They left the crumbling temple at first light. The doors opened with a groan that felt like the whole building begging them not to go. Beyond lay grey mist curling low to the ground, dampening sound and swallowing shapes. Captain Daric led them at a careful pace, sword drawn, his breath fogging in the chill.
Ayla was too weak to walk alone. Lyren and Kael fashioned a sling from cloaks and carried her between them. Her skin had gone pale as milk, every breath shallow. Each time Kael felt her twitch or heard her groan, fear tightened its cold grip around his ribs.
They made for a line of old terraces that promised higher ground. Kael's boots slipped more than once on moss-slick stone. Every shadow looked wrong. Every twisted tree seemed to reach for them. When a dead branch cracked underfoot, half the squad spun with weapons raised. Nell even let out a strangled curse, eyes wide and wild.
Kael caught that — the raw panic there — and stored it away.
Hours dragged on. The mist burned off under a cruel sun, leaving them exposed on rocky slopes. No Dreadborn came, but no birds sang either. It was as if the land itself had gone still to watch them suffer.
At midday they found a dry hollow to rest. Lyren eased Ayla down, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed.
"Still here, Ayla," Lyren whispered. "You're not done yet. I forbid it."
She tried to smile but it cracked into a grimace. "Bossy even now…"
Kael sat beside them, staring at his own trembling hands. They hadn't stopped since the temple. The dried blood under his fingernails felt like it was seeping back into his skin. When he closed his eyes, he heard whispers—no words, just a cold urging. Move. Kill. Become.
He snapped them open again, heart racing. Lyren noticed. "Hey. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Kael lied, too quickly. He flexed his hands until the shaking slowed. "Just tired."
Lyren didn't look convinced, but he let it go.
They marched again. The sun sank low, and the world turned to gold and shadows. Kael began to feel it more clearly: something in his chest, like a second heart, pulsing slow and deep. Each throb sent a wave of heat through his veins that left his head light, his feet uncertain.
He stumbled once, nearly dropping Ayla. Lyren snapped, "Kael, hold on—"
"I've got her," Kael hissed, teeth gritted. He forced himself upright. The pounding in his chest grew louder. It was hard to tell if it was fear or that other thing, scratching inside him like claws on wood.
As darkness fell, they found an abandoned watchtower. The upper levels had long collapsed, but the ground floor still offered four walls and a roof. Daric set guards and ordered them to rest. Kael curled up in a corner with Lyren close by. He drifted into uneasy sleep almost at once.
In his dreams, he was running — not from something, but toward it. Black shapes moved in the distance, hulking and wrong, and he felt joy instead of terror. He reached out, fingers stretching into claws, skin splitting, bone grinding under new weight. When he looked down, blood dripped from his hands, but it wasn't his own.
Kael awoke with a strangled gasp. Lyren was already up, knife drawn, eyes darting. "What? What did you see?"
Kael shook his head, chest heaving. "Just…a dream."
Lyren didn't push. He just stayed near, like he had since they were boys, his presence a steady weight that kept Kael from unraveling completely.
Outside, something howled in the dark. Not close — not yet — but it was enough to remind them that dreams were the least of their dangers. They'd survive the night if luck held. And Kael clung to that thought with the desperation of someone standing at the very edge of a cliff, wind howling behind him, nothing but the abyss below.
They woke before dawn. A heavy fog rolled through the watchtower's cracks, clinging to their skin like cold breath. The squad was quiet as they prepared to move — no one wanted to break the hush, as if speaking too loudly might draw something from the mist.
Kael felt worse. His body was heavy, like he'd pulled iron chains around his shoulders in his sleep. Every step burned through his calves. Worse was the strange pressure in his chest. It built in slow pulses, then surged all at once, leaving spots dancing in his vision. He pressed a hand to his ribs and felt his heart pounding far too slow. It didn't feel like it was his anymore.
Lyren kept close, shooting worried looks that Kael tried to ignore. Nearby, Nell fumbled with her gear, hands shaking. Daric noticed. He stepped in close, voice a low growl. "Pull yourself together. If you lose it, you'll kill more than yourself."
Nell muttered something bitter, but tied her scabbard tighter and fell in line.
They headed east along a crumbling road. Broken statues lined the path, half-buried by creeping vines. Each had its face smashed off, as if the world itself decided no one should remember who they were. The emptiness pressed on them from every side. Even the air felt thin.
Hours passed. The sun stayed trapped behind low clouds, leaving them under a dim, colorless sky. Kael's mind wandered. He kept imagining the shapes of the Dreadborn between the trees, jaws gaping, claws twitching. When he blinked, they were gone. He nearly staggered into Lyren twice.
"You're worse," Lyren finally said. Not a question.
Kael didn't answer. He just gripped the strap of his pack tighter until his knuckles whitened. He was afraid if he spoke, something else might answer in his voice.
They stopped to drink from a shallow stream. Kael knelt, cupping water to his mouth. It tasted of rust and soil. He splashed his face, hoping the cold would snap him back. Instead, his skin burned where the water touched. He lurched upright, wiping at it with a curse.
"Kael?" Lyren's hand landed on his shoulder. Kael flinched so hard he nearly drew his blade.
"I'm fine," he snarled, breathing hard. His pulse thundered in his ears — that slow, monstrous beat that didn't match his own panic.
Lyren's eyes narrowed. But before he could press, Daric called them to move.
They marched on. The road rose and fell, winding through old terraces where the stones were cracked by tangled roots. Each step sounded too loud, echoing off the ruins. Somewhere ahead, a crow screamed, then fell silent. They all froze.
Moments later, nothing. Just the sigh of wind.
Kael exhaled shakily. He caught Nell watching him — not with worry, but something sharper, measuring. He looked away. Lyren's hand brushed his shoulder again, a silent promise that he wasn't alone, not yet.
When they finally stopped for the night under a twisted old oak, Kael sat apart. He drew his knees up, arms wrapped tight around them, staring into the underbrush. His skin felt wrong, too tight, like something was growing under it. Every heartbeat was a drum in his skull.
A noise pulled him back — a whisper, too faint to catch words. He turned. Nothing but fog drifting through the branches. He thought of the dream again, of running toward the monsters, of blood on claws that felt too familiar.
Kael buried his face in his arms and forced slow breaths. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not with everyone counting on him. He thought of Ayla's pale face, of Lyren's fierce eyes, of Garrick's laughter that would never come again.
He clenched his fists until his nails bit flesh, repeating over and over: Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.