Kael's fingers trembled as he drew the bloodstone compass from the folds of his cloak. The night air pressed heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and old blood. Around him, the crumbling ruins swallowed the fading light, shadows pooling like ink. The compass lay cold in his palm, dull and lifeless.
He closed his eyes, reaching deep into his Blood Core. A flicker of crimson energy sparked, thin as a thread, then coalesced into a pulse. The stone flared to life with a violent glow, molten red light pouring from its center as if it held a burning heart.
The compass needle spun wildly, whirling faster and faster until it locked onto a single direction—a path twisting into the dark heart of the Outskirts. A place whispered of in fearful tales, where nothing lived and the lost came to vanish.
Kael swallowed the tightening lump in his throat and took a cautious step forward.
The silence around him cracked like glass.
From the shadows, figures emerged—Bloodhunters, drawn by the relentless pulse of the compass. Their eyes gleamed with cruel hunger as they moved like wolves, swift and silent. Kael barely had time to react before arrows hissed past him.
He leapt into motion, blood magic igniting his veins. Thorned vines erupted from the cracked earth, lashing out to slow his pursuers. But the Bloodhunters pressed on, relentless and merciless.
Kael's breath came ragged. Heart pounding, he dodged between twisted trees, the compass's glow pulsing fiercely in his hand. Then, almost imperceptibly, he heard it—soft whispers curling around his thoughts, words half-formed and ancient.
Secrets. Warnings.
The compass was more than a tool. It was alive.
A living map, guiding him through shadows and danger. A voice from the past, or perhaps a test from the Blood System itself.
Kael clenched the compass tight, his resolve hardening. Whatever lay ahead in the Outskirts, it would demand everything he had.
And he would be ready.