The world always smelled of blood after a battle. Not the clean scent of iron, but the thick, cloying stench that seeped into the lungs and lingered in the mouth, like rot left too long in the sun. Kael had grown used to it—too used, perhaps—but tonight it pressed heavier on him than usual.
He trudged across the corpse-littered field, boots sinking into the mud that had been grass only yesterday. Broken banners drooped in the muck, their colors lost beneath soot and ash. The sky, a pale shroud of gray, seemed to weep smoke from the ruins of siege towers and shattered catapults. What fires had not yet died hissed faintly in the drizzle, smoldering like the last breath of a dying giant.
Kael's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. It was chipped, dull, and caked in blood—some his own, most not—but the weapon still carried weight. In his grip it felt alive, pulsing faintly with the unnatural thrum that marked him as cursed. He hated that rhythm, hated the way it made the steel seem more an extension of his punishment than his will. But it kept him alive, and mercenaries like him didn't get to choose their blessings.
A priest had died here, not long ago. Kael could still see the outline burned into the ground where the man's relic had crumbled to ash in his palm. The priest's eyes had been wide with horror, lips mouthing prayers that had gone unanswered. Kael hadn't even struck him down; the curse had done the work, unbidden. The holy talisman meant to bless Emberfall's troops had blackened at his touch, and the soldiers had screamed witchspawn! as they charged. They had died for it.
Kael had killed enough men today to fill a graveyard. He felt no pride, no victory—only the heaviness in his chest, the reminder that no matter how many enemies he felled, the curse would always carve a gulf between him and the rest of the world.
A groan tugged his ear. Kael turned sharply, scanning the corpses until he found movement. A boy, barely sixteen by the look of him, dragged himself through the mud with one arm. His other arm bent at a sick angle, his armor shattered and breastplate pierced. The boy clutched a broken spear, the shaft cracked in half, and his eyes glared up at Kael with more defiance than strength.
"Stay back," the boy croaked. His voice wavered. "Stay back, monster."
Kael froze. The word cut deeper than any blade.
The boy tried to lift the spear, but his fingers trembled and the weapon slipped uselessly into the muck. He collapsed forward, cheek pressed into bloodied earth, coughing up crimson foam. The life was leaving him fast.
Kael could have ended it. One quick thrust would have been mercy. But his sword weighed heavy in his hand, and for reasons he didn't care to name, he let it fall into the ground beside him instead. Slowly, Kael bent down, hooked his arms beneath the boy's frail body, and lifted him onto his shoulders. The lad was light as kindling.
Monster. Maybe the boy was right. But not tonight.
By dawn, Kael carried him beyond the battlefield. Across a river that ran black with ash and blood, through a forest where the trees still smoldered, until he reached the road that curved toward Emberfall's borderlands. He laid the boy down gently at the roadside, close enough that Emberfall patrols would find him. Alive or not, Kael didn't know. He didn't look back to find out.
His curse gnawed at him with every step he took away. It hated mercy.
By midday, Kael reached Halewood, a village crouched between river and hill. The houses sagged under thatched roofs, the cobbled streets still wet from last night's rain. Smoke drifted from chimneys, but no voices rose to meet the day. The silence pressed thick, like snow before an avalanche.
Kael narrowed his eyes. Villages were rarely this quiet.
He walked cautiously, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other brushing the edge of his cloak over his shoulder to hide the blackened veins that marked his forearm. His curse was visible if one knew what to look for, and he had no desire to be branded outcast again.
The silence cracked with the sound of boots.
Kael ducked behind the husk of a smithy, where a forge had long since cooled. From the main road, a column of Emberfall soldiers marched in formation, crimson banners snapping in the breeze. Their armor gleamed too brightly for common patrol. At their head rode a woman on a black destrier, her armor the color of molten steel.
Her hair was fire—true fire, red-gold that shimmered like embers, spilling loose from beneath her helm. Her eyes, even at a distance, glowed with the sharp intensity of flame, scanning the village with predatory focus.
Kael knew her name before he heard it spoken: Lyra of Emberfall.
He had heard it whispered in taverns, cursed by mercenaries who fought for coin against her armies. Princess, general, warrior. They said she commanded flame as easily as breathing, that her anger burned hotter than dragon fire.
Lyra reined her horse to a halt in the village square, her voice cutting through the air like steel on stone. "Search every house," she ordered. "The traitor is near."
Kael's chest tightened. They were hunting him.
The curse inside him stirred restlessly, a second heartbeat pounding in his veins. It urged him to flee, to vanish into the wilds before the soldiers found him. Yet his boots rooted to the ground, his eyes locked on the woman who had spoken.
Lyra's presence radiated heat. Soldiers obeyed her without hesitation, fanning out to tear through cottages, shouting for hidden men to reveal themselves. She sat tall in the saddle, every inch a commander, and yet there was a fire in her eyes that no rank could contain.
Kael should have slipped away. Should have turned and run.
Instead, he watched her.
Something stirred in him, something more dangerous than fear, more consuming than hate. A flicker of recognition, though he had never met her before. As though some hidden thread of fate had just tugged tight around his heart.
The curse burned in his veins, restless, hungry.
And Kael realized with a jolt that his fate had just caught fire.