The survivors stared at him.
Mira had her crossbow raised, aimed at his heart. Her lips trembled, not with fear of the beast—but of him.
"What… did you do?" she whispered.
Kael opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Only hunger. His body ached, his veins screaming for more of that black blood, the memory of power gnawing at him. His stomach churned like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
"I don't know," he rasped. His voice sounded wrong, deeper, edged with something feral.
"You shouldn't be alive," Mira said, eyes narrowing. "No one survives beast blood."
Her finger twitched on the trigger. Kael raised his hands slowly. "Mira… it's still me."
For a long, tense moment, he thought she'd shoot. Instead, she spat on the ground. "We're taking you to Ironhold. Let them decide what you are."
Ironhold. The Citadel fortress. A place Kael had only heard about in hushed rumors—a city of hunters, ruled by Bloodbound warlords. A place where survival was bought in blood.
As they dragged him back through the ruins, Kael's body trembled with fever. The beast's voice whispered in his skull, dark and commanding.
More. Drink more. Kill more. Become more.
He clenched his jaw and staggered forward, praying that the whispers would fade. But he knew the truth.
They were only getting louder.