The smell of blood hung in the air like smoke after a storm.
Khael Draven gasped for breath as he stood in the ruined courtyard, clothes soaked through with blood that wasn't all his. The stone floor was covered with the bodies of men that whom Khael had shared laughter, breaking of bread, and brotherhood. Their blank eyes stared into the mist of the night, forever frozen in a moment of horror.
The crimson mist draped the ground with enough density to choke on. The estate, once a proud tower for the Draven clan, lay in total ruin, with its once-towering spires toppled, and the great hall reduced to broken bones of splintered wood and burning stone.
Khael's heart hammered painfully in his chest, and there was a dull ache of a dagger where it used to be, and while there was no dagger left, the memory pulsed in his bones.
He should be dead.
By all means, he should've bled out on that balcony while the very people he trusted the most hacked their treachery into his flesh.
But he didn't.
And the world would pay for it.
He focused on the nearest body, Varun. The man's features still possessed the same look as when it all went down: Part fear, part guilt, part whatever resolve you needed to inflict grief on someone who was trying to save your life. Khael clenched his jaw; the betrayal dug deeper than a thousand knife blades could go.
He'd trusted them. All of them.
And her... Eira...
At the thought of her, Khael's throat tightened. The memory of Eira's flushed face, the tears, as she sank the dagger into his heart, would be a scar never to heal, not when he could still her whisper.
"I still love you."
Lies.
Every word is a blasphemy.
Then, as if to ruin the quiet assault of memories crowding in on him, there was noise, the scrape of boot against stone. Khael's muscles went taught, crouching low, instinct kicking the confusion away. A body stumbled through the fog up ahead, bloodied and limping.
Ronan. One of his sworn brothers. The coward lived. Khael felt his hands clench into fists. Every cell in his body screamed for him to hit, to finish what was started, but a voice in his mind restrained him. Wait. Watch. Ronan's frantic gaze darted around him, his face pale and slick with sweat. His sword was broken, jagged at the end, and his steps were spastic and uneven. "Gods," the man murmured, his voice cracking, "it was not supposed to end this way..." Khael left the dark. Ronan's head jerked up to his wide eyes. "Khael." The name escaped as a gasp, disbelief sharpening the syllables. Khael's mouth was a stone, and he swung through the air, a phantasm, bridging the distance in a breath. Before Ronan could react, Khael's hand was on his throat. The man almost flipped through the air but landed awkwardly with Khael's wrist in a death grip of fingers. "You should be dead," Ronan gasped, terror warping his face, "We killed you... We killed you!" "You tried," Khael said softly, "and you failed."
Without a moment's thought, he swung his fist into Ronan's face. Bone cracked and blood sprayed across the mist-lathered ground. The man fell to his knees, choking and spitting blood.
"I begged them," Ronan gasped, quaking with each word. "I told them it was madness...but she would not listen...Eira..."
The name fueled the nursery's fire in Khael's chest, and his grip tightened.
"Where is she?"
The question came out as a low growl.
"I.. I don't know," Ronan stammered. "After the ritual...she took the High Throne. Proclaimed herself Lady of Velarion...and the others followed her...they were terrified of what you would become."
Khael's heart raced. The anger, the horrific grief of this, and the blind injustice made his vision swim.
"They had every reason to fear."
He tightened his grip again. Ronan's eyes bulged. There was a sickening snap as the night was filled with the sound of broken bones. Khael dropped the body as if it were nothing more than refuse.
A bitter wind cut through the courtyard, hitching breathy draughts of the scent of death. Khael stood over the anguish he had caused, jaw clenched, mind spinning.
He was not finished. Not yet.
A rustle to his right. He turned, ready to strike.
A shadowy figure emerged from the archway, only this time it was a familiar and frail sight. It was Maelor.
The old steward. His white beard was matted with blood; his skin was ashen and hollow, but those eyes held the same stubborn fire Khael remembered.
"You live," Maelor rasped, with a relief and almost wonder in his voice.
"At the moment," Khael responded.
The old man staggered forward, his grip on the bloodied dagger tight.
"I tried to stop them," Maelor whispered, his voice beginning to crack. "By the gods, I tried...but there were too many...and she."
"Where is she now?"
Maelor looked away, looking at the ground.
"She is gone," he said. "She has claimed the capital. She crowned herself before dawn."
An anger Khael had never felt filled him once again.
"I will take it back from her," he swore. "Piece by piece."
Maelor reached into his cloak and drew out a folded piece of parchment, spilling ink and fading color. His hands trembled when he handed it to Khael.
"This... was intended for you," he muttered. "Left by your mother, before she disappeared."
Khael's chest tightened with the utterance of the only woman he had never known. He unfurled the parchment and scanned the letters on its aged surface.
"Seek the Cursed Sanctum. Past the Blackened Veil. There you will find that which has been taken from you.
His heart hammered in his chest.
It wasn't done.
A shrill whistle was heard from the fog.
An arrow.
Maelor's eyes widened as the bolt slipped into his throat. Blood spilled from his mouth as he fell.
"Maelor!" Khael fell to his knees beside him, but it was too late. The old man's unblinking eyes fixed on the stars above.
Another arrow. And then another.
Khael rolled away as the shafts struck stone. From the fog came eleven, maybe twelve figures, cloaked and armored, their faces obscured by bone-white masks.
The Sentinels.
Assassins who worked for Eira.
"Orders are to take him down," one barked. "By any means necessary."
Khael was on his feet now, blood splattered across his face. The dagger he pulled from Maelor's limp hand felt like nothing compared to the weapons his enemies held.
It hardly mattered.
"Come, then," he hissed.
The first to charge.
Khael met him head-on, ducking at the last second and plunging the blade into the man's ribs. A second assailant came from behind. Khael spun, wrenched the blade loose with some blood, and buried it in the attacker's throat.
Pain erupted as a sword brushed against his arm. Another sword jabbed into his side. The taste of metal flooded his mouth.
But he moved like an animal backed into a corner. And like an animal, all his anger breathed into a strength he didn't know he had. Each betrayal, each death, each lie fed the storm within him.
He didn't know how many souls he defeated.
Five. Six. Seven.
Body parts piled up around him.
But he was outnumbered. He was outnumbered. He was bleeding.
A boot kicked him square in the chest, flinging him into a broken pillar. His vision faded to fuzzy white. His muscles ached.
The leader of the sentinels stepped forward, a sword held high.
"Draven. This is where your reign ends."
Khael spat blood.
"I don't end," he spat. "I endure."
The man's sword came with a downward arc.
And in that breath, a shadow darker than night spiraled behind Khael. A force as ancient as time and cold as the void twisted around him.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
The sword never struck.
Darkness enveloped the courtyard, and a voice like thunder infused the fog.
"Not yet."