The wind screamed over the Ironfang cliffs.
Kael pulled his hood lower as the mercenary caravan rolled to a stop near the craggy ridge. The air smelled like ash and salt. Jagged rocks pierced the sky in every direction, and below them lay the burned skeletons of what used to be Hollowmere Village.
Nothing moved.
Not even the crows.
"We set camp here," Vera barked. "Two tents up. One for wounded, one for the map spread. Taron, Hestel, take watch. The rest of you, eyes open. The Wyrm doesn't give second chances."
Kael stood near the edge of the cliffs, staring down at the blackened valley. He'd seen death before. He'd smelled burning flesh. But this… this was different.
It wasn't just destruction.
It was erasure.
Like something ancient had crawled out of the pit of the world and decided humans weren't worth remembering.
Vera walked up beside him, arms crossed.
"You ever fought something bigger than you?"
Kael didn't look at her. "Only everything."
She smirked. "You talk like a noble."
"I'm not."
"Didn't think so. Nobles bleed easy."
Kael glanced sideways. "And you don't?"
She shrugged. "I bleed. I just make sure something else dies first."
That night, around the fire, Kael met the rest of the Hollow Blades.
A lean archer named Taron, who never removed his hood. A twin-axe berserker called Hestel, covered in ritual scars. An old mage with shaky hands named Maevor, who spoke to flames like they were children.
They didn't ask questions. Not about Kael. Not about the sigil under his shirt. Not about the way he slept with one eye open and a knife in his palm.
Mercenaries had rules.
You fight. You don't flinch. You don't pry.
Kael appreciated that.
They found the first corpse two miles from camp.
Or rather, what was left of it.
Half a man, charred to the bone, his armor melted into his ribs. His mouth was wide open, frozen in a scream he never finished.
"Still warm," Maevor muttered, eyes narrow. "It was here. Recent."
Hestel pointed at a scorched boulder. "There. That's a wing scrape. Size of a damn tavern door."
Kael crouched, placing a hand on the burned ground.
It whispered to him.
Faint echoes of heat. Rage. Hunger. A predator with no fear.
The sigil on his chest pulsed.
He stood.
"It's circling back."
Maevor raised a brow. "You sure?"
Kael didn't answer.
But he was right.
They set the trap at dawn.
A narrow gorge with high stone walls and limited flight room. Vera's plan was simple: bait the Wyrm with movement, trap it between fire lines, and kill it with a combination of collapsing rock and brute force.
Simple never meant safe.
Kael volunteered for the bait.
Vera didn't argue.
"You run, it chases. You dodge, it roars. You stop, you die. Clear?"
Kael nodded.
He'd faced worse.
He was worse.
The Wyrm arrived like thunder.
Wings beating like drums, its body snaked through the canyon like liquid fire. Scales like obsidian, eyes like dying stars, and a mouth filled with molten death.
It saw Kael.
And it hated him.
Maybe it sensed the sigil. Maybe it smelled the wrongness in his blood.
Either way, it dove.
Kael ran.
The roar split the sky. Rocks shattered. Flame licked at his heels. He zig-zagged through boulders, leaping over gaps, drawing it deeper into the trap.
The Hollow Blades waited.
When the Wyrm reached the narrowest point, Vera shouted, "NOW!"
Maevor released a torrent of flame from the ridge. Taron fired flaming arrows at oil-soaked nets. Hestel threw smoke bombs. The gorge lit up like a battlefield.
The Wyrm shrieked and twisted, its wings smashing against stone, trying to rise.
Kael stopped running.
He turned.
Faced it.
And felt the pull.
His eyes glowed silver.
The sigil burned.
BIND.
The voice again. That other, darker self inside him.
He raised his hand toward the Wyrm.
Its movements slowed.
Kael stepped forward, trembling, sweat beading across his skin.
"I said… kneel."
For a moment—just a moment—the Wyrm stopped.
Its wings folded.
Its fire sputtered.
Its eyes met his.
And it screamed.
Kael's mind shattered.
Visions.
Fire. Chains. A sky filled with falling stars.
A throne of bones. His own face on it—older, colder, monstrous.
A girl crying in a field of ash.
When he came to, he was kneeling in a crater.
The Wyrm's body lay dead beside him. Its neck torn open. Its fire extinguished.
His hands were burned black up to the elbows—but he felt no pain.
The Hollow Blades stood in a half-circle, silent.
Not afraid.
Wary.
Like they didn't know what he was.
Vera stepped forward.
"You bound it," she said.
Kael shook his head. "I killed it."
She nodded once.
"No," she said. "You broke it. That's different."
That night, they didn't celebrate.
Too many questions hung in the air.
Kael sat by the fire, staring at his palms.
The skin was whole again. The burns… gone. Just like before.
He didn't sleep.
Vera approached quietly, dropped a flask at his feet.
"Drink. You've earned it."
He didn't reach for it.
She studied him.
"You're not a sellsword. You're not even really human, are you?"
Kael didn't flinch. "Does that matter?"
She looked away.
"Not to me," she said. "But it will."
He looked up.
"Why did you let me join?"
She didn't smile this time.
"Because I've seen monsters. But I've also seen weapons. And you…" she nodded slowly, "…you're both. Question is—who holds the grip?"
Kael stared into the fire.
He didn't have an answer.