Rain lashed the cliffs of Thalrador, a rhythmic roar against stone and steel. Kael stood atop the shattered battlements of a forgotten watchtower, his crimson scythe planted beside him like a war banner. The blood of men—his own and others'—clung to his skin like paint to a canvas. Below him, torches danced in the mist, a procession of knights in obsidian armor scaling the cliffs to claim his head.
"They sent the Black Flame Order," muttered Kael. "They really think I'm cornered."
The wind tore through his cloak, exposing the iron flasks of blood chained to his waist. He inhaled slowly, feeling the mana stir inside him, like a serpent uncurling after slumber. A voice whispered in the back of his mind, not his own. One of the others. One of his fractured selves.
We could kill them all. We always do.
His fingers tightened around the scythe.
The first knight crested the tower's edge, sword gleaming with a cursed flame that hissed in the rain. Kael didn't move. His eyes locked with the knight's. The man hesitated—then charged.
Kael shifted.
In one fluid motion, he spun the scythe in a rising arc. Blood, summoned from the flask at his hip, surged into the blade like a red tide. The curved edge sang through the air, and the knight's head separated from his shoulders with surgical elegance.
The corpse tumbled backward into the rain.
Another knight leapt up. Then two more. A coordinated assault. Kael's lips curled in a crooked grin. The scythe twirled, a crimson wheel of death, carving through enchanted shields and splitting breastplates like parchment.
He ducked under a hammer swing, pivoted on wet stone, and drove his elbow into a knight's throat. As the man staggered, Kael stabbed his fingers into a gash in the knight's chestplate. Blood flooded out—and Kael drank it with a spell, drawing it into the weapon.
We are a tide that does not recede.
The scythe pulsed with unnatural light.
But he was not unscathed. A blade clipped his side, and pain bloomed like fire under his ribs. Kael twisted away, teeth clenched. Blood trailed from his side—his own now—and joined the storm-soaked battleground.
He staggered, breath ragged.
Below, more knights climbed. Five. Ten. An entire platoon.
Kael turned to flee inward, deeper into the tower. But he stopped. A girl's voice echoed faintly.
"Don't run, Kael."
She wasn't there.
Just a memory. Just another hallucination.
Or a god.
He clenched his jaw. No. Not now. Not her.
Kael stepped back into the storm.
"COME THEN!" he roared, and blood coalesced around his shoulders, forming jagged wings.
The scythe transformed, mutating into a double-bladed glaive. The wind howled. And Kael leapt.
He fell into the line of knights like a falling star. The impact sent bodies flying, armor screeching. A spell ruptured the earth, and crimson tendrils erupted, spearing knights through the chest.
One rose behind him.
Too slow.
Kael spun, severing the knight's leg. Another tried to flank him, and Kael ducked low, sweeping their legs with his scythe. He struck pressure points with surgical efficiency, disabling rather than killing. Not mercy. No. He wanted them to watch.
To remember.
His body was screaming. Too much mana. Too many spells cast in too short a time.
But still, he fought.
As the last knight fell, gurgling curses, Kael collapsed to his knees.
Silence reigned.
Rain fell.
The battlefield was his cathedral. The scythe, his scripture. The blood, his offering.
He looked to the storming sky, vision blurring.
"She wouldn't be proud of this... would she?" he asked aloud.
No answer.
Just the sound of distant horns.
Reinforcements.
Kael pulled himself to his feet.
The war wasn't over.
He whispered a command to the scythe, and it morphed back into its sealed form. Blood seeped into his coat, rejoining the vials like obedient servants.
He turned to the next path—a spiral stair descending into the ruins below. The labyrinth of the old world. There, his next ritual awaited.
There, his rebirth would continue.
And perhaps...
Perhaps she'd be waiting at the end.