The smell of ash and old blood tainted the wind. Kael crouched behind a collapsed wagon, eyes narrowing at the sight ahead—six brutish mercenaries encircling a ragged caravan.
The survivors—no more than a dozen—were bound, bloodied, and silent. A warlord with rust-colored armor paced among them, dragging a curved blade through the dirt.
Kael's fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of his blade. The bloodstone compass beat against his chest, pulsing stronger the longer he watched.
"They'll be executed by nightfall," came a low voice behind him.
Ralek had followed.
"I didn't ask you to come," Kael muttered.
"You didn't stop me either."
Kael gave no reply. He stood, eyes fixed on the warlord. "I'm done watching."
The fight was swift and brutal.
Kael surged forward with a blur—Blood Pulse Dash igniting with the rhythm of his heart. His blade sliced through the first mercenary before the man could scream. Ralek's crossbow took another through the throat.
The warlord roared, lunging with monstrous speed, blood tattoos glowing beneath his skin—but Kael met him head-on. Their weapons clashed in a shockwave of blood-charged energy.
"You're not one of the Twelve," the warlord hissed.
"No," Kael growled, "I'm worse."
The final strike cleaved through the warlord's corrupted heart, and the blood magic sizzled into silence.
Night fell. The rescued caravan gathered around a dwindling campfire, eyes wary and wide. A woman with a scholar's tattoos and ink-stained fingers approached Kael cautiously.
"I'm Sorella," she said. "You saved us… but who are you?"
Kael hesitated. "Someone trying not to become the enemy."
One of the older men leaned forward, his voice gravelly. "You wear the mark of the Crimson Heart."
"I didn't choose it," Kael replied.
"Neither did the Vyr," the man muttered, "and look what became of them."
Sorella unrolled a brittle scroll from her satchel, eyes darting to Kael.
"This was once part of a Vyr codex," she said, revealing symbols burned into the parchment. "It speaks of a ritual—the Binding of Veins. Said to grant kings the power of gods… but only if they sacrifice their name."
Another outcast, a former soldier missing his left hand, added:
"My father fought in the last rebellion. Said the Vyr didn't fall from outside force. Said they hollowed themselves out, chasing power they couldn't control."
The fire crackled.
Kael stared into the flames, the weight of legacy pressing against his shoulders.
Later, as the group slept, Kael stood watch. Ralek joined him, silent for a moment.
"You trust them?" Ralek asked.
"No," Kael said. "But they've seen things. They know things I don't."
"Or they'll sell you out the first chance they get."
Kael looked out at the sleeping caravan. "Maybe. But if the past is broken, we can't fix it alone."
Ralek snorted. "You sound like a would-be hero."
Kael didn't smile. "I sound like someone who's tired of being hunted."
And deep in the folds of his cloak, the bloodstone compass pulsed again—no longer just guiding his steps, but humming faintly… as if listening.