The rain fell in sheets over the ruined streets of Blackstone, washing blood into the cracks of cobblestone. It hadn't stopped for three days. Some said it was the gods mourning. Others said it was a curse. Kael Draven didn't care—he only cared that the wet made it harder to move unseen.
He crouched in the shadow of a broken statue—once a proud sentinel of the old empire. Now, it was little more than a weathered torso and shattered wings.
The patrol passed. Iron boots splashed through puddles. Their torchlight flickered against ancient walls scorched from war. Kael counted four—Lightbound, in silver cloaks and rune-marked blades.
"Overkill," he muttered, fingers brushing the worn hilt of his dagger. "Must be guarding something serious."
He slipped deeper into the ruins, the Shadowmark on his chest burning hotter with every step. Ten years ago, he'd touched a relic he shouldn't have. Ever since, chains inked in black fire coiled across his flesh—alive, growing, whispering in a voice not his own.
Most men went mad from it. Kael didn't. He adapted.
Tonight, it pulled him toward something.
Beneath the earth, he found a crumbling stairwell, pulsing with energy like a heartbeat made of stone and memory.
At the bottom—a black glass coffin, humming with dark power. And beside it—
A figure in tattered robes. Not dead. Not alive.
"You bear the Chains of the Bound One," it rasped.
Kael didn't flinch. "Yeah. They itch. Who are you?"
The figure's eyes glowed faintly.
"I am the Keeper. And you… are late."