Moments before Dakulo died...
Kael'thus gripped his icy blue blade with trembling hands.
Every breath felt like knives in his chest. Blood trickled from gashes across his arms, legs, and ribs—still fresh, still warm. His once-pristine robes were tattered and stained, fluttering like torn flags as he knelt inside the stone dome.
He stared at the figure before him.
Rhiki.
The mad hunter of the Velka Dar. The Dark Elf who once stood beside him in noble silence, the man he once called comrade. And now, his executioner.
Kael'thus's heart pounded—not with fear, but with disbelief.
'He's hunting me.' His eyes shook with fear at the realization.'My own kin… is hunting me.'
Three centuries ago, they had fought side by side beneath the twin moons of Kalibu, blades flashing against the Vuls. Rhiki wasn't a Goldhair, but that had never mattered to a seasoned warrior like him.
His instincts were flawless. His strikes—beautiful. His name carried the weight of a legend even among elves.
