Kael ascended the narrow staircase, each step reverberating faintly in the confined, echoing space. The damp air of the lower levels had begun to thin, giving way to something sharper—a hint of smoke and steel carried on faint, uneven currents. The incline was steep, forcing him to steady himself with a hand against the cracked stone wall as he climbed.
Behind him, silence reigned. The scout's lifeless form and the carefully arranged tableau he'd left behind were nothing more than a memory now, a fleeting fragment of his growing art. Yet Kael's mind wasn't on the body. It was on the man's words.
"You were supposed to save us… something went wrong."
The words gnawed at him, pressing against the fragmented edges of his memories. He could feel their weight—heavy, significant—but no matter how hard he reached for them, the answers slipped through his fingers like smoke.
The air grew colder as he neared the top of the staircase, and Kael slowed, his sharp gaze scanning the shadows ahead. The faint light of torches flickered beyond the archway at the landing, casting restless shapes that curled and stretched across the stone.
He stepped forward cautiously, his body low and silent as he crossed the threshold.
The space beyond was vast, its ceiling vaulted and uneven, supported by crumbling stone pillars. This was no longer the labyrinthine depths of the Veil—this was a war zone.
Bodies littered the floor, sprawled in pools of blood that reflected the flickering light of the torches. Some wore the familiar dark robes of the guild, their weapons still clutched in lifeless hands. Others were strangers, their armor mismatched and crude, their faces twisted in frozen snarls.
Kael moved through the carnage with careful precision, his shadow tendrils curling faintly around his fingers as he stepped over the fallen. The scene was raw, chaotic—violent, but lacking the artistry he had come to expect from the guild's killers.
The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, but beneath it was something else. Something faint but unmistakable: the same hum he had felt in the depths below. It pulsed faintly in his chest, resonating with the shadows that clung to him like a second skin.
Kael's sharp eyes flicked to the walls as he moved, noting the same intricate carvings that had marked the lower levels. They were faint here, worn down by time and violence, but their presence was unmistakable.
He knelt beside one of the bodies—a guild assassin, his throat slashed cleanly. The man's lifeless gaze stared upward, his features frozen in an expression of surprise. Kael's fingers brushed the blood pooling beneath the body, his movements deliberate as he studied its flow.
"Chaotic," he murmured softly. His eyes narrowed as he adjusted the angle of the assassin's arm, shifting the corpse into a more deliberate pose. The bloodstains spread outward in uneven arcs, their jagged edges catching the torchlight.
Kael tilted his head, his mind already reshaping the scene into something more elegant, more meaningful. But before he could complete his work, a sound cut through the stillness.
Voices.
Kael rose slowly, his shadow tendrils curling protectively around him as he turned toward the source of the noise. The voices were low and urgent, growing louder as they drew closer.
"…still alive? How?"
"I don't care. If we find him, we end this. No hesitation."
Kael's gaze sharpened, his body tensing as the voices approached. Two figures emerged from the far end of the chamber, their dark robes marking them as guild assassins. They moved with purpose, their blades drawn, their expressions grim.
Kael stepped back into the shadows, his movements silent and fluid. The tendrils around him pulsed faintly, their cold presence wrapping around his limbs as he pressed himself against one of the crumbling pillars.
The assassins stopped near the center of the chamber, their eyes scanning the carnage.
"Do you think he's here?" one of them asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The other shook his head. "If he was, we'd know. The traitor doesn't leave survivors."
Kael's lips curled into a faint smile at the words. "Traitor," they had called him. He didn't remember betraying anyone—but then again, he didn't remember much at all.
The assassins began moving again, their footsteps cautious as they searched the room. Kael's eyes followed their movements, his mind already calculating. He could feel the shadows stirring around him, their cold energy pressing against his skin, eager to be used.
But there was a cost.
The ache in his chest hadn't faded—it had only grown stronger, a sharp reminder of the toll his abilities demanded. Kael exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady his breathing. He couldn't afford to overreach. Not yet.
The first assassin passed close to Kael's hiding place, his blade glinting faintly in the torchlight. Kael's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger, his body poised to strike.
And then he stopped.
The bloodstains on the floor. The symbols carved into the walls.
Kael's gaze flicked between them, his mind shifting gears. This wasn't just an opportunity to kill—it was an opportunity to create.
He moved.
The shadows surged forward, curling around the first assassin's legs like coiled serpents. The man barely had time to cry out before the tendrils tightened, pulling him to the ground. His companion spun around, his blade slashing through the air, but Kael was faster.
He darted forward, his movements fluid and precise, and drove his dagger into the man's throat. The assassin staggered, his hands clawing at the blade as he fell to his knees.
Kael stepped back, his breathing steady as he watched the blood pool around the bodies. The scene was still incomplete—raw and disorganized. But with a few deliberate adjustments…
His fingers brushed against the symbols on the wall as he worked, the faint hum resonating through his chest. The shadows pulsed in response, their cold energy shaping the bloodstains into elegant, flowing patterns.
When he finally stepped back, Kael's lips curled into a satisfied smile. The scene was perfect—a tableau of death and artistry, balanced in its brutality.
But as he turned to leave, his gaze caught on something glinting faintly in the torchlight. He knelt, brushing his fingers against the edge of a small medallion lying amidst the carnage.
The symbol etched into its surface was unfamiliar, but it stirred something deep within him. A memory, faint and fragmented—a flash of light, a voice whispering his name.
Kael rose, his grip tightening on the medallion as the whispers returned, low and melodic, echoing faintly in the back of his mind.
"Kael… you are not ready yet."