Darkness wasn't a void—it was a cradle.
Kael drifted in it, silent and senseless, but not alone.
A flicker of warmth reached through the veil. A child's laugh. A mother's smile. A friend's voice calling his name.
The light grew, taking form.
His mother.
Anna blunt Dravion, mid-30s, wore a woven green shawl that smelled like cinnamon and old parchment. Her hair, the same dark blue as Kael's, was tied up with a faded ribbon. She smiled gently, the corners of her brown eyes crinkling with maternal wisdom. She had once been a healer in their village, tending wounds and hearts alike. "You always did try to save everyone," she whispered, kneeling to hug the child-version of Kael. "Even when it broke you."
Her smile wavered. Her body flickered—and then he saw her final moments, as he'd imagined them: flames licking the wooden beams, smoke coiling into the sky, her coughing blood as she covered a crying boy behind her.
"Run," she had said.
Then came Gerran.
Kael's childhood friend. Tall, wiry, with shaggy brown hair that always covered one eye. Seventeen, just a year older than Kael when he died. Gerran had been the one who taught Kael to throw a punch, to steal apples without getting caught, to laugh after a beating.
He appeared leaning against an old tree, smirking. "Still picking fights you can't win?" he teased, tossing a wooden practice sword at Kael's feet.
But when Kael blinked, blood streamed down Gerran's face. A spear jutted from his stomach, hands trembling as he reached for Kael, whispering, "Go… don't look back…"
Then there was Melia.
A quiet seamstress with ink-stained fingers. Sixteen, delicate, with golden curls she hated and pale skin that blushed at every compliment. She used to sew Kael's worn shirts back together, her lips pressed in quiet concentration.
She stood beside a thread-covered table, smiling shyly. "You looked dashing in my work, you know…" she murmured. But then her form crumpled. In his mind, she'd been caught in the crossfire—her body sprawled beside her ruined shop, crushed beneath a fallen beam.
Jonar and Nia, a married couple from his village.
Jonar had been the one to teach Kael to fish. Broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, with a hearty laugh and missing teeth. Nia was stern, hawk-eyed, but kind. She used to sneak Kael extra stew when he "looked too skinny."
They stood arm in arm by the riverside.
Then came the image Kael dreaded: Jonar impaled by a rogue soldier's blade, Nia screaming as she threw herself over him—dying together, just as they'd lived.
Others followed. A child named Renna who had drawn Kael pictures with flower petals. An old bookseller named Mirche who lent him forbidden scrolls. A guard named Harven who let him train secretly at night.
Their deaths all echoed in different ways, soaked in the tragedy Kael had painted in his grief. They weren't heroic—they were sudden, cruel, wrong.
They all smiled at him in the golden light of memory.
And then the light faded.
A tremor rippled through the land. A whistle of wind turned sharp, angry.
Kael gasped.
He opened his eyes to the real world. His heart thundered. His body ached—but his soul screamed.
They were gone.
All of them. Forever.
And they—Hert. Keu. Von.
They stood too close. Their voices echoed with concern, but Kael heard only mockery.
He erupted.
Like a beast unchained.
Kael lunged forward, his palm slamming into Keu's chest, sending the man skidding backward into a rock with a sickening crunch. Before Von could react, Kael's fist collided with his jaw, breaking it sideways. Blood sprayed. Von collapsed.
"Kael! Wait—!"
Hert raised a hand to block but Kael's boot slammed into his ribs, cracking them. He followed it up with a savage elbow to the temple, dropping Hert like a ragdoll.
Breathless, teeth clenched, Kael stood over them, panting, his eyes glowing with feral rage.
Then—
"That's enough."
A blur. Steel clanged.
Leonardo.
Cloak billowing, sword drawn—not for threat, but for restraint.
"Kael, you're not yourself."
"I'm exactly myself!" Kael roared.
He charged. A flash of motion—his fists clashed against Leonardo's blade, sparks flying as raw aura met honed steel.
Leonardo stepped back with elegant precision, sidestepping a wild punch and countering with a flat strike to Kael's ribs. Kael didn't flinch.
He twisted, grabbed Leonardo by the collar, and headbutted him.
The swordsman stumbled.
Kael pressed the assault—low kick, followed by a vicious uppercut. Leonardo parried the second blow with his scabbard, but Kael caught the edge of his jaw. Blood dripped.
"You think you can stop me?!" Kael snarled.
Leonardo's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but sorrow.
"I have to."
Their clash lit the earth, a dance of fury and precision. Kael's style was wild, primal, driven by grief and fury—he punched with his entire body, kicked like a war beast. Leonardo responded with form and flow, a counterbalance of elegance and measured fo
rce.
Steel slashed the air. Fists shattered stone.
Neither held back.
Not anymore.
To be continued…