The rain came like knives.
Not gentle. Not cleansing. Just cold, sharp, and cruel—like the world it fell upon.
Kael Veyne trudged through the mud, his boots half-swallowed by the rotting earth of the battlefield. Around him, broken weapons jutted from the ground like gravestones. Corpses—some fresh, others days old—steamed under the touch of the storm. Crows scattered at his approach, their beady eyes already counting him among the dead.
His coat clung to his shoulders like a second skin, soaked through and torn. The Mark burned beneath it—low and constant, like a coal nestled against bone. A reminder. A curse. A promise.
Every step forward brought him closer to him.
To Eryndor.
His brother in all but blood. The one who stood beside him at the altar of oathhood, who swore the same words beneath the same stars.
The one who drove a blade through Kael's back and left him to die during the Night of the Severing.
Kael touched the hilt of his sword—Whisperfang—a jagged relic of old wars, half-sentient, always hungry. It hummed softly at his touch, metal whispering like wind through bone.
He knelt beside a dying soldier, young, barely past boyhood, blood soaking through his tunic. His eyes darted in panic, lips moving in prayer.
"Too late for gods," Kael muttered.
The boy's hand twitched toward a talisman—one of the Seven Saviors. Kael kicked it aside.
"They didn't save me either."
He stood. Left the boy to die alone, the way most did now. Mercy was a kindness the world had bled out.
---
He reached the ruined village by dusk.
Burned homes. Scattered bones. An altar to the Hollow Sun desecrated, its statue shattered, bleeding black ichor from a crack in the stone. Ritual marks were scorched into the ground. Someone had tried to summon something—and failed. Or maybe succeeded.
Kael felt it before he saw it.
The Veil was thin here.
He stepped into the chapel's remains. Inside, a figure stood cloaked in crimson, face hidden beneath a porcelain mask.
"Oathbreaker," Kael growled.
The figure chuckled, voice like knives scraping against stone. "That's rich… from a man who's more curse than flesh."
Kael drew Whisperfang. The sword screamed—high and shrill—hungry.
"I'm not here to talk."
They clashed.
The masked one moved like a phantom, blades flashing in a blur. Kael blocked, twisted, countered. Steel rang against steel. Sparks lit the shadows. The Brand burned hotter, as if feeding on the violence.
He took a cut to the ribs. Didn't flinch.
Drove Whisperfang into the mask.
It shattered.
The face behind it was hollow—literally. No eyes. No flesh. Just a void shaped like a man.
With a soundless scream, it crumbled into ash, sucked into the blade.
Kael stood over the pile of dust, breathing hard.
Another name crossed off the list.
Another step toward Eryndor.
---
He left the chapel as the sun set, a bloody smear across the sky.
The Mark pulsed again, coiling across his spine.
It was growing.
So was the thing inside him.
He didn't care.
He'd become a beast if it meant tearing down the throne his brother sat on.
And when the time came, there would be no forgiveness.
Only fire.