Chapter 112 – The Shadow of Vengeance
Sleep came to Kael only in fragments. His mind was a battlefield of its own—Druaka's last words, the blood on his hands, the look of terror in his people's eyes when he lost control.
But that night, something else came.
The dream was not soft, not merciful. It was a vision.
He stood in the Hollow, but it was empty—houses burned, walls broken, the council chamber reduced to rubble. Smoke clawed at the sky, and the ground was littered with the corpses of his people. Druaka lay among them, her eyes vacant, her lips still moving silently.
"Don't blame him…"
The words echoed, sharp as daggers. But this time, her lips moved again, forming new words.
"Make them pay."
Kael jolted awake, breath ragged, sweat rolling down his face. The fire in his hearth had long since died, leaving only cold embers. He looked at Lyria sleeping beside him, her expression soft, fragile. His hand lingered in the air, as though to brush her cheek—then drew back.
He could not rest. Not while this weight crushed him. Not while Arden's armies marched.
Quietly, Kael slipped from the bed and out of his home. Umbra slithered from the shadows to his side, no questions asked, only silent loyalty. Together, they vanished into the night.
The first camp he found was massive, spread along a narrow clearing where the army had stopped to rest. Soldiers snored in their tents, horses tethered, the night guards pacing lazily, unaware of the storm descending upon them.
Kael did not announce himself. He unleashed chaos.
Shadows erupted like spears, skewering tents and men alike. Fire poured from his hands, black and violet, consuming everything it touched. Screams tore through the night as men stumbled from their shelters, only to be met with claws of shadow that dragged them screaming into nothingness.
He moved through them like a reaper, his grief feeding every strike. Faces flashed before him—Druaka, Rogan, Varik, Lyria—all the people he swore to protect, all the lives that might be lost if he hesitated.
"You took her from me," Kael snarled, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "So I will take everything from you."
A knight charged him, blade raised. Kael seized him by the throat, crushing it with one hand before tossing the corpse into a burning tent. Arrows whistled from the treeline—Kael raised a hand, and a wall of shadow deflected them, sending them spiraling back into their archers.
The chaos spread faster than fire. Men fled, their discipline shattered. But Kael was merciless. He hunted them through the trees, shadows slithering into their mouths, suffocating them from within.
By dawn, the camp was gone. Only smoldering ash and twisted corpses remained.
But Kael did not stop.
For two days, he struck every outpost, every supply chain, every reinforcement camp in his path. He was tireless, relentless—a predator fueled by grief. Where Kael walked, armies broke.
By the third night, word of him spread ahead of his steps. Men abandoned their posts, commanders cursed his name, entire units deserted rather than face him.
But Kael wasn't finished.
His grief had sharpened into something else. A purpose.
The vision had led him here, to the gates of Arden itself.
The kingdom's capital rose like a fortress from the earth, its walls tall and gleaming, torches burning across its battlements. Before the gates, an army waited—thousands of men in polished armor, shields raised, banners snapping in the cold wind. The air hummed with tension, their fear barely contained by discipline.
And Kael stood alone before them.
The chaos within him stirred, a storm coiling just beneath his skin. Umbra writhed around him like a cloak, shadows licking at the edges of his frame. He looked at the army, then at the towering gates behind them, and felt only the weight of Druaka's last breath pressing against his chest.
His grief whispered. His vision demanded. His rage answered.
Kael stepped forward.
The army braced.
The war for Arden was about to begin.