The cold wind clawed at Kael's face as he hauled the wooden buckets up the stone steps of Blackridge Keep. His arms burned, raw and trembling from the weight. The iron handle had already torn into his skin, blood mixing with the icy slush beneath his boots. He didn't stop.
Stopping meant punishment.
The servants didn't speak to him. They never did. Their eyes darted away the moment he passed. Like he was diseased. Like filth.
He reached the top step and pushed open the heavy door to the barracks. The scent of sweat, old steel, and piss hit him like a club.
"You're late again, bastard," spat Sir Harven, the quartermaster, not even bothering to look up from the whetstone grinding against his blade. "Didn't I tell you yesterday? First light. Not after."
Kael dropped the buckets near the hearth with a dull splash. "I—"
Harven stood suddenly and backhanded him across the mouth. Kael hit the floor, jaw screaming, tongue tasting copper.
"No excuses," the knight growled. "You think being the Lord's shame gives you privilege? You're not his son. You're his stain."
Kael didn't respond. He just stared at the stone floor and clenched his fists. He'd learned long ago that talking back only made it worse.
Harven leaned closer. "You're lucky we don't throw you in the kennel with the other mongrels."
Kael swallowed the blood and rage and nodded.
He made it back to the servant's quarter after sunset. His hands were blistered, his shirt damp with sweat and snow. The stone walls offered no warmth—just a single cot, a cracked window, and a chipped bowl of watery broth waiting for him. He didn't know who left it. Maybe the cook felt pity today. Or guilt.
Kael sat down, exhaled slowly, and tried not to think. But his thoughts came anyway.
Seventeen years. Seventeen winters in this place. Born of some tavern girl Lord Draven had bedded during one of the border wars. She died in childbirth. And Kael? Kael was raised in shadow.
He touched the scar on his ribs—he couldn't remember when he got it. Just like the one on his shoulder. Or his neck.
Draven never looked him in the eyes. Not once. His official children—Rheya and Dain—treated him like a mutt, if they acknowledged him at all. The only time the noble blood noticed him was to punish or humiliate.
He was about to lie down when he heard the whispering.
Voices. Men's voices. Close.
He crept toward the window and cracked it open just enough.
Outside, near the courtyard brazier, stood Lord Draven and three cloaked figures. They spoke in hushed, sharp tones.
"…a liability," one said.
"He's nothing," Draven replied coldly. "But the terms were clear. They want a blood offering. And I'd rather give them a bastard than my heir."
Kael's heart stopped.
"You're going to hand him over?" the other man asked.
Draven snorted. "What loyalty do I owe to the spawn of a whore? He'll be sent beyond the border at first light. Let the clans do what they will."
Kael stumbled back from the window, breath frozen.
They were going to sacrifice him.
He didn't wait for dawn.
By the time the guards changed shift, Kael had packed the little he had: a tattered cloak, a waterskin, and a rusted knife stolen from the stables. The snow crunched softly beneath his boots as he slipped out the northern gate and into the woods beyond the keep.
The forest was known as The Witherdeep—an old, dying place filled with twisting trees, black moss, and ghost stories. Children were warned to never enter it. Adults never spoke of what lived there.
Kael didn't care.
He would rather face monsters than be fed to them.
Hours passed. Maybe days. Time lost meaning in the cold silence. Kael's breath steamed in the air. His fingers had gone numb. Hunger gnawed at his gut. But he kept walking.
Until he saw it.
A stone altar, half-buried beneath vines and ice, covered in old markings that pulsed faintly beneath the snow. Around it, the forest grew darker, as if the trees were leaning in, watching.
Kael fell to his knees.
He was weak. Tired. Abandoned.
"Please…" he whispered. "Someone… anyone…"
The wind stopped.
The world held its breath.
Then a voice spoke—not aloud, but inside him.
"You were cast out by blood. Forgotten by men. But I remember you."
Kael's vision blurred. Darkness curled at the edges. The voice continued, ancient and soft as shadow.
"Do you want to live, boy?"
He swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Do you want power?"
"…yes."
"Then take it. But once you do, you will never be theirs again. You will be mine."
Kael's hands reached forward of their own accord. He touched the altar.
The world screamed.
His body convulsed. Black veins spread across his arms. His eyes burned white. Symbols poured into his mind—languages he'd never learned, names older than gods, pain beyond pain.
When he awoke, the snow around him had melted in a perfect circle.
His wounds were gone.
His heart beat stronger.
And on his chest, etched like fire beneath the skin, was a pulsing sigil.