It came like it always did

  The Void. The dream. The memory. The goddamned curse.

  Shifting landscapes bled into one another—battlefields soaked in ash and blood, cities burning, tents heavy with incense, and faces…

  Faces he’d loved.

  Faces he’d killed.

  Places that took pieces of him and never gave them back.

  He felt the rush. The disorientation.

  The sickening sense of being trapped inside his own skull, forced to watch as the worst moments of his life played out like some twisted theater.

  Shift.

  The stench hit first.

  Clove smoke and charred flesh, sweat and copper. The tribal tent was stifling, thick with heat and incense meant to mask the smell of blood. But it didn’t. Nothing ever did.

  Then came the pain.

  His skin peeled like paper—slow, deliberate. Pulled back from muscle with hands that knew just how deep to go. Not to kill. Not yet. Just to make it last.

  His arms were wrenched behind him, bound to a splintered pole slick with old blood—some of it still warm.

  He couldn't scream anymore. His throat was ragged from it. But the fire hadn’t left his eyes.

  He stared at the beast kin across from him.

  Eyes like molten gold, filled with ancient, bottomless hate—not just for Kael, but for what he represented.

  Man. Empire. Invader.

  That hate was keeping Kael alive.

  Warming him. Feeding him.

  And his own hate—burning in his gut like molten iron—answered it.

  He could feel the blood dripping down his sides, every nerve screaming. Muscle twitched involuntarily, exposed to the open air. But he didn’t flinch.

  Not now.

  “Just you wait,” he rasped, lips cracked, teeth bloody.

  “I’m going to gouge out your fucking eyes.”

  He spit blood as he said it.

  It missed. Splattered onto the floorboards between them—pathetic, useless.

  The beast kin laughed. A deep, rasping thing full of teeth and cruelty, echoed by the others in the tent.

  Kael didn’t flinch. He just stared.

  Kael didn’t need to speak their dirty tongue.

  Laughter always sounded the same.

  To them, war was a game. A joke.

  He just didn’t get the punchline.

  But the laughter stopped.

  Because Kael smiled.

  Not kindly. Not madly.

  Something darker.

  And then—his bindings slipped free.

  Shift.

  He was sitting in the rafters of a sanctum, flipping one of his obsidian-hilted daggers between his fingers.

  “You’ll do things that matter,” they said.

  “It’s important work,” they said.

  “You’ll get to go after the Bone-Flayed Oracle of Ashmar, real bad guy, it’ll stabilize the region and make everyone smile across the lands,” they said.

  What they didn’t fucking say was, You’ll sneak past an army, break into a heavily warded sanctum, and then rot in the rafters for three goddamn days waiting for your mark to show up.

  Important work, my ass.

  He’d joined for more fighting, not less.

  What kind of bureaucratic bullshit was this?

  His thoughts stilled.

  A sound—like silk tearing in reverse. Wards unraveling.

  A tall man stepped into the sanctum. Elf. Copper skin. Staggeringly beautiful in that ageless, pretentious way they all seemed to be.

  Or would’ve been, if you couldn’t see his bones through his skin—color of week-old sewage.

  The elf strolled over and pulled on a blood-tinged robe.

  Definitely a bad-guy robe, Kael noted, mildly impressed.

  Then the pacing started. Back and forth in front of a mirror, muttering in rising and falling tones.

  Kael blinked.

  Oh shit. He’s actually monologuing.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I thought only people in stories did that.

  He watched from his perch, lips twitching.

  Think of the poor bastard guarding the door in full armor while this jackass rants about glory and ancient gods.

  Kael judged the distance.

  Adjusted his grip.

  Felt the torrent rise in response.

  For that poor soldier stewing in the heat…

  He dropped like a shadow.

  Time to collect those pretty eyes.

  Shift.

  He was young then. Too young.

  Armor hung off him like borrowed skin—ill-fitted and heavy in all the wrong places. The heat of the plains baked through the metal, turning it into a walking oven. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. His hands stung from the leather grip of the supply crates.

  There was a wild, unfocused look in his eyes. First-battle nerves. Not quite fear, but not far from it either. He hadn’t killed anyone yet—not really. Just training and formation drills and shouting officers.

  He still had that hollow look.

  The look of someone waiting for something terrible to happen and praying it wouldn't.

  He was passing out supplies to the people of the Outlands.

  Outlands, they called it, like it was some far-off land of monsters. But it was just dirt. Dust and tired eyes.

  Why did people even live here?

  If they just… left, maybe the fighting would stop.

  Maybe the war would fade, and they could all go home.

  Maybe it didn’t have to be like this.

  He looked down as small, dirt-smeared hands snatched ration packs from his own.

  Children. Silent. Fast. Grabbing and scurrying away like rats into the alleys. Thin, sharp-eyed, half-starved. Kinda like me, he thought. Dirty. Small. Lost. Behind him, the others were laughing—loud and boisterous—drunk on stolen wine and their first taste of victory. Celebrating with craftsmen, loose women, and the camp followers that clung to the army like flies to a corpse.

  Kael didn’t join them.

  Didn’t want to drink.

  Didn’t want to smile.

  Didn’t want to be touched.

  He just wanted to go home.

  Shift.

  A Sister of the Moonmarch slinked up beside him, fingers trailing along his shoulder like a whisper of silk and incense.

  “What’s a rugged man like you doing all alone,” she purred, voice dipped in honey and moonlight, “drinking in a place like this? Care for some company?”

  Kael didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.

  “Fuck off, witch.”

  She gasped—soft, theatrical, as if wounded for sport. “Oh, that’s no way to speak to a lady.”

  Her fingers slid lower, brushing across the fresh black tattoo on his forearm. They traced the lines like ancient script, like secrets carved into skin.

  “You look so dashing,” she murmured, “so haunted. I could just… eat you up.”

  The torrent stirred.

  Hot. Violent. Boiling behind his ribs.

  Kael stood too fast. The stool screeched backward against the warped floorboards. He staggered slightly, drink fogging his balance. His hand rose—half instinct, half threat, fingers curled just enough to silence a room.

  But he stopped himself. Jaw tight. Neck corded. Breath a slow, trembling coil.

  His eyes met hers.

  The Sister flinched—just enough to betray the mask.

  “Please,” she said, softer now, voice shedding its playfulness like a robe. Her fingers slid around his wrist—gently, reverently.

  “I didn’t mean harm. I just wanted to help.”

  Her tone dropped to something human. “You’re grieving. I can feel it.”

  She took his scarred hand in both of hers, careful like it might shatter.

  “Let me carry a little of it. Just for tonight. Please.”

  And for a heartbeat—just one—the tavern noise fell away.

  The press of bodies, the clink of cups, the scent of sour beer and cheap perfume—all gone.

  All that remained was her hands, his rage, and the unbearable weight of being seen.

  Shift.

  He stood in a massive hall, surrounded by the press of bodies packed into formation. The ceiling arched high above like the inside of a cathedral built for giants. Everything smelled like sweat, iron, and regret.

  At the front, an elven woman in full battle armor paced like a caged predator. Broad-shouldered, scarred, terrifying. She was monologuing. Loudly. Passionately.

  Kael only half-listened.

  “You will be broken—”

  Yeah, yeah. Heard that one before.

  “You will be reforged in pain—”

  Sure, lady. Line forms behind the others who’ve tried.

  Everyone wore simple tunics with bold black numbers on the front. His itched like it was personally offended by his existence. He scratched it absently and tried not to yawn.

  Gods, this place was impressive though. Big hall. Serious types. Strong people. Good posture.

  Kael grinned.

  The room had gone dead silent.

  Kael was still smiling when he realized all eyes had turned toward him. Including hers.

  Someone next to him elbowed his scarred hand and hissed, “She called your number.”

  He blinked. Looked down at the bold 181 on his chest. Looked back up.

  Ah. Crap.

  “Guess that’s my cue,” he muttered, then squared his shoulders and bulldozed through the crowd like a showman taking the stage. Heads turned. Eyes widened. A few poor souls looked like they were watching a man walk to his execution—and not the quick kind.

  He reached the front, still grinning.

  “Recruit Number 181 reporting, ma’am.”

  The elf stared at him like she was deciding whether to skin him now or later.

  “Someone here,” she said coldly, “believes this is a joke. That millennia of tradition are a punchline.”

  Her eyes didn’t blink. Her voice was a blade.

  “Number 181, let you be a lesson to the others.”

  She leaned in slightly.

  “And let me be the first to welcome you to the Briar.”

  Shift

  A small beastkin village. Half-buried in snow and silence.

  Kael pulled his cloak tighter, warding off the bite in the air. They’d lingered too long. The Eclipsed were spreading faster with each passing day—corrupting, consuming. Cities were burning. Thralls were rising. The world was cracking at the edges, and they were running out of places to stand.

  He spotted her near the edge of a crumbling well—small, rail-thin, wrapped in little more than rags. A young beast kin girl. Her hair was matted. Her eyes too big for her face.

  Kael didn’t think. He simply kneeled and offered her his last ration.

  She flinched—like a stray expecting to be kicked—but took it with trembling hands. Then, as hunger overcame fear, she tore into it with animal desperation.

  Kael lowered himself slowly, careful not to startle her again.

  “What’s a little one like you doing out here?” he asked gently, slipping into the beast kin tongue. His words were soft, imperfect, but sincere.

  She froze. Then glanced up at him, cautious but curious. Her ears twitched.

  Kael pulled the stopper from his waterskin. “It’s just tea. Still warm. Go on.”

  She approached like a ghost might—uncertain she was still allowed to be seen. She drank deeply, and for a moment, the fear in her face faded.

  Then the heavy crunch of boots in snow.

  A voice, gruff and low “That kind of kindness’ll get you killed.”

  Kael didn’t turn. Just looked at the girl as he gently brushed the frost from her soft ears.

  “I’m doing the only thing I can right now.”

  His voice was quiet. Steady.

  “Exactly what you taught me.”

  Shift.

  “Kael… imagine a world without pain. A place where dwarves, elves, humans—even beastkin—lived in harmony.”

  “That world’s never going to exist,” he muttered.

  A soft fist landed on his chest. Not to wound—just to protest. They were lying on their backs, on soft green grass, with sunlight pouring through the trees above.

  “Oh, you’re impossible,” she huffed, exasperated but smiling. “Haven’t you ever heard of a dream, Kael?”

  He hadn’t answered her then.

  Now, he woke in the dark—gasping, soaked in sweat. His breath caught in his throat like barbed wire.

  Solanir hadn’t yet touched the horizon. The world was still holding its breath.

  Soft hands cupped his face. Warmth. Familiar strength wrapped around him—a feminine form, protective, grounding. Her skin was flushed from sleep, but her voice was steady.

  “You’re hurt?” she whispered.

  The words shattered him.

  He didn’t mean to cry. But a sob broke loose, sharp and strangled, barely audible in the stillness.

  “You’re not bleeding, though…” she said gently. “You’re okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I’m here.”

  She held him closer, her body pressed to his like a shield. As if she could block out the past. As if she could absorb the weight of it.

  Kael lay still, trembling in her arms.

  She shifted again, searching for some way to reach him—some way to ease what couldn’t be seen. Gently, her fingers brushed along his jaw, trying to patch together what had long ago begun to unravel.

  But the wound wasn’t on his skin.

  It ran deeper—bone-deep. Soul-deep. Like rot he’d tried too long to ignore.

  He wanted to move. To get up. To run.

  But she just held him. No pressure. No demands. Just presence. Steady. Radiant.

  Trying to love something broken and not knowing how.

  And still, not letting go.