Kael remained kneeling on the cold stone floor, his breath heavy, his hands shaking. The whispers had faded, but their echoes still lingered in his mind.
The undead had collapsed around him, their bodies motionless, stripped of the dark magic that had reanimated them. The sigil on his arm still burned, though its glow had dimmed.
He forced himself to stand. His sword, chipped and cracked, felt heavier than before.
"I need to get out of here."
The ruined library was suffocating, filled with the scent of ancient dust and lingering death. He turned toward the crumbling archway, his boots crunching over brittle bones.
Yet as he moved, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was still watching.
The skeletal figure had vanished, but its words remained:
"The throne does not ask for permission… it only waits."
Kael scowled and shoved the thought away.
He had spent years resisting the curse that had plagued him. He wasn't about to fall now.
He stepped out of the ruined library into the open night air. The sky above Varethis was wrong—the stars, once familiar, seemed twisted, as if shifted out of place. A cold wind cut through the shattered streets, carrying with it the distant sound of something moving in the ruins.
Something not dead.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword.
"I'm not alone."
He stepped cautiously through the ruins, his cursed eye scanning the darkened streets. The city was a graveyard of stone and shadow, once the heart of an empire, now a forgotten corpse. But something still lived here.
And it was watching him.
Then—
A flicker of movement.
Kael spun just as an arrow shot from the darkness.
He barely managed to twist aside, the arrowhead grazing his shoulder before embedding itself in the wall behind him. He hissed, his cursed eye flaring as he searched for his attacker.
From the broken rooftops, figures emerged from the shadows—cloaked warriors, their faces hidden behind dark masks.
Not undead. Not beasts.
Hunters.
Kael exhaled sharply. Mercenaries? Bandits? No… these were trained killers.
A second arrow loosed—this time aimed for his throat.
Kael moved on instinct. His cursed sigil flared, and in an instant, the arrow halted midair.
The magic that surged through him was unfamiliar—cold, unnatural. The arrow trembled, then snapped in half before falling to the ground.
The nearest hunter hesitated.
Then, a voice from the rooftops:
"He is marked."
A woman stepped forward, her figure wrapped in midnight-colored armor. Her face remained hidden behind a silver-plated mask, but her eyes—golden, piercing—locked onto him with something between curiosity and recognition.
"Kael Valtheris."
Hearing his name sent a cold jolt through his veins.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The woman tilted her head slightly.
"You bear the Mark of the Hollow King," she said, ignoring his question. "But you fight against it. That makes you… interesting."
Kael's fingers twitched.
"I don't have time for riddles."
The woman let out a quiet laugh.
"Neither do I."
Then, in the span of a breath, she drew twin daggers—and the hunters attacked.
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End of Chapter 7