Lord Edric Draven sat in silence, the storm raging outside echoing the one within his chest.
Behind him, the great window of the Blackridge keep framed the frozen valley like a painting of death.
Before him, the High Inquisitor of Velmire, cloaked in red and gold, was reading from a bloodstained scroll.
"The bastard survived the Wyrm. Slaughtered a full cult squad near Frostmere. Eyewitnesses claim the sigil on his chest glowed during the attack. He's gathering strength. And followers."
Draven's jaw tightened. "He should have died in the woods like the mongrel he is."
The Inquisitor raised a brow. "Apparently, your son is not so easy to kill."
"He is not my son."
The chamber fell into uneasy silence.
Then Draven rose and walked toward the massive war map mounted on the wall. A crimson pin now marked Cresthold, circled in black ink.
"They say he was seen there," the Inquisitor continued. "Shortly before the Pale King's mark appeared."
Draven turned. "You think he's serving the Pale King?"
"No," the Inquisitor said calmly. "I think he's something new. Something neither the Cult nor the Crown understands."
Draven's voice turned to ice. "What do you propose?"
The High Inquisitor smiled. "Let us deal with it."
Two days later, Black Ravens—the mage-hunters of Velmire—crossed into the eastern wilds. Clad in black steel and masks of iron, they bore no names. Only spells, blades, and the Emperor's seal.
Their mission: Bring Kael back—dead, or broken.
Meanwhile…
Kael crouched beneath an overhang of crumbled stone, eyes fixed on the smoke spiraling up from Northmere—a mining town built into the cliffs.
He'd tracked the cult's trail here. The Red Fang wasn't hiding anymore. They were moving openly, spreading chaos across the frontier while the kingdoms squabbled.
With Cresthold's massacre still fresh in his mind, Kael couldn't allow another.
He crept through the outskirts, sticking to shadowed alleys and icy gutters. Northmere was quiet—but too quiet.
He drew closer.
Then he saw it.
Symbols etched into the snow with ash and bone.
A ritual in progress.
Dozens of villagers knelt, trembling, eyes glazed with trance. At the center of the circle stood a Fang priestess with silver skin and black hair—her body half-human, half-something else.
A Seerborn.
Rare. Dangerous. Twisted by dark blessings.
Her voice echoed through the clearing, not in words, but pulses of emotion—pain, rage, hunger.
Kael's sigil pulsed in reply.
The priestess turned sharply.
"Found you."
She raised her hand.
The snow exploded.
Kael barely had time to dive aside before the ground cracked open beneath him—tentacles of ash and ice lunging for his limbs.
He summoned the Mark.
Burn.
His body ignited in black flame, the cursed fire devouring the shadow-flesh.
He charged the Seerborn, blade in hand.
They clashed.
She moved like smoke and struck like lightning.
Kael bled.
But she bled more.
With a final cry, he rammed his sword through her throat. Her body dissolved into soot, and the trance on the villagers broke.
But the effort cost him.
As he fell to one knee, breath ragged, they arrived.
Five figures in black stepped from the trees.
Silent.
Swift.
Deadly.
Kael's sigil burned in warning.
Mage-hunters.
The first arrow struck his shoulder.
He rolled behind a wagon and gritted his teeth. These weren't cultists. They were trained. Precise. No wasted motion.
Another bolt shattered the ground beside him, carrying a rune that ignited a blast of arcane fire.
Kael staggered through the wreckage, summoning his Mark.
Bind. Shield. Flame.
Nothing.
Only a flicker.
The sigil was weak.
Drained.
He was bleeding from too many wounds. The fire inside him couldn't heal fast enough.
He had to run.
He bolted into the mines, dodging blades and curses as the Black Ravens pursued.
Underground, the tunnels spiraled like veins of a dying beast. Echoes betrayed his every step.
A trap sigil detonated ahead of him, throwing him against a wall.
He hit the ground hard, coughing blood.
Footsteps. Getting closer.
He limped forward—until he saw it.
A hidden gate, half-buried under rubble, marked with the sigil of the Old Gods.
A door... to the Underdeep.
He hesitated only a moment—then forced it open and slipped inside.
Darkness swallowed him.
Back at Blackridge…
Lord Draven stood over the balcony of his private tower, sipping black wine.
The High Inquisitor approached. "The Ravens have pushed him into the Underdeep. He won't survive."
Draven gave a thin smile.
"Let the dark eat him. He belongs with the forgotten."
But deep in the abyss, beneath the stone and the blood…
Kael's eyes opened.
And something ancient stared back.