Chancellor Durn Halvek sipped his wine in silence as the messenger bled out on the marble floor.
Outside the palace of Viremont, the capital of Khorath, bells rang in soft harmony—church hour. Inside, the only music was the sound of muffled screams as another servant was dragged away.
"Lord Kaen is dead," Durn said at last, rising from his gilded chair.
A man in black armor beside him spoke with a rasp. "Frosthollow burned. His entire garrison slaughtered."
Durn walked to the balcony, overlooking the marble courtyards and glimmering spires of his dominion. Khorath thrived under his rule. Every coin weighed, every noble bought or broken. But this... this was disorder. And worse—unexpected.
"Draven," he muttered. "It has to be."
Another figure stepped forward from the shadows—a woman in crimson robes, hooded, her face covered in delicate gold thread.
"The sword has awakened," she said. "I felt it scream the night Kaen fell. He's coming."
Durn turned, his aging features twisted in anger. "He's a ghost. He should have stayed in the grave."
"He didn't," the woman said calmly. "And now he's following the blood trail back to us."
They stood in silence. The council chamber, once filled with political ease and soft laughter, now reeked of fear.
"You told me the curse would consume him," Durn growled at her.
"It will," she replied. "But not before he cuts through the rest of you. The blade remembers. Just as he does."
Durn moved to the table and lit a candle beneath an old parchment—a circle marked with five thrones. One had been crossed out in blood-red ink.
"I will not die like Kaen," Durn muttered. "Prepare the Black Guard. I want eyes in every alley, every temple. I want Kael Draven found."
"And when you find him?" the woman asked.
Durn smiled darkly.
"I'll remind him why I was the one who ordered the killing."
Far beneath the palace, in a vault sealed by old runes, a sealed door pulsed faintly with red light.
Inside, something stirred.
Something ancient.
And hungry.