Rain.
Soft and steady, like a song from a world that had forgotten war.
It pattered across thick leaves, slid down the bark of ancient trees, and soaked the forest floor in cold silence. Every droplet whispered a memory, but none loud enough for Kael to grasp.
He awoke beneath a crooked tree, its twisted roots curled like claws around him. The air smelled of moss and loam, touched faintly with ash. Water ran down his face, mixing with sweat. His limbs ached. His breath trembled in his chest.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the downpour.
Everything felt… wrong. Or perhaps too familiar.
His hands—pale, unscarred. His body—lean, youthful. Not the gnarled weapon of a war-forged man.
His mind buzzed with fragments.
Steel. Blood. Screams. Fire. A blade through the back.
But the faces were all smeared in shadow. Names escaped him. Only one word lingered at the edge of his mind, sharp as broken glass:
Betrayal.
Kael stood, gripping the bark of the old tree. His clothes were simple—rough linen, damp and clinging. No armor. No weapons. No sigils. Yet something dark coiled within his veins, a memory deeper than thought.
He felt the eyes before he saw them.
Three figures emerged from the mist—faces hidden by black-iron masks, glaives glinting with lightning runes. They wore the green-gray cloaks of the Skycarve Nomads, the scouts of the wind-scorched peaks. Kael remembered the name, but not why.
"Halt!" one barked, stepping forward. "You trespass on the Windspire Path. Identify yourself."
Kael stared at them.
No fear. No answers.
Only instinct.
"I… don't know," he said honestly.
The guards exchanged glances. The lead scout stepped closer. "Then you're either a madman or a spy. On your knees, now."
Kael's fingers twitched.
Something in the earth stirred.
The dagger.
It appeared not in his hand, but around it—coalescing from the shadows pooling at his feet, forming a jagged blade of smoky black. Imperfect. Flickering. But alive.
"What—" the scout began.
Kael struck.
A blur in the rain, he drove the shadowblade through the first guard's ribs before the others could even react. The man choked, blood bubbling behind the mask, and crumpled with a thud.
The second scout shouted, lunging forward—but something made him stop.
The wind shifted.
A presence fell upon the grove like a guillotine.
BOOM.
A figure dropped from the trees, slamming into the earth with a shockwave that cracked stone and split roots. Rain hissed against metal as the newcomer rose to full height.
He wore dark emerald armor veined with silver wind runes, his glaive nearly as long as his body. A cruel grin twisted his scarred face.
General Vaelrin, the Whirlwind Fang.
Kael didn't remember his name, but his soul recognized the danger.
"Another stray shadow, huh?" Vaelrin said, stretching his neck until it popped. "Didn't think we'd find you so soon."
Kael raised the dagger—but his hand trembled.
"You know me?" he asked.
Vaelrin's eyes narrowed.
"Not yet, maybe. But I know what you are."
The general vanished.
No footsteps. No warning. Just a blur—and then pain.
Kael flew backward, his ribs cracking under the impact of Vaelrin's palm strike. He hit a tree, bark exploding behind him, and crumpled into the mud. His vision spun.
"Still breathing?" the general mocked, approaching slowly. "Good. I like my prey conscious."
Kael groaned. Blood filled his mouth. His shadow twitched, tried to rise—but the dagger had already disintegrated.
He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
He forced himself to roll, stumbling into a sprint. Vaelrin slashed after him, carving a trench through the ground—but Kael twisted, barely dodging the blow, and disappeared into the thicket.
"Run, little ghost!" the general howled. "But shadows always crawl back to their masters!"
Branches whipped Kael's face. Rain blurred his vision. Pain radiated through every breath.
Still he ran.
Not from fear—but from fury held on a leash.
When he finally collapsed, it was hours later, in the hollow of a cliffside cave. The storm still raged outside, but in the darkness, Kael curled his body tight and stared at the wound in his side.
The memory flickered again.
A woman. A blade. Blue fire.
His own blood steaming in the air.
But her face remained hidden.
He pressed a hand to his chest, where the shadow still pulsed—weak, but awake.
"I'll remember," he whispered. "And when I do…"
The cave fell silent.
Only the sound of rain answered.