His knees buckled before he could even reach the basin.
The room spun—blood loss, potion crash, magic backlash, all slamming into him at once. His vision blurred. His pulse thudded in his ears like war drums. He managed one step—
And then darkness.
Knock knock.
Kaelen woke with a gasp, cold sweat clinging to his chest.
Knock knock.
It was morning now, pale light seeping through the shutters. His head pounded. The sheets were soaked. The scent of that creature's blood still lingered in the room like rot and sulfur.
He staggered to his feet, still shirtless, grabbing the hilt of his sword with one hand.
Knock knock.
Slower this time. Not urgent.
He opened the door.
An older man stood there—broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, wrapped in a heavy cloak worn at the edges. His face was hard, lined with scars and years of seeing too much. His eyes… sharp. Not golden like Kaelen's, but close. Steel-gray. And just as dangerous.
The man looked him over—bloody lip, bare chest, eyes still haunted from the night.
"You look like hell," the man said, voice gravel and dry wind.
Kaelen narrowed his eyes.
"You lost?"
"No." The man stepped closer, not intimidated in the slightest. "I'm here because of what you did."
Kaelen blinked. "You're gonna have to be more specific."
The man's gaze didn't waver.
"You killed a noble working with blood magic. You survived a bruxa mid-feed. And you woke up something bigger than both."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a worn pendant—an old Wolf medallion, cracked and dulled by time.
"I used to be what you are," he said.
Kaelen froze.
"Used to be?"
The man met his gaze, serious now.
"I'm here to warn you. What you've stepped into—it's not a contract anymore. It's a war. And the side you're on?" He paused. "They're already watching."
Kaelen didn't answer the old man. Just gave him a long, unreadable look.
Then he shut the door in his face.
Fifteen minutes later, he came stomping down the inn stairs—cleaned up, armored again, blades back where they belonged. His eyes were still shadowed from lack of sleep, and his lip was scabbed where the bruxa had bitten him, but he moved like a man who'd already shaken death's hand twice before breakfast.
He pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside.
It was quiet, the way all village taverns are early—just a few workers nursing cheap beer and cold hangovers. The barkeep glanced up, eyes widening slightly at the sight of him. Still, he didn't ask questions.
Kaelen took a seat at a back table, the one with the best view of both the door and the street beyond.
"Food," he said flatly. "And ale. Strong."
The barkeep nodded and got moving.
Kaelen leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out, arms resting over the back like he owned the place. A few villagers peeked at him from over their mugs. Whispered.
He ignored them.
His head still throbbed. His body ached. But it wasn't pain that bothered him—it was the feeling crawling at the edge of his instincts. The sense that the old man wasn't lying.
That he was in something deeper now.
Bigger.
His food arrived—eggs, black bread, strips of salted meat—and a tall mug of bitter, frothy ale.
Kaelen took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and muttered under his breath:
"Should've stayed in bed."
Kaelen was halfway through his ale, bread in one hand, when he felt it:
A heavy, firm grip clamping down on his shoulder. Not hostile. But not friendly either.
Deliberate.
He didn't flinch. Just slowly reached for the knife tucked under his belt with his free hand as he turned his head.
Behind him stood a mountain of a man—easily a head taller than Kaelen, built like a siege tower wrapped in furs and boiled leather. Bald, scarred, and with an axe strapped across his back that looked more suited for cleaving trees than skulls—though judging by the notches in the blade, it had seen plenty of both.
The man's eyes were small, ice-blue, and locked onto Kaelen's with something between amusement and warning.
"Kaelen Virek," he said, voice like gravel in a barrel. "Didn't expect you to look so pretty."
Kaelen blinked slowly.
"Didn't expect you to smell like you lost a fight with a pigsty," he replied, deadpan.
A beat of silence.
Then the man grinned, wide and toothy.
"Good. I hate the quiet ones."
He pulled out a chair and sat down without asking. The wood creaked under his bulk like it might shatter.
"Name's Garran," he said. "I'm here to deliver a message."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow.
"From who?"
Garran leaned forward, voice lowering.
"From them. The ones your noble 'friend' was working for. The ones you pissed off when you started killing their pets."
Kaelen's grip tightened on his mug.
Garran just grinned again.
"They know who you are now. And they're watching. Closely."
He paused.
"And they sent me to give you a choice: walk away. Or bleed."
Kaelen finished the last bite of his bread, then stood up slowly.
"Funny," he said, eyes narrowing. "I was just about to give you that same choice."
The tavern air froze.
Garran stood up with a low, rumbling chuckle, the wood under his boots groaning. His hand reached back like lightning—not slow, not lumbering, trained—and in one fluid motion, he drew the massive axe from his back.
Steel hissed as it cut the air.
Without warning, he swung it—horizontal, a decapitating arc meant to end Kaelen in one blow.
But Kaelen was already moving.
His chair shattered beneath him as he dove sideways, rolling across the tavern floor. The axe split the table in half where he'd been sitting, sending plates and mugs flying. Ale sprayed across the room like blood.
Screams erupted as villagers scrambled out of the way, diving under tables and out the door.
Kaelen sprang to his feet, drawing his longsword in a blink—no flair, no warning, just steel and intent.
"You really want to do this here?" he growled, circling.
Garran grinned wide, stepping over the wreckage, axe resting across his shoulders.
"I was hoping you'd say no."
Then he charged.
The floor trembled with every step, chairs crunching underfoot. Kaelen ducked the first wide swing, parried the next, the force jarring all the way to his shoulder. Garran wasn't just strong—he was fast for his size.
Kaelen spun to the side, slicing at the brute's ribs, but the axe was already back, blocking with its thick haft. Wood splinters flew. Kaelen danced backward, using space, reading his opponent's footwork.
"You're fast," Garran admitted, stalking forward again. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Kaelen's yellow eyes glinted as he drew a Sign in the air with two fingers.
"Try me."
He snapped his hand forward—Aard.
The blast of force hit Garran square in the chest, sending him stumbling back into a support beam with a crash. Dust rained from the rafters. He grunted, shook it off—and roared.
The fight wasn't over.
Not even close.