A storm of memories raged in Kael's mind.
Screams. Shouts. Firelight flashing across metal. Someone cursing his name. Someone else praying to it. Fingers clawing at him. Voices calling him hero, monster, god.
Kael stood at the edge of a cliff in one moment—and in the next, knelt in blood among a thousand corpses.
He didn't know which was real.
Auren watched Kael's body seize and thrash on the ground. His eyes weren't seeing the world anymore; they were trapped in something deeper. Darker.
And then Auren turned his blade and pointed it directly at the seventh elder.
"Where did you get it?" he snarled. "Where did you get the blood of the First Army?"
The elder, once smug and laughing, faltered. His lips twitched. Sweat pooled at his temple. For a moment, the great hall held its breath.
"I-I don't know what you mean—"
"Don't lie to me," Auren snapped. "You've dealt with darkness. I can smell it on you."
Silence fell. Even the other elders stepped back.
Meanwhile...
Lyra woke in darkness.
Her wrists and ankles burned where the ropes bit in. She twisted, strained, but couldn't break free. Her body ached, her throat dry.
A box.
She was trapped inside a wooden box.
Panic set in fast and deep. She tried screaming, kicking. The wood absorbed it. No use. But then she remembered something Kael had told her—noise is never wasted.
So she pounded. Scratched. Created any sound she could. Even if no one heard it now, she would not go quietly.
Back in the great hall...
Kael collapsed.
His body went still.
Daran rushed forward and caught him before his head struck the stone. "He's not breathing normally," he whispered.
A healer pressed trembling fingers to Kael's neck. "Vital signs... steady. But his mind isn't here."
Auren sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees. "Come back, Kael... come back."
But Kael did not move.
In the forest clearing...
The box jolted.
Lyra held her breath. Movement. Wheels stopping. Voices—indistinct at first, then clearer.
The box was lowered to the ground.
A scraping sound. Chains undone. The lid creaked open and blinding light poured in.
She blinked. And saw him.
The man leaning over her was young, finely dressed in dark blues and silvers, but his eyes held madness. As he removed the cloth from her mouth, he smiled with mock sweetness.
"You remember me?" he asked softly.
Lyra stared.
The face. The voice.
"You were exiled," she whispered.
"The House of Velnar exiled me," he said, his tone turning sharp. "But they will come crawling when I return with you."
He reached forward. A soft caress across her cheek, down her neck—
She jerked, kicked, and he stumbled back with a curse.
"Resist however you want," he laughed. "But soon... you'll be mine."
His men snickered behind him.
But Lyra didn't flinch. Even bound, her eyes burned with fury.
Back at the main house...
Kael stirred.
His fingers twitched. His breath caught in his chest, then released in a slow, rattling exhale.
And he opened his eyes.
Except they weren't the same.
Gone was the familiar storm-gray. Now, they blazed with ancient fire—an echo of something born in war and sealed in blood.
He rose to his feet. Slowly. Deliberately.
The ki around him shifted.
Thick. Oppressive. Killing intent poured from him in waves, so intense that even the guards nearest the door staggered.
The seventh elder tried to step back. "S-see? He is a monster! Look at him!"
Kael turned his head.
One word. One whisper.
"...Monster?"
The hall felt colder.
He stepped forward. The stone cracked under his feet.
The elder stumbled, his bravado collapsing. "Stay back! You—You demon!"
Kael didn't blink.
He reached out.
And with one swift, brutal motion, he plunged his hand into the elder's chest and pulled.
Blood sprayed. The elder screamed once, then went silent as Kael held his heart in his hand.
The body fell to the floor. A wet thud.
The hall stood frozen. Silent. Horrified.
Kael dropped the heart. It hit the ground with a dull slap.
And then—he looked down at his blood-soaked hand.
For a flicker of a second, something human returned to his face. Horror. Guilt.
And he whispered, "What... have I become?"
From far off, carried by wind or fate, a spiral carved in ancient stone seemed to whisper:
One life for another. One turn closer to what must come.