"You expect me to trust a marked man?" The voice was a gravelly growl, thick with a lifetime of sand and bitter dust. It came from a man built like a boulder, scarred and weathered, his gaze fixed on Kael's arm where the spectral rot pulsed under the skin.
Kael felt the heat of his Doombrand, a constant furnace in his skull, counting down. Twenty percent. His Curse Gauge sat at twenty percent, a slow burn that promised Doomfall. The Aether Codex, a cold metallic voice, hummed low in his mind. Survive or be erased. That was the only rule. He had no time for this.
"Trust isn't a luxury out here," Kael grunted, stepping forward, his Runeslash blade catching the faint light from the oppressive Crimson Wastes sky. "Survival is. We have a shared problem." He nodded towards the far-off blare of horns, the chilling, insistent call of the Abyssal Hunt that had pursued them since the Bloodmire began to swallow the land after Varak's appearance.
Sylvara, a shadow at Kael's side, shifted her weight. Her celestial longsword hung ready, its polished surface reflecting nothing. Her frost-like eyes, usually unreadable, flickered with a raw impatience. Her divine whispers, a constant low thrum, often demanded Kael's death. He knew it. She knew he knew it. This new man, this mercenary, he just added another layer to the precarious alliance they had since the scout trap back in the labyrinth.
"He's right," Sylvara's voice, cold as etched ice, cut through the tension. She didn't look at Kael, her gaze fixed on the mercenary. "The hunt doesn't wait for pleasantries. Name?"
The boulder of a man spat. "Ragnar." His eyes, the color of bruised steel, swept over Kael's arm, lingering on the pulsing rot. He saw the subtle changes. The Bloodrot Curse. It was a faint, unacknowledged concern in Sylvara's eyes, but Ragnar's was pure, unmasked wariness. "You think a man who bleeds like that can stand?"
"He stood against the Reaver," Sylvara countered, her voice devoid of inflection, but the words held weight. Kael felt the ghostly ache of the claw-graze where the Bloodrot first subtly took root after the Reaver's scream, a constant reminder.
Kael ignored the dig. He felt the insidious whispers of the Codex, a subtle taunt about his unraveling, a promise that the curse would never fully recede. The physical decay on his arm, the rising violent urges – they were his new normal since the Bloodrot had irrevocably triggered when he unlocked Bloodweave. He forced the focus back to the immediate threat. "They're closer. How many?"
Ragnar scoffed, but his eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. "Enough. Blood Coven patrol. Too many for two, maybe enough for three. If we move now, we catch them coming through the Rust Rain zones. Gives us an edge."
A grunt, Kael thought. Not a complaint. Pragmatism. He could work with that. His System Logic, honed by years of hacking, clicked into place. The Blood Coven. They moved in formations, predictable. Exploitable. He'd broken their system before, back in the sandstorm ambush.
"Plan," Kael demanded. He didn't ask.
Ragnar barked a laugh, dry as desert wind. "You call the shots, Anomaly? After what they say about your kind?" He jabbed a thumb at Kael's chest, dangerously close to the Doombrand's symbol etched there. Kael's hand instinctively tightened on his blade. He saw Sylvara's hand drift to her own sword hilt, but not to protect him. To be ready.
"My kind?" Kael let a sliver of his bitterness show. "I'm no one's pawn. And I'm certainly not theirs." The Aether Codex, a cold eye on his defiance, seemed to hum louder in his mind. An unforeseen mutation. The words felt like a brand.
"The horns are growing louder," Sylvara stated, cutting through the standoff. Her gaze was on the distant, shimmering heat haze that signaled the approach of the Coven. "We can argue about who bleeds first, or we can bleed them."
Ragnar's jaw worked. He was still assessing Kael, the Doombrand, the unsettling shimmer under Kael's skin that hinted at the Bloodrot's subtle spread. He was reacting to Kael's "unmarked" status too, the strange quality Sylvara's divine fragments always caught.
"Fine," Ragnar finally snarled. "I know these canyons. Tight passes. Good choke points. We spring a trap. But you two follow my lead. No heroics, Breaker." The word was a sneer, a challenge.
Kael felt the familiar surge of irritation. "I follow the logic. Not your lead. Just point."
Ragnar grunted again, turning to point towards a narrow, shadowed crevice between two towering, blood-red rock formations. "They'll bottleneck there. Two, maybe three at a time. I'll take the front. You, Blade-Dancer, watch my back." He nodded at Sylvara. "You," he said, looking at Kael, his gaze lingering on the claw-grazed arm, "you keep their flanks clear. Don't let them spread out. And don't you dare go full-rot on me."
Full-rot. The term was new. It twisted Kael's gut, a cold knot of dread. He knew what Ragnar meant. The Bloodrot's whispers were already there, subtle now, a low thrum of rising violent urges beneath the surface. He felt it pulse, a phantom throb, like a deeper heart beating under his skin.
"You'll know it when it happens," Kael said, his voice flat. He didn't like the thought of it. He didn't like that others could see it, even subtly. The Codex was always watching, always pushing. Prepare to be judged, Anomaly. He shook off the words, focused on the rock.
They moved. Kael's movements were fluid, instinctive, a phantom memory from the warrior's body he now inhabited. After his digital death, that raw, brutal combat had been his only asset. He clambered over jagged rocks, the wind whipping grit against his face. The air tasted of rust and something ancient, decaying.
They reached the vantage point. Below, the narrow pass snaked, leading directly into their trap. The sounds of the Coven grew louder—the crunch of boots on bone-dust, the clank of rusted armor, hushed, guttural chants. They were legion. An overwhelming Blood Coven patrol.
Ragnar took position, a hulking silhouette against the red sky, his massive axe already glinting. Sylvara positioned herself near him, a blur of practiced movement, her longsword held at the ready. Her internal conflict was a palpable thing, a silent battle, but her focus was on the approaching threat. She was a weapon, even if a conflicted one.
Kael moved to the flank, finding a small outcropping that offered cover. He tightened his grip on Runeslash, its surface cool against his palm. The Doombrand throbbed, reminding him of the countdown, the imperative. Survive or be erased.
The first of the Coven patrol emerged into the pass. Five grunts, cloaked in blood-stained robes, faces obscured by bone masks. They carried crude, serrated blades. More followed, a relentless tide.
"Now!" Ragnar bellowed, and he dropped from the ledge, a mountain of fury. His axe cleaved, a brutal, wet sound, as a grunt went down. Sylvara was a flash of steel, her longsword a humming blur, precise and deadly. She moved with an eerie grace, dispatching cultists with efficient, almost surgical strikes.
Kael didn't wait. He dropped into the melee, hitting the ground hard. One grunt turned, blade raised. Kael didn't think. He lashed out, Runeslash a blur, instinct guiding the blow. The grunt's arm separated from its body with a sickening snap, blood geysering. Kael moved past the screaming, dying man, focusing on the next threat.
He saw the grunts trying to spread out, to flank Ragnar. Kael roared, a guttural sound he barely recognized, and threw himself forward, cutting off their escape. His movements were raw, primal. The Bloodrot Curse hummed under his skin, a faint, unsettling thrill that sharpened his instincts, even as his arm felt subtly heavier, the spectral rot pulsing with an unsettling intensity. He ducked under a wild swing, spun, and rammed the hilt of his blade into a cultist's jaw. Bone shattered. The cultist went down, limp.
Another swung from behind. Kael pivoted, bringing Runeslash up to parry. Steel shrieked against steel. He felt the impact reverberate up his arm, a dull ache that seemed to feed the subtle burn of the Bloodrot. He didn't waste a second. He kicked, hard, at the cultist's knee, heard the pop, then a sickening crunch as he brought Runeslash down, ending the fight.
He didn't pause to breathe. He had to keep them bottled. He had to keep them from overwhelming Ragnar and Sylvara. He saw Ragnar cleaving a path through the center, a grim, efficient killing machine. Sylvara, a pale wraith of motion, was a defensive whirlwind at Ragnar's back, her sword a silver streak. She moved with a practiced precision that belied her internal struggle.
Kael pressed, driving the grunts back into the narrow pass. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood, the scent of fear, and the pervasive dust of the Crimson Wastes. He saw a cultist try to scramble up the rocky wall, attempting to find a higher ground. Kael didn't hesitate. He launched himself, using a small protrusion as a foothold, then plunged Runeslash into the cultist's back. The man gurgled, falling backwards, lifeless eyes staring at the grim sky.
The last of the Blood Coven grunts fell. The silence that followed was jarring, broken only by the rasp of Kael's own breathing and the distant, haunting echo of a horn. Not the immediate patrol, but another, further off. The Abyssal Hunt. Relentless.
Ragnar wiped blood from his axe, his chest heaving. "Dirty work," he grumbled, but his eyes held a grudging respect as he looked at Kael. "You fight like a demon, Anomaly."
Kael ignored the compliment. He felt the cold sweat on his brow, the slight tremor in his hands. His muscles screamed. The Bloodrot pulsed, a hungry demand under his skin, making his claw-grazed arm feel heavier, slightly numb. He pushed back the rising urge to tear something apart. He saw Sylvara's gaze on his arm, a flicker of something unreadable, gone quickly. Her internal struggle was a constant, subtle hum, her divine whispers reacting uneasily to Ragnar's presence and Kael's escalating anomaly status.
"They'll send more," Kael stated, his voice raw. He looked around the narrow pass, the carnage staining the red rock even deeper. The bodies of the Blood Coven grunts lay scattered, broken puppets. He smelled the iron, the dust, the faint, cloying sweetness of decay.
Ragnar nodded, grim. "Always more. The hunt never ends." He looked at Kael, then at Sylvara, then back at Kael. "This alliance. It's precarious. But it's all we have for now."
Another horn blared. Closer this time. Louder. The sound cut through the desolate air like a knife, a promise of relentless pursuit. The Abyssal Hunt continued, unrelenting. The precariousness of their new bond, forged in blood and necessity, hung heavy in the air, a fragile shield against the escalating threats of Shatterveil. The ground seemed to vibrate, a distant, ominous tremor. More Blood Coven, certainly. But Kael also felt something else, something deeper, resonating through the very rock beneath his feet. A new escalation, a new, unseen predator joining the hunt. He clutched Runeslash tighter, the cold steel a faint anchor against the rising dread.