The text hung in front of his eyes. Plain. White.
[Status Open]
[Aether: 5]
[World: None]
[Identity: None]
[Ability: None]
Kael stared at the floating script. He had never seen anything like it before. But he remembered the moment clearly—the kill. And then, the words burning into his vision.
Only one explanation made sense.
This was a gift. A reward for blood spilled.
Kael lowered his head and drew a slow breath. Gratitude, heavy and quiet, took its place in his chest.
It was an offering. The God of Slaughter had accepted the Knight's death and offered... something in return. A contract.
Kael looked at the rows. He didn't fully understand the terms. World? Identity? They were abstract concepts. But the numbers were simple. The 5 burned brightly.
It was currency.
He mentally distributed the blood money.
[World: +1] [Identity: +1] [Ability: +3]
He poured the bulk of the essence into power. Strength was the only truth he trusted.
Confirm.
He waited.
He braced himself for the surge of heat, for the iron skin, for a weapon to materialize from the void. He waited for the God to answer.
...
Nothing.
The text flickered and vanished. The wind howled. The snow lay silent. Nothing stirred in his body. No surge of warmth followed.
Kael stood frozen for a heartbeat, his hand half-raised.
"Not enough?" he murmured to the empty air.
He lowered his hand. The meaning was clear. More killing was required.
"Fine," Kael said softly. "Then there will be more."
Survival came first. He turned away and headed for the trees.
Kael breached the treeline and made for the clearing from last night. He stopped by a young pine, snapped two low boughs, and prepared to lash them to his boots.
He froze.
Fresh powder smoothed the world. The storm had accelerated, dumping a foot of new snow that buried the blood and erased the churned earth.
Kael dropped the branches. Nature moved faster than him. To sweep now meant leaving new scars on a perfect canvas. Clean.
He left the hollow, the frozen stream lay ahead. He dug out one buried snare, then another, farther on. And another after that. All of them were empty.
He rose, taking a wide arc west to circle back to the Keep.
The Cellar
Torchlight licked the wet stone walls. Vinegar and old blood choked the air.
Sir Janson occupied the slab, stripped of his surcoat, skin shining a rigid blue-white. Captain Valen stood in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up. Only a tunic.
"Report."
The Watch Sergeant stared at the wall, blind to the meat on the table. "Found yesterday, My Lord. A patrol leader discovered the body in the northern forest and returned before nightfall."
"The northern forest," Valen repeated. "Beyond the assigned patrol routes."
"Yes."
Valen pivoted to the Leech. "The cause?"
The Leech wiped gore from his hands. "Impact. The chest plate is split by massive blunt force."
"A hammer?"
"Too sharp," the Leech countered, pointing to the jagged rent in the steel. "A wedge shape. Rough iron. It didn't just dent; it cleaved."
Valen's gaze traced the rust staining the wound. "Not a weapon of war," he murmured. "A tool. A laborer's tool." He shifted focus to the throat. "And this?"
"Butchery," the Leech said, looking the body over.
"No way to tell exactly how many times he was stabbed. Too many wounds, all running into each other. But I'd say at least twenty. Mostly to the neck. You can tell they were thrusts, not slashes."
"He was still breathing when it started. Lost blood fast—drowned in it. By the time they brought him in, his head was nearly off."
"The neck armor had been driven so deep it was tangled with flesh. Took some effort to get the metal free."
Valen went to the table where Janson's effects lay: an empty dagger sheath, a belt slashed clean through.
He tapped the dagger sheath with one finger. His eyes flicked over the table. "No sword sheath," he said. "Only a dagger. He went out arrogant."
"He'd been drinking, My Lord," the squire ventured.
"And the dagger is missing."
Valen released the belt. It fell back onto the table.
"He didn't expect a fight," Valen said, his voice cold. "But he found a war. Bandits take coin and run. They don't strip a weapon and stay to finish the work."
Valen looked at the Watch Sergeant.
An execution. The word settled in his mind. Could it have been that pack of madmen?
He turned to the door. "Get dressed. We ride. Bring the man who found him."
The Keep
Kael came in through the side gate and into the main courtyard. The afternoon light had died, leaving the air grey and heavy.
Clank, clank, clank.
The portcullis groaned upward. Smoke and steam rolled in the freezing air as hooves struck stone and the horses surged from the yard.
Captain Valen led his men. He wore no plate armor, no general's crest—only black ringmail under a heavy wolf-fur cloak. On his hip sat a single, functional short sword.
He rode a black destrier, the beast stamping, breath pluming in the cold. Behind him, a squire struggled to mount a roan horse, clutching a heavy crossbow, the wood dark and oiled, along with a quiver of iron bolts. Six guards followed.
Valen reined in his horse in front of the Patrol Leader, who was already mounted, his horse dancing nervously. He stared at the white expanse beyond the gate; the snow had obliterated the trail they left yesterday.
"The snow is deep, My Lord," the Patrol Leader said, voice tight. "The trail will be hard to read."
Valen stared at him. "You know where you found him." A command, not a question.
"Yes, My Lord."
"Then lead."
The Patrol Leader swallowed and turned his horse.
Kael slipped into the archway's shadow, breath held. The column lurched, Valen thundering past only feet away. The smell of oiled steel and wet fur washed over the gate.
They rode North. Into the white.
Kael watched them go, his grip tightening on the ash wood spear.
Valen.
The name carried weight. The Steward was a pig—greedy and lazy. But Valen was a wolf. He didn't care about quotas or coins. He hunted.
The column faded into the distance. The snow offered a shield, but Valen rode past the hidden tracks; he followed a destination.
Kael turned toward the shed. The game had changed.
The North Road
The column advanced into the open ground, the wind erasing their hoofprints almost as soon as they formed.
Captain Valen reined in, pulling alongside the Patrol Leader. "The discovery," Valen stated, voice cutting the wind. "Why were you in the northern forest? That sector is off the patrol routes."
The Patrol Leader answered. "We went to look for them, My Lord."
"Look for whom?"
"Two servants. They failed to appear at the evening count. By then, the light was failing."
Valen sat silent, his presence pressing against the man.
"The Steward assumed flight," the Patrol Leader continued, the words hurried. "But servants miss count for a reason. If they were still in the forest... animals. Or an accident. I needed to know before night closed in."
Valen turned. The flat winter light caught the sharp angle of his jaw. "Names."
"Kael. And Tom."
Valen stared into the pale, lightless woods ahead. The pieces clicked into place. Two missing rats. One dead lion.
Valen spoke without turning. "Did you find them?"
"No. When I reported in, one of the missing men was already in the Steward's rooms."
"Servants don't kill knights," Valen said softly, almost to himself. "But they might have seen something."
His eyes narrowed.
"Show me where you found the body."