Chapter 9 – A Debt in Blood
Kael woke to the stink of his own sweat and the taste of ash in his mouth. The wound on his arm burned like someone had buried hot iron under his skin, but it hadn't rotted yet — which meant Nyra's storm-light had done its work, at least for now.
The Wastes were merciless in the morning. The sky was pale and empty, the sun weak, the world silent except for the occasional whisper of dust across stone. No vultures circled, not even the carrion beasts. Whatever lingered of the ash-wraiths had scared them off.
Nyra was already awake, sitting cross-legged on a boulder, eyes closed, her breathing measured. Not prayer. Not meditation. Something in between. Her cloak hung loosely, stormlight faintly flickering under her skin, as though she were trying to coax it into order instead of letting it devour her.
Kael pushed himself up with a groan. "You look like death."
Without opening her eyes, she murmured, "You smell worse."
He grinned despite the pain. "Fair."
He stretched, testing the wound, wincing as fire shot down his arm. His sword hung at his hip, but the weight felt heavier than usual. The night's fight had carved more out of him than he'd admit.
Still, weakness wasn't an option. Not with Serik's dogs sniffing at their heels, zealots foaming for blood, and wraiths clawing their way out of dead gods' graves.
Kael spat into the dust and muttered, "Could use some normal trouble for once."
As if the Wastes had been listening, trouble answered.
Hoofbeats.
Kael froze, hand on his hilt. Nyra's eyes snapped open, stormlight flaring.
Three riders emerged from the haze — hard men in scarred armor, their cloaks black with dust, blades and crossbows slung easy but ready. Mercenaries.
Kael's heart sank. He knew their colors.
And the man at their head.
"Kael Thorne," the rider drawled, reining in his horse. He was tall, broad, his jaw lined with a beard gone gray at the edges, one eye clouded white, the other sharp as a blade. His scarred mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile. "Gods damn. Thought you'd be bones by now."
Kael's stomach knotted. "Darric Voss."
Nyra glanced at him sharply. "A friend?"
Kael's laugh was humorless. "The opposite."
Darric dismounted, boots crunching in the dust. He moved with the ease of a man who'd killed too many times to bother counting anymore. His men fanned out behind him, casually surrounding the camp.
"Been a long time," Darric said. "What's it been — six years? Seven? Since you left my company bleeding in the mud outside Tarven?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "You were going to butcher half a village for coin. I made a choice."
"You made a betrayal." Darric's good eye gleamed. "Took coin from my purse, then slit my men's throats while they slept. You think a man forgets that?"
Nyra rose, cloak swirling, lightning sparking faintly at her fingertips. "If you came to talk, you've had your say. If you came to fight, we'll oblige."
Darric looked her over, chuckled. "The witch. Word travels faster than vultures in these parts. Guess Serik wasn't lying about his little prizes."
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. "If Serik sent you—"
Darric cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Serik? Hah. The Broker's just another fat rat sniffing after scraps. This isn't his leash. This is mine."
His smile turned cold. "You owe me blood, Thorne. And I've come to collect."
The tension cracked. Steel sang as Kael drew his sword, Nyra's stormlight flared, and Darric's men leveled crossbows.
The standoff lasted only a breath.
Then the desert wind carried a faint sound — low, hollow, like whispers under the skin.
Nyra's eyes widened. "Not now…"
Ash stirred on the ground. The corpses from the zealot fight — the ones they hadn't burned — were crumbling, breaking apart, smoke rising from their bones.
Kael swore violently. "Not wraiths again."
The mercenaries faltered, looking around uneasily. Darric snarled. "Hold the line! It's smoke and shadows!"
But it wasn't.
The ash-wraiths came shrieking from the haze, clawed hands reaching, hollow mouths screaming. The campfire guttered, ash blowing wild.
Chaos exploded.
Crossbows twanged, bolts tearing through wraiths with little effect. Nyra unleashed a blast of stormfire, scattering three in a flash of lightning. Kael cut one down mid-lunge, the ash burning cold on his skin.
Darric roared, his greatsword carving arcs of steel through the swarm. For all his cruelty, the man fought like a demon, cutting wraiths down with brutal precision.
For a heartbeat, Kael and his old enemy stood back-to-back, blades carving, ash shrieking around them.
It felt almost like the old days.
Until Darric snarled in his ear: "When they're dead, you're next."
Kael grinned grimly, cutting down another wraith. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
The fight raged, the Wastes swallowing their screams, the gods themselves watching from the cursed mountains.
And in the smoke and fury, Kael Thorne realized his past had finally caught up — and it wanted blood.