Velmire was louder than Kael remembered.
The streets buzzed with life — merchants shouting prices, children racing through alleyways, priests delivering rote blessings to anyone who'd listen. It should have felt familiar. Once, he'd walked these roads in armor engraved with gold, head held high, greeted by cheers.
Now, no one knew him.
He preferred it that way.
The hood hid his face. The ashsteel blade at his side remained untouched. But his eyes never stopped moving.
He wasn't here for nostalgia.
He was hunting.
Lord Hiram Dalewind.
Former advisor to the crown. Kael's mentor in court strategy. Publicly mourned the prince after his "betrayal." Privately — one of the men who helped orchestrate it.
Hiram was careful. He moved in daylight, surrounded by guards, never without a holy seal from the new faith's High Altar.
But he had a vice. One Kael remembered.
A private house on the city's edge. Candle-lit. Discreet. Soundproofed.
Kael waited until dusk.
The building was small, tucked between a tavern and an abandoned smithy. No sigils on the door. No visible guards. Just the flicker of orange light behind drawn curtains.
Kael stepped into the alley, boots silent on stone.
A single knock. Deliberate.
A sliding slot opened. "Password?"
Kael raised his hand — and the door lock melted.
The slot snapped shut. The door flung open. A man stumbled back, eyes wide. Kael entered before he could scream.
He didn't need names. He recognized the layout. First door on the left. Down the hall. Second floor.
He moved like memory. Like ritual.
Lord Hiram sat reclined on silk cushions, wine glass in hand, robes loosened. He didn't look up when Kael entered.
"About time," he said. "I told you not to knock like—"
He turned.
He froze.
"…Who are you?"
Kael stepped forward, pulling down his hood.
The candlelight caught his face.
Half-shadowed. Scarred. And unmistakable.
Hiram went pale. His glass fell and shattered.
"Impossible," he whispered. "You're dead. You died—"
Kael said nothing.
Hiram scrambled back, grabbing at a drawer. Hidden dagger. Typical. Predictable.
Kael kicked the table aside. The wine caught fire before it hit the floor.
"Please," Hiram choked. "I—I did what I had to— You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly."
Kael's voice was quiet. Measured.
"I remember the trial you helped arrange. I remember your testimony. The lies. The oath you broke."
His hand twitched. A flame danced across his palm — faint, barely there. But Hiram's eyes followed it like it was a monster.
"You… you have Remnant fire," Hiram gasped. "You're corrupted— You're possessed!"
Kael knelt in front of him.
"You called it justice. Let me return the favor."
The flame didn't touch Hiram.
It didn't need to.
The shadows behind Kael shifted. Echoes. Flickers. Shapes with no form — masks and chains and distant screams.
Hiram saw them.
He screamed.
Kael stood and turned away.
When he left, the room was empty.
Except for ash.
Outside, the stars had begun to burn behind the clouds.
Kael walked without direction now, breath steady, body calm.
But inside, something stirred. Solvane's voice — the remnant god's wrath — purred like coals under his skin.
"He deserved worse."
Kael didn't answer.
Not yet.