Two days after the Wyrm fell, Kael had a price on his head.
Not from the creature's allies—if such a thing even existed—but from the men he once called kin.
In the fortified city of Blackridge, banners fluttered above marble towers and cold stone walls, displaying the silver wolf of House Draven.
Inside the war hall, a new poster was nailed to the center pillar:
WANTED
KAEL, the bastard of BlackridgeBranded traitor, darkspawn, sorcererReward: 500 gold crowns, dead or broken.
In the corner shadows of taverns, they whispered his new names:
"The Silver-Eyed Wyrmslayer.""The Cursed Son.""The One Who Burned Fire."
Mercenaries spoke of a boy who commanded monsters. Villagers told tales of a pale warrior who walked through flame untouched. Some said he'd sold his soul to the Old Gods. Others believed he was their return.
Kael didn't care about any of it.
But the Red Fang Cult did.
They struck during nightfall.
Kael had gone to scout ahead near the Frostmere Crossing while the Hollow Blades camped by the river.
The scent hit him first—charred flesh and spiced blood.
Then came the screams.
He ran.
Too late.
The trees surrounding the camp had been soaked in pitch and lit ablaze. Fire circled the clearing like a crown of death. The Hollow Blades were under siege—half their number already down.
He saw Hestel wrestling with a masked cultist, covered in ritual tattoos and wielding hooked blades.
Taron was pinned behind a wagon, arrows flying fast—but not fast enough.
Kael dove through flame and drove his blade into the spine of the first enemy he saw.
Then he changed.
Not physically.
But in purpose.
No more holding back.
He tore through the cultists with brutal precision. His movements flowed like water but struck like stone. His silver eyes glowed beneath the firelight.
Then he saw one of them standing still.
Not fighting. Not panicking.
Watching.
Cloaked in crimson, armored in bone and black steel, a high-ranking Fang priest.
"Kael…" the figure rasped. "Chosen of the Dark Mark. Our god has whispered of you."
Kael stood over two corpses, panting.
"What god?"
The priest grinned through teeth stained red.
"The one you carry."
Kael's chest tightened.
The sigil flared.
"You will serve," the priest said. "You were made to kneel."
Kael gritted his teeth and raised his blade. "I don't kneel."
He charged.
The priest extended a hand. Smoke erupted from the ground, and Kael slammed into a wall of invisible force, thrown back into a burning tree.
Pain exploded down his spine.
But the sigil pulsed.
"Bind."
Kael rose, broken ribs stitching themselves as he walked forward. Flames curled around his shoulders but did not touch him.
The priest's grin faded.
"You… are not ready."
Kael's blade struck.
The priest vanished in a pulse of red smoke.
Gone.
The rest of the cultists scattered when their leader disappeared.
The Hollow Blades were bloodied but alive.
Hestel had a knife buried in his thigh. Maevor coughed up blood. Taron had taken a blade to the ribs but was still breathing.
Kael walked through the ash, the dead, and the wounded like a ghost.
Vera found him staring into the woods.
"They knew your name," she said.
"I know."
"They were looking for you, not us."
"I know."
She wiped blood from her mouth and leaned on a broken spear.
"You should leave."
Kael turned, eyes narrowed. "So you're casting me out now?"
She met his gaze. "No. I'm warning you."
He looked away.
"I've walked too far to run now."
Vera tossed him a satchel. "Then take this. Food. Maps. The eastern path leads to a smuggler trail. Quiet. Off-grid. Go alone."
Kael didn't move.
He looked back at the fire, the bodies, the survivors treating wounds in silence.
"…They followed me. This was my fault."
"Maybe," she said. "But so was killing that Wyrm. And saving our skins. Don't forget that part."
Kael nodded once.
Then turned.
And walked into the dark.
He followed the river east for three days, deeper into the old roads—paths barely marked, paved with moss and bone.
The wind changed.
Something heavy loomed in the air.
And on the fourth day, he saw it.
Smoke curling in the distance. A village burning.
He sprinted through the trees and found it:
Cresthold.
Or what used to be.
Bodies littered the streets. Men, women, even children—slaughtered. Hung on pikes.
And painted across the chapel wall, in blood:
"EMBRACE THE PALE."
Kael stood still for a long time.
The sigil throbbed, but faintly. It feared something. Or someone.
He turned slowly.
And saw him.
A figure, standing alone at the edge of the field.
White robes. No face. Just a mask—smooth and featureless, like porcelain. A blade taller than any man resting on his shoulder.
Kael couldn't speak.
He felt the figure before he saw him.
Cold.
Infinite.
Like looking into the mouth of a god.
The figure tilted its head slightly.
Then turned.
And walked into mist.
Kael fell to his knees.
The Pale King… was real.
And Kael had just seen him.