The wind cut cold and sharp as Kael stumbled down the winding mountain path. His cloak — little more than a tattered patchwork of scavenged cloth — clung to his back, his steps leaving smears of blood in the half-frozen soil. The dull ache in his side had worsened, every breath a ragged stab of pain.
Fenrahl was gone.
After the fight with Varkas, the ancient beast had whispered something about needing to slumber, his strength spent. He'd turned to mist, coalescing into a faintly glowing crimson orb that now hung from a chain around Kael's neck.
And so, for the first time since forging their pact, Kael walked the world alone.
I can't keep going like this.
The thought gnawed at him, heavy as the wounds he bore.
Then — as the sun broke the horizon, its pale light spilling over jagged peaks — he saw it.
A town.
Not a scattered collection of huts or a village on the edge of ruin like the others he'd passed. No. This was something else.
Stone walls circled it, tall and imposing. Within, sturdy timber houses with sloping roofs lined clean cobbled streets. Market stalls crowded a bustling square, and colorful banners hung from arched gateways. The distant clang of hammers and the scent of baked bread drifted on the wind.
It was civilization.
And danger.
Kael pulled the hood of his cloak lower, masking his dark skin and hiding the small, cursed horn at his temple beneath fabric and a tangled mop of black hair.
They'd kill me if they knew.
His kind weren't welcome in places like this. No monster was.
But he couldn't survive out here, not like this. He needed healing. And information.
He crossed the threshold into the town with a silent prayer to whatever old gods still listened.
Navigating the streets proved harder than expected.
Every step brought wary glances. Every merchant's call and guard's stride made Kael's hand drift to the hilt of his dagger. His wounds throbbed, and darkness prickled at the edge of his vision.
He caught fragments of conversation as he passed — about beasts spotted in the hills, missing caravans, a hunter with one eye who'd passed through days before.
Varkas. He was here.
Kael ducked his head and pressed on.
At a tavern doorway, two drunk adventurers argued over some bounty notice, a crude drawing of a monster with a horn.
His stomach tightened.
I need a healer.
Then — a voice.
"Hey, you. You look half-dead."
Kael froze.
A young woman stood by a market stall, her arms crossed, silver hair spilling from beneath a traveler's hood. She wasn't dressed like a villager — layered tunic, leather vambraces, a slender sword at her hip. Her pale violet eyes pinned Kael in place.
"You need help or you gonna drop dead in my street?"
Kael hesitated. "I… I need a healer."
She frowned, stepping closer. "You're not from around here."
Dangerous. She could be a scout, a hunter. Or worse.
But there was no malice in her gaze. Only curiosity. And something else. Weariness, maybe. A survivor's look.
"Name's Seris." She offered a hand. "Lucky for you, I know someone who can patch up wounds like those."
Kael eyed the hand, then took it.
Seris led him through twisting alleys, away from the market, until they reached a narrow, almost-forgotten lane. A small shop stood at its end — faded paint, a crooked sign with a sunburst symbol.
Inside, an old healer hunched over a desk cluttered with herbs and glowing crystals. The room smelled of lavender and something sharp and metallic.
Seris spoke low. "Friend of mine. He won't ask questions."
Kael let himself be guided onto a cot.
The healer glanced at him, grunted, and set to work.
Pain flared as salves were applied, wounds stitched, potions poured down his throat. But relief followed — a cool, numbing calm.
When it was done, Kael sat upright, feeling stronger than he had in days.
Seris leaned against the doorway, watching him.
"You're carrying something strange," she said finally. Her eyes flicked to the faint crimson glow beneath his cloak — the Blood Stone.
Kael stiffened. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "I've seen magic like that before. Ancient things. Old blood runs thick in you, stranger." A pause. "And you're not human, are you?"
The words cut through the room like a blade.
Kael's hand drifted toward his dagger.
Seris didn't move.
"Relax. I don't care what you are. Half the people in this town are worse monsters than anything with claws or horns." She glanced out the window. "But others won't be so kind."
Kael stared at her.
"Why help me?"
A shadow crossed her face. "Let's just say I owe a monster my life too."
Before he could ask more, the healer spoke — fear in his voice.
"They're here."
Seris swore under her breath.
Kael tensed. "Who?"
"City Guard. And bounty hunters. Someone tipped them off. Said a wounded stranger with a cursed stone was seen entering town."
Kael's blood ran cold.
Seris moved fast, grabbing his wrist. "Come on. Back way. Now."
They bolted through a narrow passage behind the shop, emerging into a tangle of alleys as boots thundered down the main road. Shouts echoed, torches flared.
Kael's heart pounded.
They sprinted for a side gate, only to find it barred — a pair of mercenaries already blocking the way.
Kael reached for his dagger.
But the glow of the Blood Stone faltered.
Fenrahl was too weak to answer his call.
Seris drew her sword, grim-faced.
"Guess we're fighting."
Kael's pulse thundered in his ears.
And then — a voice from the shadows.
"Well, well. Didn't expect to find you here, Bloodmarked."
Varkas stepped from the gloom, his one good eye gleaming like a predator's...