Dreadhold was changing.
The skies had turned a bruised shade of crimson, thick with clouds that never rained. Fields once nourished by Kael's magic withered along the outer walls. Birds stopped singing. And in the silence, the people began to whisper.
"The Dread King is cursed."
Some said he'd angered the gods. Others spoke of shadows moving in daylight, of children waking from nightmares with Kael's name on their lips.
Even among the Thorns, concern brewed. They watched their king closely—but from a distance.
Kael sat alone in the highest chamber of the keep, the wind howling through shattered windows. His armor lay discarded at his feet. His hands trembled, black veins flickering beneath his skin. The Second Mark, carved across his chest like burning coal, pulsed with each breath.
Voices haunted him—low, guttural, ancient.
"You were born of rage. You were never meant to be free."
He pressed a bloodied hand to his temple. "Not now… Not yet…"
And when footsteps echoed behind him, he didn't turn.
"I said leave me."
"I won't."
Lyra's voice, sharp and trembling, cut through the darkness.
He stood slowly, eyes dim. "You shouldn't be here."
She marched forward, fury clashing with tears. "Neither should you be dying alone."
Kael looked away. "I can feel it crawling under my skin, Lyra. This thing… it's waking up inside me. I don't know how much longer I can hold it."
Lyra stepped closer, tears burning down her cheeks. "Then let me help you! Gods, Kael, I see you. Why won't you let me reach you?"
He growled under his breath. "Because if you stay close—if you see what I become—you'll never look at me the same again."
"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered.
"You should be."
She slapped him.
Not out of hate—but desperation.
The sound cracked the air. Kael staggered, stunned. She stood there, breathless, shaking.
"Damn you," she cried. "You are not alone! I don't care if you fall into the abyss—I'll stand at the edge and pull you back, even if it drags me with you!"
His hands clenched. "You don't understand. The god in my dreams—it's real. It knows me. It's inside me."
"Then let it come!" she shouted. "Because I won't lose you. Not again. Not like this."
He sank to his knees, breath ragged. She knelt with him, pulling him close. He didn't resist. Their foreheads touched.
It wasn't romantic.
It was raw.
It was real.
Beneath the castle—far below the foundation stones—the ground shook.
In the deepest crypts of Dreadhold, where ancient seals had slumbered untouched, one cracked.
The traitor stood before it, hooded and still.
A voice spoke from the seal, a whisper like breaking glass. "He is almost ready."
"Then we begin," the traitor replied, pressing a hand to the stone.
A pulse of dark magic rippled outward.
Somewhere in the castle, the Eye awoke.
That night, Kael's sleep was shattered.
He dreamed of blood.
Of ash.
And of Lyra's lifeless body cradled in his arms—her eyes wide with fear, not love.
He turned, shaking, and saw the Eye. Towering. Watching. Gleaming red in the void.
And it spoke.
"You were forged in betrayal. Molded in wrath. You are mine, Kael. You always were."
He woke with a scream, drenched in sweat.
And the Mark burned brighter than ever.
The chains of the past are breaking. The darkness Kael tried to bury now walks beside him—and soon, it will speak with his voice. But will love be enough to hold back the abyss… or will it be the first thing consumed?