The air was sharp, almost biting, as Kael stepped beyond the wooden arch that marked the edge of his village. The gates did not close behind him; they remained open, though no one dared to follow. Behind him, faint murmurs carried like ghosts — fear, anger, pity, all blending into one cruel hymn.
The dirt road curved into the forest, swallowed by shadows of towering pines. Kael paused for a heartbeat. He had walked this path many times with hunters and woodcutters, but tonight, each step seemed foreign, as though the earth itself had shifted beneath his feet. His exile was no longer an idea whispered in council halls. It was real, and the forest waited like an open mouth.
He clutched the small satchel given to him by his mother — bread wrapped in cloth, a flask of water, and a shard of flint. It was not enough for survival, and they all knew it. That was the punishment. He was not meant to endure; he was meant to fade, carried off by hunger or beast.
Yet, deep within his chest, something pulsed. The resonance. Weak, unshaped, but alive. Every few steps, it stirred, like a drumbeat muffled beneath skin.
The forest thickened. The moonlight fractured against branches, casting lattices of silver and shadow. Kael's ears pricked with every rustle — the crack of twigs, the flutter of unseen wings, the low growl of something farther off. He moved carefully, remembering the hunters' lessons: silence was survival.
Hours passed. His bread was gone, his flask half-empty, and his legs burned from walking. Still, he pressed forward, deeper than he had ever dared before.
Then, it came.
A howl. Not the cry of a wolf, but something older, heavier. The sound rolled through the trees, shaking needles from their branches. Kael froze, heart racing. His hand tightened around the flint as though the small rock could guard him from what lurked in the dark.
The underbrush stirred. Eyes glimmered — too high, too wide apart for any beast he knew. And then the creature stepped forward.
It was misshapen, its body a patchwork of fur and scales, its gait unsteady yet powerful. The villagers had spoken of them in hushed tones: Corrupted, beasts twisted by the residue of shattered resonance, born of echoes that should have died centuries ago.
The creature sniffed the air, then let out a guttural snarl. Kael's instincts screamed at him to run, but his feet rooted to the ground. Fear gripped him — until the drumbeat in his chest surged.
His vision blurred. For a fleeting instant, he saw it: the faint shimmer of a broken ladder rising behind the creature, warped and incomplete. It bent toward him like an invitation, or perhaps a warning.
The Corrupted lunged.
Kael raised his hands without thought, and light burst from his skin — not fire, not lightning, but a raw shimmer, wild and uncontrolled. It struck the creature in the chest, throwing it back into the trees. The force rattled Kael's bones, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The forest fell silent.
The Corrupted stirred, growling low, but it did not charge again. Instead, it slunk backward into the shadows, eyes still locked on him. Only when the glow faded from Kael's skin did it vanish into the underbrush.
Kael's hands shook. His breath came ragged. He should have been relieved, but dread weighed heavier than victory. He had touched something — something vast, something broken — and it had answered.
And somewhere, far beyond the village, in a hall lit by dim crystals, cloaked figures felt the echo of his flare. One turned to the others and whispered:
"He has awakened."