The war-camp sprawled like a wound across the valley. A patchwork of tents, broken walls, and fire-pits where soldiers, mercenaries, and scavengers gathered in uneasy truce. Smoke hung low, mingling with the stink of sweat, blood, and rot.
Kael kept to the shadows, hood drawn, watching. He could feel the whispers moving through the camp like wind through dry grass. Wherever he walked, heads bent closer, voices dropped to murmurs.
The Soul-Eater. The husks. The glowing eyes.
He passed a dice circle where men argued over whether he was a demon or a weapon. At the black-market stalls, merchants leaned close, trading stories as though they were worth more than bread. Even the whores spoke of him, faces pale in the firelight.
The forge thrummed in Kael's chest, as if savoring their fear. They know your name already, bearer. Let them spread it.
But Kael's jaw tightened. Fear could protect him—but it could also paint a target on his back.
He slipped into the market square, where smoke from the cookfires curled thick. Stalls offered charred meat of dubious origin, stolen armor, knives beaten out of scrap. At the center, scavenger lords barked prices, their guards watching the crowd with sharp eyes.
One lord—a fat man with a scarred scalp—slammed a knife into the table.
"Two days ago, three bands went missing. Not a trace left. You think that's war? No. Someone's stealing strength, and I'll have the bastard's head before he steals mine."
Murmurs rippled. Some nodded. Others looked away, fear plain.
Kael lingered at the edge of the crowd. He felt eyes on him—sharp, assessing.
A woman leaned against a post nearby, her armor mismatched but her stance coiled, controlled. She didn't join the rumors. She simply watched, eyes flicking over Kael once, then away.
Not fear. Calculation.
Later, near the barracks ruins, Kael overheard mercenaries muttering.
"…if the Soul-Eater's real, he'll fetch a price. The priests would pay in gold for something like that."
"…gold? I'd rather slit his throat and keep his weapon."
"…you're assuming he has one. What if it's him?"
Their voices faded as Kael slipped away, but his stomach knotted. Priests. If word reached them, if they believed he carried some relic… they would come. And priests did not hunt lightly.
That night, Kael sat alone by a guttering fire, sword across his knees. His body still hummed with stolen strength, but his mind turned in circles.
He could not remain in the shadows forever. The forge would not let him. With every soul devoured, every husk left behind, his legend grew louder.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked.
He had to choose. Hide until they dragged him into the light… or step into it on his own terms.
The forge pulsed in answer, a heartbeat of molten hunger. Rule or be ruled.
Kael raised his eyes to the smoke-choked stars. His reflection burned faintly in the black steel of his sword, inhuman and sharp.
And in the camp around him, embers of fear smoldered—ready to ignite into fire.