One night, Kael watched the survivors pray. Hands pressed together, eyes upward, words spoken to the sky that gave no answer. For a moment he envied their faith, the comfort of belief. But the gods were silent, and Kael knew that only he and the Sight mattered now.
Restlessness drove him to the outer walls. The wind bit at his skin, carrying ash and whispers. Shadows of the dead moved int he distance, flickering just at the edge of vision. Each movement caused the light beneath his skin to pulse.
The hollow calm he had felt after his first feeding was gone. Instead, Kael was aware of what he had become: a vessel for power, a conduit of the dead. He pressed a hand to his temple, eyes squeezed shut, and the whispers receded for only a moment.