Pain. Sharp, unrelenting pain, stabbing through Kael's skull like a jagged blade. His body lay sprawled against cold, unyielding stone, every nerve alight with sensations that were almost too vivid to endure. He gasped, each breath dragging the thick, metallic tang of blood into his lungs. Somewhere beyond the haze of his disorientation, the faint clash of steel echoed, punctuated by short, desperate cries that were swiftly silenced.
A flickering red glow painted the walls around him, casting uneven light across slick streaks of crimson. Shadows twisted in the glow, their edges curling unnaturally, as though alive. Kael groaned, his voice low and hoarse, and forced his eyes open.
The scene before him was blurred, shifting like the strokes of an unfinished painting. He blinked once, twice, until the chaos began to take shape. The stone beneath him was rough, cold, and sticky with blood. His fingers flexed instinctively against it—and froze.
They moved. Effortlessly.
Kael's breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he raised his hand and turned it over, staring at it as though it belonged to someone else. It obeyed him with a fluidity that made his heart thunder in his chest. He curled his fingers experimentally, watching the tendons shift beneath his skin. It was like dragging a brush across silk, the motion smooth and precise.
For a moment, he braced himself. He expected the familiar struggle—the sharp twinge of muscles that refused to cooperate, the agonizing reminder of his frailty. But when he pressed his palms against the stone and pushed, his body responded with ease. His legs carried him forward without complaint, without hesitation.
It was unnatural. A betrayal of everything he'd known.
"I can move…" he whispered, his voice trembling.
His mind was flooded with memories of a life spent staring out of windows, of hours fighting his own limbs just to drag a brush across a canvas. He'd learned to live with his prison of flesh and bone, learned to create despite the pain. But this? This wasn't creation. This was freedom.
"Move, damn it!"
The sharp voice shattered his awe. Kael's head snapped up, his gaze locking onto a man crouched over him. His dark armor was cracked and bloodied, barely clinging to his wiry frame.
"Get up!" the man hissed, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Unless you want to die here, move!"
Before Kael could respond, the man grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. His legs moved without hesitation, steady beneath him as though he'd never known anything else.
"What…?" Kael's voice faltered. It sounded strange—deeper, more resonant.
"No time for that!" the man barked, his eyes darting down the blood-slicked corridor. "The guild's gone to hell. Everyone's out for blood—yours included. You're lucky I—"
The man's words died in his throat. His eyes widened in shock, his body jerking forward as a blade erupted from his chest.
Kael stared, frozen, as the steel glinted in the faint light of the lanterns. The man's breath hitched, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
"You were supposed to save us…" he rasped, his voice thick with regret. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward as the blade slid free with a wet, sickening sound.
The assassin who had struck him stepped forward, their hooded face tilted toward Kael.
"Pathetic," the figure muttered, their voice dripping with disdain. Their blade was already slick with crimson, glinting like liquid fire in the lantern light.
Kael tensed, his instincts screaming at him to act, but his body didn't move.
"You're next," the assassin sneered, lunging forward in a blur of motion.
Kael's body reacted before his mind could catch up. His feet shifted, carrying him to the side as the assassin's blade sliced through the air where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier. The motion threw his attacker off balance, and Kael's hand shot out, his fingers curling around the hilt of a dagger lying in the muck at his feet.
The assassin recovered quickly, spinning to strike again, but Kael was faster. His body moved with fluid precision, and in one fluid motion, he drove the dagger upward.
The blade sank into flesh with shocking ease.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. Kael felt the resistance as the steel punctured muscle, heard the assassin's breath hitch in a wet, rattling gasp. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and sticky, and the assassin's body convulsed before crumpling to the ground.
Kael staggered back, the bloodied dagger still clutched in his hand. His chest heaved as he stared down at the lifeless figure, the pool of crimson spreading across the floor in jagged streaks.
He stared at the body, half expecting guilt to creep in, to claw at his chest like it once had. But there was nothing. Only the distant echo of a voice that told him to stop—quieter now, like a whisper fading into silence.
His gaze lingered on the blood, on the way it spread in uneven patterns. Slowly, he crouched beside the corpse, dragging his fingers through the pooling crimson. He adjusted the assassin's limbs, arranging them with meticulous care. When he stepped back, the chaos of the scene had transformed into something deliberate, almost beautiful.
"Better," Kael murmured.
The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Kael's head jerked up, his sharp eyes locking onto the far end of the corridor. Shadows flickered against the walls, accompanied by angry voices.
"There! Find him!"
Kael turned and ran.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, its dim lanterns casting faint pools of light that barely pierced the suffocating darkness. Kael's feet barely made a sound, his movements silent and precise. But the voices of his pursuers grew louder, closer.
He skidded to a halt as he reached a dead end. His gaze darted around, searching desperately for an escape. The shadows pooling at the edges of the corridor seemed to shift, curling and twisting as though alive.
He reached out instinctively.
The darkness responded, curling around his fingers like tendrils of smoke. A sharp ache flared in his chest, cold and fleeting, but enough to leave him gasping. The shadows felt alive—seeping into his skin, cold and possessive.
When the assassins rounded the corner, Kael held his breath. They crept forward, their weapons raised, their eyes scanning the corridor. One passed so close that Kael could hear the faint rasp of their breath, the tip of their blade slicing through the shadows just inches from his face.
"Where is he?!" one of them snarled.
"Spread out!"
When they disappeared, Kael stepped back into the light. His breathing was steady, his heartbeat calm.
He glanced down at his bloodstreaked hands, a slow smile curling at his lips.
"This world is broken," he murmured, his voice quiet but resolute. "But even broken things can be shaped into something beautiful."