The night had teeth.
It bit into the bones of the living, gnawed at the edges of peace, and whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen. Kael stood at the edge of a ruined cliff, the wind tugging at his tattered cloak like a phantom trying to pull him back into the abyss he had risen from. Below, the forest churned like a living thing—roots twisted unnaturally, trees leaned as though they were eavesdropping on a god's footsteps.
And Kael… he was no longer a man.
He had stopped pretending days ago. The moment his eyes had turned black and the world began answering to his voice, he understood the cost of power. There was no return from what he had become. Not when the dead no longer feared him. Not when the living began to whisper his name with trembling lips.
Kael, the Deathbound.
But there was another name forming—one not yet spoken, only whispered in the air, scribbled in dying breaths and etched into the skin of nightmares. Something primal. Something ancient. Something destined.
Kael tightened his grip on the scythe—no longer a mere weapon, but an extension of his will. Crafted from bone and shadow, it pulsed when he breathed. The pact he made in the Depthward Temple had awakened it, had awakened him. He could feel the spirits he had once summoned now crawling within him, like blood in his veins.
He didn't control death anymore.
He was death.
He turned away from the cliff as a scream echoed in the distance. Not human. Not animal. A creature twisted by fear and necrotic corruption. His presence alone now corrupted the land, and the warlocks who had once mocked him now sent scouts, terrified prophets, and bloodletters to beg or betray. He spared none.
A traveler's lantern flickered in the woods below. A mistake. The world no longer belonged to the weak. Kael's eyes narrowed. He descended silently, his feet not disturbing even the crunch of leaves. The shadows obeyed him, parted for him, watched with silent reverence.
The man below was cloaked in grey, hunched and muttering to himself. Old, blind, and yet still walking toward a village that no longer existed—burned, ruined, devoured by Kael's own wrath five nights ago.
"You should not be here," Kael said, his voice flat.
The man did not flinch. "I go where the dead whisper."
Kael stepped forward. "You hear them?"
The old man turned his face to him, his eyes clouded white. "They say you are coming. They say you are not alone. They say… He wakes."
Kael's grip on his scythe tightened. "Who?"
The man smiled. His lips cracked, bled, and yet he didn't seem to notice. "The First One. The one who wore death before you. The one you stole the mark from."
Lightning cracked the sky.
The air shifted. Kael sensed something ripple through the night. This wasn't prophecy. This was truth. Raw. Inevitable.
The First One.
He had seen glimpses during his bond with the relics—ancient memories from corpses buried before history began. A figure cloaked in bone, riding a serpent of smoke, eyes ablaze with voidfire. No name, only silence. The one who had carved the laws of necromancy into stone. The one Kael had unknowingly challenged by stepping into this role.
"I do not fear ghosts," Kael said, though his voice wavered for the first time.
"He is no ghost. And he is not pleased."
Kael stepped back. The forest around them grew cold. Even the shadows recoiled. Something moved in the distant trees—slow, deliberate. A pulse echoed across the soil. Then another.
"You've brought him here," Kael whispered.
"I brought you to him."
The old man collapsed like paper, his body deflating, his soul snatched away before Kael could react. What remained was a hollowed husk—and a mark branded onto its chest. A spiral of black fire.
Kael ran.
He wasn't sure why—he had not known fear in days. But something primal took hold of his undead core, an instinct buried deeper than memory. He reached the edge of a clearing and summoned a dozen wraiths, spirits shrieking into the air with hatred and hunger. They surrounded him, swirling protectively.
But they didn't stop the cold.
A figure stepped through the trees. Not tall. Not cloaked. Not what Kael expected. It was a boy—no older than twelve, dressed in white robes. Barefoot. Hair like starlight.
But the eyes…
Kael recognized them immediately.
Not human. Not kind. Timeless. Endless.
"You shouldn't wear his title," the boy said softly.
Kael raised his scythe. "I took it."
"You borrowed it. And the price is due."
The world cracked.
Time bent. Kael felt himself pulled through space, his soul tearing at the seams. The clearing vanished. The stars vanished. Even the voices of his summoned spirits were silent. He stood on nothing. Beneath a bleeding moon. In a place without life or name.
The boy stood across from him, no longer a child.
A king of bones.
A god of death.
"Return what is mine," the being said.
Kael raised his weapon. "Take it."
And the battle began.
It was not fought with swords or curses. It was a war of wills. Shadows against shadows. Death against Death.
Kael screamed.
And the world screamed with him.