The sun had sunk low behind the trees, casting long, jagged shadows across the village square. Kael Valen's footsteps were heavy as he moved through the village, his senses attuned to every sound—the soft creak of wood, the distant murmur of wind between the trees, the scuff of boots on the dirt road. It was quiet, too quiet, and Kael couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that lingered in his chest.
Something was different. Something had shifted after he left the shrine.
He had tried to ignore it—the sense of being watched, the pull he felt to return to the strange woman with silver eyes—but it gnawed at him all the same. His mind kept returning to Aurenya, the woman who had healed him, whose touch had not ignited the fire within him. Aurenya, who had said simply, "You will return."
Kael hated being pulled into mysteries. He hated feeling like there was something he couldn't control. But Aurenya—Aurenya was different. The way she had looked at him, with a knowing calm, as though she understood something about him that even he didn't, made his skin crawl.
His hands ached.
Kael stopped walking and looked down. The familiar throb had returned—deep, pulsing through sinew and bone like molten iron coursing beneath his skin. He yanked off his worn gloves, flexing his fingers. His palms were already changing, blotched with deep crimson, spreading out toward his fingertips like veins of fire beneath glass. The curse was stirring.
No wounds, no blood spilled… yet. But the red was rising all the same.
"Damn it," Kael muttered, tugging the gloves back on.
The villagers had no interest in him. That was, until they saw the bloodstained red of his cloak—the mark of the "Red Hand," a name given to him by those who whispered of his curse. They feared him. But the look in their eyes was not what bothered him. It was the silence that stretched between them, as if they were waiting for something.
"You're in a bad mood, Kael."
The voice cut through his thoughts like a sharp blade, making him pause mid-step. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, though he knew who it was before the figure stepped out of the shadows.
Silas Crow stood there, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. His black cloak swirled around him like smoke, and his smile was as sharp as ever, a twisted version of the carefree grin that Kael knew all too well.
"I could have used a warning," Kael muttered, his hand dropping from his sword. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Silas's teasing, not now.
Silas laughed, stepping closer. "What, are you afraid of a little company?" His grin widened as he assessed Kael with a raised brow. "You look like someone just stole your last drink. What's going on in that brooding head of yours?"
Kael tried to ignore the sharp, knowing edge to Silas's words. The blood mage had been his companion for longer than Kael cared to remember. They'd fought side by side, and there was no one else who knew him better, even if Kael hated to admit it.
"I'm fine," Kael growled, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.
Silas gave him a knowing look, his smirk turning into something more sardonic. "Right. Fine. Because you're never anything but 'fine.'" He waved a hand, brushing away a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "But seriously, Kael. This brooding thing? It's getting old. You've been off for days. Since you got back from that shrine, actually."
Kael shot him a glare, but Silas wasn't deterred. "You met someone, didn't you?" Silas's voice lowered, teasing. "You can't fool me. I can see it in your eyes. The way you're clenching your fists, the way your jaw's tight... Tell me it isn't a woman."
"I don't have time for this," Kael muttered, his hands flexing again at his sides.
Silas's brow twitched. He glanced down.
"Your hands," he said more soberly. "They're flaring up again, aren't they?"
Kael didn't reply. He didn't need to. The red was always the tell.
"You should be careful," Silas added in a quieter tone. "You let that curse stir too long without a release, and it takes over. We've seen it before."
Kael didn't want to think about what happened the last time he lost control.
Silas threw an arm around Kael's shoulders, trying to lighten the mood. "Right, sure. But mark my words, Kael—there's something different about you. It's not just the brooding. It's… it's her. Isn't it?"
Kael didn't answer. He couldn't answer. Because deep down, he knew Silas was right. There was something about Aurenya, something that had stirred something inside him that had been dormant for years.
But Kael wasn't the kind of man to let emotions guide him. He wasn't the kind of man who let things like feelings get in the way of his purpose.
"I don't have time for distractions," Kael finally grunted, his voice more clipped than usual. He moved past Silas, his eyes scanning the empty streets, the shadows growing long as the night pressed in around them.
Silas didn't follow immediately. He hung back, watching Kael with that sharp, knowing gaze. Finally, he spoke, quieter now, his voice almost serious.
"You know," Silas said, "you're playing with fire. She's not what you think."
Kael stopped in his tracks, his back to Silas. The words stung more than they should have.
"What the hell does that mean?" Kael's voice was low, dangerous.
Silas's smile was gone, replaced by a look that Kael knew too well. "Trust me, Kael. Some things are better left alone."
Before Kael could respond, a low, guttural growl sounded from somewhere in the shadows. A flash of movement—quick, too quick to see clearly—caught his eye. His hand went to his sword once again, his body stiffening.
Something was wrong.
A figure stepped out from the darkened alleyway at the far end of the square—a tall, imposing man cloaked in the robes of the Flame Order. His face was sharp, angular, and grim. There was a hardness to him, a coldness that Kael recognized instantly.
A priest.
Kael's blood ran cold. The Flame Order.
"Kael Valen," the priest's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "I have come for you."
The words were not a question. They were a verdict.
"Not interested," Kael said, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.
The priest didn't flinch, his expression unchanging. "The Order has deemed you an abomination. You will come with me, or I will drag you."
Silas moved closer to Kael, his voice a low murmur. "Well, it looks like we've got a fight on our hands, huh?"
Kael glanced at him, the fire in his eyes lighting up. "Not today."
But his body betrayed him.
The curse surged again, feeding on tension. His arms shook faintly, veins darkening beneath his skin, blood rushing to his hands like a tide. The red returned—his palms painted as though dipped in blood, fingers trembling, alive with restrained fury. This was no ordinary heat. This was the legacy of the Red Hands, the price of survival, the mark that made him both weapon and warning.
Without another word, Kael stepped forward, his eyes locked on the priest, his body coiled like a spring. But just before he could move, he felt it. The same prickling sensation from earlier—the feeling of being watched. He turned sharply, his senses on high alert.
There, in the shadows, he saw it: a flicker of movement, a presence too powerful to ignore.
Kael's curse pulsed, now a steady, insistent drumbeat in his veins. The red glowed faintly through his gloves. Whatever was out there, it was coming for him.
And whatever it was, it wasn't just the Flame Order.
As the priest drew closer, Kael's red hands tightened around his sword. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the real danger had yet to reveal itself.