The tavern stank of blood and cheap ale.
Kael Aranthor wiped his blade on the dead man's tunic, his breath steady despite the carnage around him. Three bodies lay sprawled across the sticky floor, their blood pooling between the cracks of worn wood. The fourth—a wiry cutthroat with a dagger still clutched in his stiff fingers—had been the last to fall.
"Shouldn't have tried to cheat me," Kael muttered, sheathing his sword.
The barkeep, a grizzled man missing an ear, scowled from behind the counter. "Get out. I don't need your kind of trouble."
Kael tossed a silver coin onto the bar—more than enough to cover the damages. "Tell the others who sent you. Maybe the next fools will think twice."
Outside, the night air was thick with the scent of damp stone and distant smoke. The city of **Veldros** never slept, but its streets grew quieter in the shadowed hours. Kael adjusted the worn leather straps of his armor, the familiar weight a comfort. Five years as a sellsword had taught him this much: trust no one, expect betrayal, and always leave before the real trouble started.
He was halfway to the docks when the pain struck.
A searing heat erupted across his left palm, sharp as a brand. Kael hissed, clutching his hand to his chest. The skin beneath his glove burned like molten iron. He ripped the leather off—and froze.
A jagged black mark, like a twisted rune, pulsed against his flesh. It writhed, as if alive, tendrils of darkness creeping up his wrist.
**"What in the hells—?"**
A voice cut through the silence behind him. "That, mercenary, is your death sentence."
Kael spun, sword half-drawn before his mind caught up. A woman stood in the alley's mouth, her hooded cloak hiding all but the glint of her eyes. She moved like shadow given form, effortless and silent.
"Who are you?" Kael demanded, flexing his marked hand. The pain had dulled to a throb, but the sigil remained, stark against his skin.
"The Church calls it a **Ruinmark**," she said, ignoring his question. "A curse. A blessing. Depends on who you ask." She stepped closer, moonlight catching the hilt of a dagger at her belt. "Right now, it means every templar in this city is hunting you."
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. "I didn't ask for this."
"Doesn't matter." She tilted her head. "You killed a man tonight. A man with the same mark as yours. When one bearer dies, the power passes to his killer."
The cutthroat. The cheating bastard in the tavern. Kael's stomach twisted. **"What power?"**
The woman smiled, thin and sharp. "Try it. Call to it."
He didn't want to. Every instinct screamed to walk away, to flee this madness. But the mark pulsed again, a whisper in his veins.
Kael clenched his fist—and the world **burned**.
Darkness surged through him, raw and hungry. His muscles writhed, strength flooding his limbs like liquid fire. The alley sharpened—every scent, every sound, every flicker of movement suddenly clear. He could hear the woman's heartbeat. Smell the iron tang of blood still on his blade.
And then—**rage**.
A snarl tore from his throat. His vision blurred at the edges, crimson creeping in. The woman's dagger was in her hand now, her stance wary.
"Control it," she snapped. "Or it controls you."
Kael gritted his teeth, forcing air into his lungs. The darkness recoiled, slithering back beneath his skin. The mark still burned, but the fury faded, leaving him shaking.
"What… is this?" he gasped.
"Power," she said simply. "Old power. The kind the Church butchers people for." She sheathed her dagger. "You have two choices, Kael Aranthor. Run and die. Or come with me and learn what that mark truly means."
His name on her lips sent a chill down his spine. "How do you know who I am?"
"Because," she said, pulling back her hood, "I was sent to find you."
Recognition hit like a hammer.
The last time he'd seen that face, he'd been seventeen, standing in the ruins of his family's estate, surrounded by corpses.
**"Lirya?"**
Her smile held no warmth. "Hello, Kael. Long time no see."
Kael's fingers twitched toward his sword.
Lirya hadn't aged a day in ten years. Same sharp cheekbones, same piercing green eyes—like sunlight through forest leaves. But the girl he'd known had been soft-spoken, quick to laugh. This woman was carved from ice and steel.
"You're supposed to be dead," he said.
Her lips curled. "So are you."
A shout echoed from the street behind them. Torchlight flickered against the alley walls. The Church's hunters were coming.
Lirya grabbed his wrist—the marked one—and pain lanced up his arm. "Move. Or we die here."
He yanked free but followed as she darted down the alley. The mark throbbed with every step, a drumbeat of warning. They slipped through a rusted gate, into the stinking maze of Veldros's undercity. The air here reeked of sewage and rotting fish. Kael's boots splashed through foul puddles, his breath ragged.
"Why now?" he demanded as they ducked beneath a low arch. "Why come back after all this time?"
Lirya didn't slow. "Because the mark chose you. And the Church won't let you live once they know."
Another burst of pain shot through his palm. Kael hissed, stumbling. The darkness inside him stirred, whispering promises of strength, of vengeance. He clenched his teeth. **Control it, or it controls you.**
A crash behind them. Armored boots on stone.
"They're tracking the mark!" Lirya shoved him into a narrow crevice between two crumbling buildings just as three templars rounded the corner. Their polished breastplates gleamed under the moonlight, the sunburst sigil of the Eternal Light etched into the steel.
Kael held his breath. One templar paused, scanning the shadows. His hand rested on the hilt of a curved blade—**sunsteel**, deadly to anything touched by dark magic.
The mark on Kael's palm burned hotter.
The templar's head snapped toward their hiding spot. "Here!"
Lirya cursed. "Run!"
They bolted. A crossbow bolt whizzed past Kael's ear, embedding itself in a wooden post. He drew his sword, the weight familiar, but Lirya grabbed his arm. "Fight them, and you'll bring the entire garrison down on us!"
Another bolt. This one grazed his shoulder. Warm blood seeped into his tunic.
Rage flared. The mark pulsed, darkness surging through his veins. His vision tinted red. **Kill them. Tear them apart.**
"Kael!" Lirya's voice cut through the haze. "Don't let it take you!"
He snarled but forced the anger down. They sprinted through twisting alleys, leaping over crates and dodging laundry lines. The templars' shouts grew fainter, but Kael knew they wouldn't stop. The Church never did.
Finally, Lirya dragged him through a rotting door into a dimly lit cellar. Barrels of salted fish lined the walls, the stench overwhelming. She barred the door behind them and turned, pressing a dagger to his throat in one fluid motion.
"Prove you're still you," she demanded.
Kael didn't flinch. "You cried when you scraped your knee climbing the old oak by the river. I carried you back to the manor on my back."
Her blade didn't waver. "And what did I give you after?"
"A silver locket. Ugly thing. You stole it from your mother's jewelry box."
A beat. Then she lowered the dagger. "Good enough."
Kael rubbed his throat. "You've gotten mean."
"And you've gotten slow." She tossed him a rag for his bleeding shoulder. "We can't stay here long. The templars will scour every inch of this district."
He pressed the cloth to the wound, wincing. "Start talking. What is this mark? Why does the Church want it dead?"
Lirya leaned against a barrel, arms crossed. "It's called **Vor'shal**—the Blood Rune. Ancient magic, from before the Church's rise. They thought they'd destroyed them all."
"But they didn't."
"No. A few survived. Hidden. Passed down through blood or violence." She nodded at his hand. "When you killed that man in the tavern, his mark became yours."
Kael stared at the twisting black lines. "What does it do?"
"Gives you power. But it's not a gift—it's a pact. The more you use it, the more it consumes you." Her gaze flickered. "Men who lose control become monsters. The Church calls them **Ruinborn**."
A chill crawled down his spine. "And you? Do you have one?"
Slowly, she peeled back her left sleeve. A matching mark coiled around her forearm, but hers was older, the edges faded silver.
Kael exhaled sharply. "How long?"
"Since the night your family died."
Silence.
Then—"You were there." It wasn't a question.
Lirya's face hardened. "I tried to save them. But I was too late. Just like you were."
The memory flashed—smoke, screams, his father's body slumped over the shattered dining table. Kael's fists tightened. "Who gave you the mark?"
"A man you'll meet soon enough." She pushed off the barrel. "He's the reason I found you. The last living Aranthor shouldn't be wasting his life as a hired blade."
Kael barked a laugh. "What should I be doing, then? Rebuilding my noble house?"
"Fighting back," she said simply. "The Church murdered your family because they feared what your bloodline could become. Now, with the mark, you're exactly what they dreaded."
Outside, distant shouts echoed. The hunt wasn't over.
Lirya moved to a rusted grate in the floor. "There's a tunnel here. Leads to the docks. We'll find a ship there—one that can take us to the **Blackreach Vale**."
Kael didn't move. "Why would I go with you?"
"Because you want answers. And revenge." She lifted the grate, revealing a yawning darkness below. "Or are you content to keep running?"
The mark pulsed, as if laughing.
Kael sheathed his sword and followed her down.