There were cheers when he returned.
Crimson banners fluttered like flames in the sky. The scent of fireworks hung heavy in the air, and children ran behind his hover-chariot, chanting his name.
"Kael of Atvia! Kael the Unbroken! Kael the Hero!"
Kael didn't smile.
Not because he was above it—he used to live for this. The attention, the praise, the way soldiers stiffened at his presence, the way nobles fumbled over themselves to shake his hand. But not today. Today, everything felt brittle. Like glass pretending to be steel.
The medallion they pinned to his chest felt heavier than the armor he once wore. The King himself placed it there, golden robes trailing behind him like lies spun into silk.
"You are the reason we still draw breath, Kael," the King said, his voice strong and sure. "All of Atvia owes you its life."
Kael nodded. He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
---
Later that night, in the silence of his private chambers, Kael peeled off the layers of ceremonial garb and touched the wound on his side. It pulsed with an angry, unnatural throb.
He tried to summon his energy, his aura—nothing.
Tried again.
Still nothing.
He clenched his fists until blood dripped from his palm.
"You don't look too good," a voice said behind him.
Calen.
His best friend. Loyal. Clever. Too curious for his own good.
Kael turned and forced a weak smile.
"I think… I've lost it," Kael whispered.
Calen's eyes widened. "Permanently?"
"I don't know."
Calen helped him sit. Said all the right things. Promised to keep the secret. Swore he'd help him find a cure.
Kael believed him.
That was his second mistake.
---
They came for him three days later.
Knights. Not his. These wore the royal crest.
They arrested him on charges of treason, corruption, consorting with enemy forces. Laughable, if not so devastating.
He looked for Calen. No sign.
He looked for the King. A cold nod, then a turned back.
They stripped him of his title, his command, his lands. Called him "Kael the Black." Said he had fooled the nation for years, leeching off their trust. The same people who had thrown flowers in his path now threw stones.
By the end of the week, he was living in the gutter.
No one would speak to him. Not even the whores.
---
When the cold rain came, he wrapped himself in scraps and mud. His name meant nothing now. Children mocked him. Drunks shoved him for amusement. Once, a boy barely tall enough to reach his waist called him a "failed freak."
He said nothing. Just stared into puddles, hoping maybe his reflection would show something of who he used to be.
---
Then came the black market.
He was captured while asleep in the alley behind a collapsed tavern. Chained, drugged, dragged like a dog to the deepest part of the city, where rot stank in the bones of the walls.
"Former Hero of Atvia," the announcer proclaimed, lifting Kael's chin by the hair. "Untouched. Broken, but handsome. Strong bloodline. Good teeth."
He couldn't even lift his head to protest.
Wealthy women and shadowed figures circled him like vultures over carrion. Some mocked. Some licked their lips. All bid.
Then he saw him.
The King.
Sitting at the back of the auction, flanked by his new generals. The ones Kael had trained.
Their eyes met.
Kael thought—just for a moment—that maybe the King had come to save him.
But the King looked at him.
And then looked away.
---
Rage bloomed like poison in Kael's throat. The kind of rage that eats your bones from the inside. His hands trembled as he reached inward—toward the core he knew was fractured beyond repair.
But he didn't care.
He would burn it all.
He detonated it.
His soul screamed.
Energy flared from his chest like a dying star, sparks tearing through his limbs. The world went red. Then black. Then nothing.
---
When he woke, he was in a dumpster behind the auction house, broken beyond human recognition. He couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Something was cracked inside his lungs, and his left eye was blind.
He had sacrificed everything.
And it had amounted to nothing.
The finality of that broke something in him.
Not his bones.
Not his spirit.
Something deeper.
Something essential.
---
And it was then—when the last ember of hope had rotted to ash—that the shadows around him moved.
They didn't creep. They didn't slither.
They simply arrived.
A form coalesced from the darkness. Humanoid. Tall. Cloaked in ink and shadow, face hidden beneath a crown of bent horns. Its voice was velvet and stormclouds, soft enough to cradle a lullaby, deep enough to echo through eternity.
"You have fallen far, Kael of Atvia."
Kael didn't speak.
He couldn't.
The being tilted its head, and Kael felt seen—not just his face, but the entirety of his pain.
"I offer no pity. I offer no justice. But I offer… a bargain."
The being knelt, fingers woven from smoke brushing against Kael's ruined chest.
"Your essence. In exchange, I give you power. Not the kind you once had, no. Something older. Wilder. Purposed for one thing."
Kael's throat worked.
"Revenge?"
A pause.
"If that is what you desire, yes. Revenge."
Kael swallowed blood. "What's the catch?"
"There is always a cost. Yours is already paid." The being leaned closer. "Your soul is not being stolen, Kael. You are simply trading it. For something… more."
Kael coughed, his voice hoarse. "Who… who are you?"
The being rose to its full height, shadows dancing around its form like living ink.
"I have had many names. The Forgotten Pactbearer. The Shadow Between Flames. The one your betrayers pray to when their conscience grows cold."
Kael shivered.
Its hand extended.
Kael stared at it.
He had no more illusions. No more faith in kings or comrades. No more hope for redemption.
Only hate.
And the promise of vengeance.
He reached up—what little strength he had left—and took the being's hand.
Darkness swallowed the alley.
The Hero of Atvia was gone.
What rose in his place had no name yet.
But the world would remember it.