Kael moved like a storm through the undead horde.
His broken blade carved through brittle bones and rotting flesh, but with every strike, his cursed sigil pulsed hotter, its dark power seeping into his veins. The whispers in his mind grew louder, their voices ancient, insidious.
"Take more."
"Devour."
"Become."
A skeletal knight lunged, rusted sword swinging. Kael caught the blade mid-strike with his gauntleted hand, twisting it free with unnatural strength. His own ruined weapon shattered through the knight's skull, reducing it to dust.
But something was wrong.
Each kill sent another pulse of dark energy through him. His vision flickered, shadows twisting unnaturally at the edges. His breath came fast, his muscles burning—not from exhaustion, but from something else.
The curse was feeding.
He risked a glance at his arm. The sigil had spread, black veins crawling up his flesh like living chains.
"Damn it."
A sorcerer's corpse raised a skeletal hand, hissing an incantation in a forgotten tongue. Green fire lanced toward him.
Kael raised his own hand in instinct—
And the magic stopped.
The necrotic energy hung in the air between them, writhing like a captured serpent. Kael's cursed eye burned brighter, and with a flick of his fingers, the magic turned back upon its caster.
The sorcerer screamed as its own spell consumed it.
Kael staggered, his breath sharp.
"That… wasn't mine."
His stomach twisted. He had stolen that power. Absorbed it, turned it against its wielder. That was the curse's doing.
A slow clap echoed through the chamber.
Kael turned sharply, his blade still raised.
The hooded figure watched from the shadows, its skeletal fingers interlaced. Amused.
"Fascinating."
Kael exhaled sharply. He was done playing games.
"You knew this would happen." His voice was low, dangerous. "What the hell is this curse?!"
The figure tilted its head.
"It is a gift. A throne in the making."
Kael's grip on his sword tightened.
"Enough riddles."
The hooded figure stepped forward. The library's darkness recoiled, revealing more of its form—beneath the golden hood was not flesh, but bone, wrapped in the remnants of royal garments.
"You are not the first to bear the Mark of the Hollow King," the figure murmured. "And you will not be the last."
Kael felt ice crawl up his spine.
The Mark of the Hollow King.
He had heard that name once before—buried in the old histories, whispered in fear. A curse placed upon those who challenged the throne of Varethis. A curse that never truly died.
"You lie."
The skeletal figure let out a dry, brittle chuckle.
"Then tell me, cursed one—why do the dead now kneel?"
Kael turned, his pulse hammering.
The remaining undead… had stopped fighting.
One by one, they lowered their weapons—and knelt before him.
Not in mindless hunger. Not in rage.
In recognition.
Kael's chest tightened.
This wasn't just some curse. It was a claim.
And whether he wanted it or not… the throne of blackened bones was already reaching for him.
---
End of Chapter 5