Chapter 5
The ruins stood in solemn silence, half-devoured by nature's relentless creep. Moss-clad stones whispered of ancient civilizations, and in the still air, only the wind stirred — dry and scentless.
Draziel moved with the assured steps of someone who'd survived too much to be startled by silence. His senses, honed to an unnatural edge, felt the subtle shift in the air.
A figure collapsed against a broken archway up ahead.
Not a beast. Not a threat.
A man.
He was bleeding from his side, the blood dark and sticky against a tattered cloak. His breaths came in ragged intervals, chest heaving. Sword lay discarded beside him, its edge chipped — worn from use or desperation.
Draziel stopped a few paces away. "You're dying."
The man's eyes fluttered open. Pale violet irises locked with his.
"Not yet," he rasped, a bitter smirk cracking through the pain.
Draziel crouched slightly, examining him without emotion. "Looks like your luck ran out."
"Ran out days ago," the stranger muttered. "I'm just too stubborn to lie down."
"You were followed?"
The man shook his head. "Not anymore. Lost them two valleys back."
Draziel raised an eyebrow. "You sound like prey."
The man coughed. "Aren't we all?"
A silence settled before he added, "Name's Sylas. Former guild enforcer. Current fugitive."
Draziel didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the wound. Deep. Messy. Not fatal — yet.
"You betrayed your guild."
Sylas gave a half-smile. "They deserved it. Let's just say I didn't like what I saw in the mirror."
"Cowardice, or conviction?"
"Depends on the day."
Draziel studied him a second longer, then moved — tearing a strip of cloth from the man's cloak and pressing it into the wound with precision.
Sylas flinched. "So you're helping?"
"I'm deciding."
"On?"
"If you're useful."
Sylas chuckled through clenched teeth. "And?"
"We'll see."
He stood, turning away. "You have five minutes. If you can walk, follow."
Sylas leaned forward, grimacing. "You're not a very warm man."
"I'm not a man at all."
---
The two walked in silence beneath the skeletal remains of the once-great citadel, boots crunching over shattered tiles and old bones. Sylas limped, each step measured and painful, but he made no complaint. Draziel didn't look back, but he was aware — every breath, every dragging footstep.
"You didn't tell me your name," Sylas said at last, voice low.
"I didn't."
"Right." Sylas exhaled. "Let me guess. You're one of those brooding types with a tragic past and a thirst for vengeance."
Draziel halted. The air thickened.
Sylas noticed too late.
A whisper in the wind. The ground trembled.
From the shadows between the crumbled arches, two low creatures emerged — scaled beasts with blade-like tails and gaping maws, saliva sizzling where it dripped onto the stone.
Sylas stiffened. "Voidstalkers…"
Draziel cracked his neck. "Stay behind me."
One of the beasts lunged.
In one breath, Draziel moved — a blur of speed and precision. His sword, summoned from thin air in a wisp of black mist, gleamed under the fading light. The first stalker's head fell before it landed.
The second hissed, coiled, then pounced.
This time, Sylas reacted.
Despite his wounds, he lifted his arm, casting a defensive glyph in the air. The beast's claws scraped the glowing symbol, staggering it long enough for Draziel to drive his blade clean through its eye socket.
Silence again.
Sylas leaned on his knee, panting. "You're quick."
Draziel wiped his blade on the creature's hide. "You're not useless."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
They pressed on, tension unspoken but shared.
Sylas glanced sideways. "So... seriously. Still not going to tell me your name?"
Draziel paused, just long enough to be deliberate.
"…Draziel."
Sylas raised an eyebrow. "Sounds ominous."
Draziel didn't smile. "Good."
---
The road stretched further than Sylas expected, winding through a scarred landscape of ash-colored soil and ghostly trees. As the sun dipped behind distant peaks, a faint light shimmered ahead — flickering lanterns lining the outer walls of a small, fortified settlement.
Draziel slowed his pace, his gaze sharpening. "We're not alone."
"Friendly?" Sylas asked, limping beside him.
"We'll find out."
The settlement, surrounded by worn stone walls reinforced with rune-etched wood, bore the signs of both survival and recent struggle. Guards stood atop the watchtowers, cloaked in patchwork armor, their eyes sharp and weapons ready.
As the pair approached the gate, one of the guards barked, "State your name and intent!"
"Draziel," he said simply. "We're not here for trouble. He needs treatment."
The guard eyed Sylas, noting the dried blood and bandages.
After a tense moment, the gates creaked open.
Inside, the air was different — tense, but warmer. Children darted between market stalls. Blacksmiths hammered in rhythm. Life persisted here, stubborn and wary.
A woman in a healer's robe approached, eyes narrowing at Sylas's state. "Bring him," she ordered, gesturing toward a stone hut with a glowing rune above the door.
Sylas looked to Draziel. "You're not coming?"
"I'll wait."
Inside, Sylas was stripped of his armor and tended to. His wounds, though not fatal, were deep. The healer murmured incantations as she poured glowing salves into the gashes. Pain flared, but it was clean pain — healing.
Outside, Draziel stood near a fountain in the village square, staring at his reflection in the rippling water. The face staring back still felt like a stranger's. Younger, less worn... but the eyes held all the weight of his former self — Kairos.
The past clawed at him, threatening to pull him under again.
But not yet.
Not until he had names crossed off his list.
Sylas emerged sometime later, walking steadier, his bandages fresh. He clapped Draziel's shoulder. "I owe you."
Draziel's voice was quiet. "Don't. You'll repay me when it counts."
Sylas raised a brow. "Planning to keep me around?"
"We'll see," Draziel muttered. "This place will hold for the night. Then we move."
As night swallowed the horizon and strange stars lit the sky, both men knew — this fragile alliance had only just begun.
And the storm was far from over.
---
*Later that night...*
The flicker of flames danced in the open clearing near the outskirts of the settlement. The village had gone quiet — the kind of silence that only came when people feared waking the wrong thing.
Draziel sat with his back against a fallen tree, sword resting across his lap. Sylas was across the fire, tossing a small rock in his hand, watching the sparks rise and disappear into the dark.
"You ever trust anyone again?" Sylas asked, voice low.
Draziel didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the fire.
"No," he said at last. "Not after what they took from me."
Sylas exhaled. "Then why help me?"
Draziel looked up. "You weren't lying when you said you walked away from them. I saw it in your eyes. You regret it."
Sylas nodded, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.
A silence stretched between them.
Then… a low, distant sound.
Draziel froze.
That wasn't wind.
The trees to the east swayed unnaturally. The air grew colder — not just chill, but *wrong*.
Sylas stood, hand on his dagger. "You feel that?"
Draziel rose to his feet slowly. "Yeah."
Suddenly — a scream ripped through the night. Not human.
Something monstrous.
Then another. Closer.
The alarm bell in the village tower rang out, guards shouting and scrambling to their stations.
From the tree line, hulking shadows emerged — grotesque creatures, stitched together by corruption, eyes glowing with violet malice. Lesser beasts — but many.
"Riftspawn," Draziel muttered.
Sylas drew his blade. "They followed me."
Draziel gave a sharp glare. "Then we finish what they started."
Without waiting, he dashed forward, sword igniting with voidlight — not flame, not lightning, but a dark-blue energy that shimmered unnaturally.
Sylas followed, daggers drawn.
The beasts surged forward like a wave.
Steel clashed. Magic crackled. Screams tore through the air as villagers ran for shelter and guards tried to hold the line.
But it was clear — they were unprepared.
Draziel moved like a shadow — every strike precise, every dodge lethal. Yet, even as he cut them down, more poured in.
"They're not stopping!" Sylas yelled.
Draziel's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't a random attack.
Someone sent them.
*Someone knew he was here.*
And they wanted him dead.
---
*Elsewhere…*
Far beyond the burning fields and screams of the settlement, a solitary figure stood atop a jagged cliff — cloaked in shadow, face hidden beneath a bone-white mask carved with ancient sigils.
Before them, an arcane mirror shimmered, floating midair. It pulsed with ethereal light, reflecting the chaos below as Riftspawn tore through the village.
The masked figure tilted their head slightly, observing Draziel as he cut through beast after beast, his blade glowing with dark-blue energy.
"So… the cursed soul breathes again," the figure murmured, voice distorted with layered tones — male, female, inhuman. "But in a new shell."
Behind them, a smaller figure knelt. Hooded, trembling.
"Master… he's stronger than we predicted."
The masked one didn't move. "Of course he is. You don't kill the *Void Reaver* and expect his essence to wither. Rebirth is written into his curse."
A Riftspawn limped across the burning village — Draziel split it in two.
The masked figure reached out, touching the surface of the arcane mirror with a gloved hand. The image rippled.
"But we must not allow him to ascend again," they continued. "Not before the seal is broken."
They turned to the kneeling servant.
"Send word to the others. Lyria… Kaelen… Mira. It's time they know their past is not as buried as they hoped."
The servant hesitated. "But what if—"
"*Do it.*"
The wind howled. The mirror vanished.
And in the silence that followed, the masked figure whispered to the dark:
"Come, Draziel Vale. Let us see if your vengeance can outrun your fate."
---
The village smoldered under the moonlit sky, glowing faintly from the remains of charred wood and scorched soil. Cries had faded. Blood soaked the dirt. The Riftspawn lay in heaps—twitching, burning, or already disintegrated into black ash.
Draziel stood amidst the ruin, his blade dripping with the ichor of monsters. His breath was steady, but his eyes were sharp—always searching.
Behind him, Sylas emerged from the healer's hut, bandaged across his side and shoulder. "You're not just a traveler, are you?"
Draziel wiped his blade clean on a torn cloak and sheathed it. "Does it matter?"
"It does now," Sylas muttered, watching the corpses. "Those weren't natural. They were summoned."
"I know," Draziel said grimly. "Someone sent them."
He stepped forward and crouched near one of the creatures. Its twisted form twitched once more before collapsing fully. He could sense it—*a mark*. A faint aura left behind. His fingers brushed the scorched hide and caught a flicker in his mind: a sigil… a presence.
"Someone's watching," he said coldly.
Sylas tensed. "You mean… now?"
"No. Not anymore." Draziel stood. "But they wanted to see how I'd fight. This was a message."
Sylas limped beside him. "Who are you really, Draziel?"
For a moment, Draziel didn't answer. Then, softly, with eyes fixed on the stars above, he said, "Someone who's already died once."
He turned, walking toward the far end of the village where a few survivors had begun gathering. Children. Elders. A blacksmith missing half an arm. Fear in their eyes… and something else: hope.
Sylas followed, silent.
"It's morning," Draziel said, "we move on. Whoever sent them… they'll come again. Stronger. And I need answers before that happens."
"Then I guess I'll be coming with you," Sylas replied with a crooked smile.
Draziel didn't stop walking, but for the first time that night, his voice lost its edge. "Fine. Just don't slow me down."
As the embers faded into cold ash behind them, the cursed soul and the broken rogue stepped into a night that promised even darker trials.
---