow, eyes wide with horror.
"W-who are you?"
Kael knelt beside him.
The sigil on his chest flared faintly beneath the fabric.
"I'm what your lord tried to bury."
Then he stood.
And walked away.
He didn't kill the last one.
Let him run.
Let them know what was coming.
By dusk the next day, the first whispers had begun.
Kael passed a caravan of refugees heading east. One of them muttered about a silver-eyed ghost killing knights in the woods.
In a tavern on the edge of the Borderreach, a drunk mercenary talked about a "wild demon-child with a cursed mark" who fought like a war priest and vanished into shadow.
Kael listened. Silently.
Then he left before anyone saw his face.
He made his way to a small outpost town called Threshfold—a mud-slicked, narrow village where mercenaries and exiled knights drank away their regrets. It was barely protected, just a spiked wooden palisade and one gate.
Kael slipped in unnoticed beneath a wagon.
Inside, it stank of piss, dogs, smoke, and blood. His kind of place.
He needed food. Warmth. And information.
He entered a run-down tavern called The Splintered Cup.
The room quieted when he stepped in.
He didn't look like much—a thin cloak, worn boots, and wild, uncombed hair. But the way he moved—the silence in his steps, the way his hand hovered too close to the dagger at his belt—marked him as dangerous.
He sat in the far corner, ordered dried meat and water.
That's when she walked in.
She was tall, armored in black leather, with short-cropped silver-blonde hair and a long scar across her mouth. Her blade was longer than his arm, and she wore it like it was part of her spine.
The tavern moved around her. People shifted, heads turned.
Kael watched.
She scanned the room once, then walked straight to his table.
"You're sitting in my spot," she said.
Kael shrugged. "It's empty now."
She narrowed her eyes.
Then grinned.
"Fine. You've got guts, at least." She sat.
The barkeep brought two mugs. She drank before speaking again.
"You're not from around here. What's your name?"
Kael hesitated. He didn't know if he had a name anymore. The old one didn't feel right.
"…Kael."
She nodded. "Vera. Mercenary commander. I lead a small outfit called the Hollow Blades. We do the jobs others won't."
Kael said nothing.
She looked at him again. Closer. "You're being hunted."
He stiffened.
She chuckled. "Relax. Half the people in this room are."
Kael leaned in slightly. "You know Blackridge?"
Her grin faded. "Too well."
That was all he needed to hear.
By nightfall, Vera had offered him a temporary place in her group.
"We've got a job," she said. "A good one. Dangerous. Pays well. You look like you've been through worse."
Kael hesitated.
"What's the job?"
She took a long drink, wiped her mouth, then said, "We're hunting a Wyrm. Out in the Ironfang cliffs."
Kael raised a brow. "You're joking."
"No. It's real. Big. Old. Has wings like parchment and a breath like boiling oil. It's burned down three villages already. And no lord wants to waste their knights."
Kael thought of fire.
Of betrayal.
Of what he wanted to become.
"I'm in."