# Chapter 613: Whispers on the Wind
The wind on the ash plains was a liar. It whispered of emptiness, of a world scoured clean down to the bone, but ruku bez knew better. He had spent his life in these grey wastes, and he knew the wind carried more than just dust. It carried memories, and sometimes, it carried echoes. Today, it carried the scent of ozone and the faint, coppery tang of fresh blood. His team, a handpicked cadre of scouts from the Unchained, moved like wraiths through the choking haze, their forms blurred by the specialized cloaks Grak had forged, woven with filaments of scavenged Bloom-metal that distorted perception. They were the ghosts Nyra needed, the eyes in the wastes.
ruku bez held up a clenched fist, the signal to halt. His team froze, sinking into the grey landscape, their breathing shallow and controlled. He didn't need a telescope. His Gift, a strange and silent attunement to the vibrations of the land, was enough. The ground was thrumming with a pattern he knew intimately. It was a rhythm of brutal efficiency, a dance of violence he had witnessed a hundred times in the Ladder arenas. It was Soren's fighting style, stripped of its soul and left with only the killing intent.
Through the shifting curtains of ash, the scene resolved itself. A patrol of Crownlands Wardens, six strong, their polished armor already dulled by the ever-present dust, were moving in a standard wedge formation. They were good soldiers, their movements crisp, their crossbows held at the ready. But they were fighting the wrong war. They were scanning for mindless beasts, for the shambling horrors that sometimes wandered out of the deep wastes. They were not prepared for what was coming.
It emerged from a deeper bank of grey, not shambling, but stalking. It was tall and gaunt, its form vaguely humanoid but stretched and twisted, its skin the color of dried blood and cracked porcelain. Bloomblight. But this one was different. It moved with a liquid grace, its feet barely seeming to touch the ground. It didn't charge; it circled, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, as if listening. Then it struck.
The lead Warden didn't even have time to scream. The Bloomblight exploded forward, a blur of motion that closed ten paces in a heartbeat. It wasn't a mindless rush. It was a feint, a sharp angle cut that took the Warden behind the knee, a classic Soren opener designed to cripple, not kill. The Warden's leg buckled with a wet snap. As he fell, the creature's other hand came up, not a claw, but a stiffened edge that struck the side of his helmet. The sound was a dull, percussive thud, like a smith's hammer on an anvil. The Warden dropped, his head caved in.
The other five Wardens reacted with professional speed, shouting commands and raising their crossbows. Bolts flew, streaking through the air with a low hum. The Bloomblight didn't dodge; it flowed. It weaved between the missiles, its body contorting in ways that defied biology, a perfect, horrifying mimicry of Soren's fluid, close-quarters defense. It was inside their formation before they could reload. ruku bez watched, his heart a cold stone in his chest. The footwork was undeniable. The drop-step, the pivot, the explosive lunge. It was Soren's dance of death, performed by a marionette made of nightmare.
One Warden managed a desperate swing with his shortsword. The Bloomblight caught the blade on its forearm, the screech of metal on chitinous plate tearing through the air. It didn't flinch. It simply twisted its wrist, disarming the man with a brutal snap of his arm, and drove its other hand through his throat. The gurgle that followed was lost in the wind. The last two Wardens broke formation, their training forgotten in the face of this tactical, intelligent horror. They ran.
The Bloomblight let them go. It stood over the bodies, its head turning slowly, scanning the horizon. It wasn't feeding. It wasn't driven by mindless hunger. It had made a point. It had sent a message. ruku bez felt a tremor of pure, primal fear crawl up his spine. This wasn't just a Bloomblight. It was an echo. A ghost wearing a monster's skin, armed with Soren's own lethal artistry.
He turned to his team, making a series of sharp, precise gestures. *Fall back. Silent. Now.* There was no question, no hesitation. They had seen it too. This was not a creature to be fought, not with their meager force. This was something to be reported, a warning that needed to be carried back to Nyra with the speed of a falling star. They began to retreat, moving backward, their eyes locked on the terrifying tableau in the distance.
The wind gusted, whipping a thick veil of ash across their path, momentarily obscuring their view. ruku bez used the cover, signaling his team to increase their pace. They needed to be over the next ridge, out of sight. He risked one last look, his Gift straining to sense the creature's intent.
That was when it happened.
The Bloomblight, which had been standing motionless over its kills, snapped its head around. Its hollow, soulless eyes, pits of shadow in its gaunt face, seemed to lock directly onto his position, a hundred paces away. It knew they were there. It had known all along. A low growl rumbled in its chest, a sound that vibrated through the soles of ruku bez's boots. It was not the mindless roar of a beast. It was a sound of recognition, of intent. And from the guttural, corrupted noise, a single, horrifyingly clear syllable formed, a name spoken by a throat that had no right to speak.
*"Sor…"*
The sound was cut short, but the damage was done. ruku bez didn't wait to hear more. He turned and ran, his team a silent, desperate shadow at his heels. The wind howled behind them, and it sounded like it was laughing.