The storm had passed, but the world didn't feel cleaner.
Kael's wound throbbed as he stumbled through the gnarled woods that clawed at the edge of the Blightlands. His ribs were cracked. Blood soaked through the bandage he'd wrapped with shaking hands. The fight had cost him. Again.
Whisperfang dragged behind him, thirsty and restless, biting into the dirt like it resented not being fed.
The Mark on his back pulsed with heat—slow and rhythmic, like a second heartbeat. It was always worst after a kill. Like it was waking up. Stretching. Smiling.
He didn't know what it would become when it was fully awake.
Didn't care.
He collapsed against a twisted tree, exhaling like a dying beast. Pain flared across his side, his vision dimming.
And then he heard it—singing.
Soft. Hollow. In a tongue older than the Empire itself.
He forced his head up.
There, standing barefoot on the roots, was a girl. Barely sixteen. Draped in a ragged gray cloak, face shadowed by a veil. Her hair was bone-white. Eyes… wrong. Too deep. Like pits carved into her soul.
Kael reached for his sword.
"Don't," she said—voice barely a whisper.
He froze.
She knelt beside him and reached out. Her fingers brushed his side, and the Mark recoiled. For the first time in weeks, the pain in his back lessened. Just for a moment.
"You're cursed," she said simply.
"Everyone is," he growled.
"Not like you."
Her hand hovered over his ribs. A dull golden glow flickered from her palm, and Kael felt the bones shift—reset. Flesh knit back together, ugly but solid.
"You're a witch."
"I'm what's left of one."
He pushed himself up with a grunt. "You heal everyone who bleeds in the dirt, or am I special?"
"You're loud," she said, standing. "The dead followed you. One of them tried to wear a mask. I saw it."
He stared at her.
"You were watching?"
She nodded.
"Why?"
"Because you're going to kill a king."
Kael stiffened.
She tilted her head. "The one with the crown of flame. Your blood brother. The one who wears a name that doesn't belong to him anymore."
"…Eryndor."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"He dreams of a throne made of marrow. He's building it now."
Kael's fingers tightened around Whisperfang's hilt.
"You're coming with me," he said.
"No."
He blinked. "No?"
"I'll show you where to walk," she said. "But I don't follow men who walk in fire. I walk beside them."
Kael stared at her for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
"What's your name?"
The girl paused. Then whispered:
"Sera."
---
Later that night, by firelight—
Sera sat silently, fingers tracing ancient runes in the dirt. Kael watched her through half-lidded eyes.
"The Mark," he muttered. "It's growing."
"I know."
"What happens when it covers me?"
She didn't answer.
Kael leaned back against the tree, staring at the stars he no longer believed in.
"Whatever happens," he said, "I'll make him pay first."
Sera's eyes flickered in the firelight.
And somewhere far north, in a black tower beyond mortal sight, Eryndor awoke from a dream of blood and flame…
…and smiled