The sky had lost its color.
For generations, the survivors had known nothing but the ashen gray, an unmoving shroud of clouds that let through neither sun, nor stars, nor moon. The elders said that once, the world had shone with divine light. But the gods had closed their eyes, and the dead had risen.
In the ruined valley of Thalios, a dry wind lifted the bleached bones of countless battles. The villages, reduced to piles of stone, lay like gutted corpses. Yet the silence was not peaceful—it was taut, ready to snap at the faintest whisper of the shadows.
Kael Ardyn walked alone. His black, worn-out cloak swept the dust, his boots sinking into the dried mud stained with ancient blood. His eyes, a sharp, burning green, fixed on the horizon, but his whole body was tense with alertness. He did not need ears to know they were there. The dead always followed him.
A moan echoed, long and warped. Then another, closer. Kael's hand tightened on the curved blade at his hip. But it was no ordinary weapon: it pulsed faintly with a violet glow, as though it breathed through him.
The whispers swelled. Inside his skull, he heard them clearly:
> Hunger…
Join us…
Give us your flesh…
A shape emerged from the ruins. A corpse that had once been human, half-decayed, with hollow sockets burning with sickly green fire. Its steps were clumsy but fast, and behind it, more figures crawled out of mass graves, lurching to their feet like broken marionettes.
Kael inhaled sharply. His fingers trembled on the hilt of his blade. Then he whispered:
— I hear you… but you will not have me.
The first corpses lunged. Kael drew his blade, and the air shivered. The weapon did not only cut flesh—it cut the soul. A spectral scream erupted as the first body crumpled, and a bluish shape burst from its shell, a luminous mist thrashing wildly.
Kael clenched his free hand, and the soul was devoured. A scorching heat surged into his chest, spreading through his veins like burning poison. His breath hitched, his pupils dilated, and for a heartbeat, his heart stopped.
Then he straightened, stronger. Faster. More… hungry.
The dead kept coming, by the dozens, by the hundreds. The entire valley seemed to vomit corpses. Kael hurled himself into the swarm. His blade carved glowing arcs, every strike unleashing a wailing soul that he consumed almost against his will. Power swelled within him like a tide. His muscles burned with energy. His eyes gleamed with unnatural light.
But with every soul devoured, another voice joined the chorus inside him.
Screams. Pleas. Mad laughter.
> Kill more.
Free us.
You are one of us.
Kael gritted his teeth. A vein throbbed violently at his temple. He struck, he slashed, but his blows grew more feral, less human. His ragged breathing was no longer that of a man, but a beast.
At last, the final corpse fell. Kael stood amidst a sea of motionless bodies, covered in dried blood and dust, panting, his gaze hollow. The stench of rot mingled with the strange metallic tang of consumed souls.
He let his blade fall; it buried itself in the cracked earth. His hands shook as he dropped to his knees, breath shuddering.
— How many… how many more? he muttered, voice breaking.
Silence stretched. But it was not true silence: in his mind, the voices remained, whispering, laughing, screaming. They were etched into him now, and they would never leave.
Kael raised his eyes to the gray sky. No ray of light. No god. Nothing.
Suddenly, footsteps. Light, measured, unlike the dragging tread of the dead. Kael's hand shot toward his blade, but a clear voice rang out.
— You should stop, before there's nothing left of you.
He spun around. A woman stood a few paces away, cloaked in gray. Her black hair, tied in a braid, framed a pale face. Her eyes, a clear, piercing blue, studied him without fear.
— Who are you? he growled.
She stepped closer, her boots brushing broken bones.
— A survivor. And you? Are you still a man… or already one of them?
Kael's fists clenched. He wanted to answer, but the voices in his head cackled, mocking him.
The woman stopped just beyond his reach.
— I saw what you did. You carry their curse, but you are not lost. Not yet.
Kael narrowed his eyes, suspicion cutting through him like ice.
— Why speak to me? Everyone runs when they see what I am.
A sad smile touched her lips.
— Because I do not hear their whispers.
Kael froze. His eyes narrowed, staring at her. Was that possible? Was she truly immune to the souls?
She extended her hand.
— If you want to survive, if you want to understand why the gods abandoned us, then follow me. You may be the last one who can still change something.
Kael hesitated. The voices shrieked in his skull, demanding he refuse, demanding he kill, demanding he feed. But another part of him, faint, buried, remembered: once, he had been a healer. He had sworn to save lives, not consume them.
He gripped his blade, wrenched it from the ground, and faced the woman.
— Your name.
— Elyra.
Kael drew a long breath. Then, in a hoarse voice:
— Then show me.
And for the first time in years, he followed someone other than his own shadows.