The storm passed by dawn, leaving only corpses and silence.
Kael sat among them, unmoving, his hand pressed against the faintly glowing scar on his chest. The shard was gone, but the Eye was not. It beat like a second heart inside him, whispering hunger, whispering promises.
*—Bloodlines are threads. Sever them. Devour them. Weave them into yourself.*
Kael's gaze drifted to the mangled corpse of the beast that had fallen first. Its body was dissolving into ash, but a faint ember lingered in the air—something no normal eye could see. A thread of essence, pale and trembling.
Without thinking, Kael reached out.
The ember snapped into him, rushing through his veins like molten silver. His back arched, his jaw clenched, every muscle burning as if it were being reforged. He gasped, eyes glowing faint crimson for an instant.
When it ended, he collapsed forward, panting. But his body… felt different. Stronger. His wounds had closed, leaving behind only faint scars. His senses sharpened—he could smell the iron tang of blood more clearly, hear the faint caws of carrion birds miles away.
He had taken it.
The beast's gift—its bloodline trait—now lived inside him.
He flexed his fingers, marveling at the raw vitality surging beneath his skin. "So this is how it works…" he whispered. "A world where the strong are born to rule… and I can steal that birthright for myself."
The Eye pulsed again, urging him onward.
Kael rose and scanned the battlefield. His fallen teammates had nothing left to give—the Eye whispered that bloodlines died with their bearers, and only the moment of death allowed the thread to be seized.
But beasts… beasts were plentiful. And each carried something unique.
He stumbled forward, deeper into the wilderness, following the fading trail of monsters that had fled after the Rift closed. His broken sword was useless, so he scavenged a jagged spear from the mud, still slick with gore.
By midday, he found his prey: a wolf-like Shadebeast, its body faintly translucent, its fangs dripping shadow.
It snarled, hackles raised, recognizing him not as prey, but as rival.
Kael gripped the spear. Fear trembled at the edge of his mind, but beneath it surged something colder, sharper—the hunger of the Eye.
He lunged.
The fight was brutal, clumsy. The beast slammed him into a tree, claws raking his shoulder. Pain blinded him, but desperation drove him forward. He jammed the spear into its throat, twisting until the creature convulsed and collapsed.
Kael fell with it, gasping, body torn and bleeding. But as the wolf's eyes dimmed, he saw it again—another thread, darker, writhing.
This time, he embraced it.
The shadow poured into him, fusing with his blood, etching lines of cold fire through his veins. His skin shivered, his vision dimmed—then sharpened. His own shadow writhed at his feet, moving faintly of its own accord.
Kael's lips curled into a bloodied grin.
The first beast had given him vitality. This one… had given him a fragment of shadow itself.
He looked at his trembling hands, at the wounds that were already closing faster than before.
In a world where bloodlines defined destiny, he was no longer shackled to one. He would carve his own, piece by piece, corpse by corpse.
*—Feed me,* the Eye whispered again, echoing in his mind.
Kael rose, eyes cold. "I will," he murmured. "On beasts, on men, on gods themselves… until the only bloodline that matters is mine."