The seven moons cast an eerie glow over their hideout, their silvery light filtering through the cracks in the crumbling stone walls. Shadows stretched and shifted like silent phantoms, creating a haunting, ever-changing pattern across the damp ground. The cold night air carried the distant howls of creatures lurking in the Ashlands, but inside their small refuge, there was an uneasy stillness.
Kelvin had fallen silent after his grim explanation of the power hierarchy within the Veil. His expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on something unseen, as if lost in deep thought.
Hope sat with his back against the wall, his meal long forgotten. His gaze flickered to Walker, who lay across from him, seemingly asleep. The man's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the slow pattern of his breathing giving the illusion of rest. But Hope wasn't fooled. The slight tension in Walker's fingers, the way his body remained ever so slightly coiled, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike—it was obvious.
He wasn't asleep.
"What will you do if you survive this first trial?" Hope asked, his voice low but deliberate.
For a moment, there was no response. Just the crackling of the distant fire outside their shelter and the occasional gust of wind that whistled through the ruined landscape.
Then, without opening his eyes, Walker grunted.
Slowly, he shifted onto his side, turning to face Hope. The faint glint of metal caught the moonlight—the rusted dagger still clutched in his hand, his fingers curled around the worn hilt as if he would never let it go. His grip was loose, but not relaxed. It was the grip of a man who had learned never to be unarmed.
Hope met his gaze, waiting.
Finally, Walker exhaled through his nose, his breath slow and steady.
"I will become so powerful," he murmured, his voice devoid of hesitation. His fingers tightened around the dagger, his knuckles briefly whitening. "And I will kill those who have offended me."
Hope studied him carefully. The way he spoke wasn't with reckless bravado or empty rage. It was cold. Calculated. As if this was not a desire, but a certainty.
"Offended you?" Hope repeated, his tone careful.
Walker didn't blink.
"Yes," he said. "Every single one of them."
There was something unsettling about the way he said it. Not with fire or fury, but with the chilling finality of a man who had already written his enemy's fate in blood.
Kelvin, who had remained silent until now, shifted slightly, finally turning his attention to Walker.
"You speak as if you already have a list of names," Kelvin observed.
Walker let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I do."
Hope could see it in his eyes—the weight of old wounds, grudges that had long since festered into something far more dangerous than hatred. Walker wasn't just seeking revenge. He was carrying it like a burden, like something carved into his very being.
"Who are they?" Hope asked, though he wasn't sure why.
Walker's grip on the dagger relaxed slightly, his thumb running along the dull, uneven edge of the blade. His eyes darkened.
"They took everything from me," he said simply. "Everything I ever had. Everything I ever was."
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze distant, lost in memories that Hope could only guess at.
He tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
"And when I find them?" His fingers trailed along the edge of his dagger. "I'll show them what it feels like to be powerless."
For the first time since the conversation had started, Kelvin sighed.
"Vengeance is a path with no end," he said, his tone unreadable.
Walker didn't even blink.
"That's fine."
Another silence.
Hope finally looked away, staring up at the moons. He wasn't sure how he felt about what he had just heard.
But one thing was certain.
If Walker survived this trial, someone—somewhere—was going to die.