Dawn was a smear of red over the horizon when the first dead struck the gates.
The enclave's walls shook under the assault. Splintered wood and iron clashed as skeletal hands tore at the defenses. The living fought with desperate courage, but it was clear they were outnumbered. Kael stood atop the parapet, spear in hand, eyes scanning the horde.
The dead moved like tides, relentless, patient, and eerily coordinated. Each time a Warden fell, their soul flickered and then dissipated. Hunger pulsed within Kael at the sight, whispering promises of effortless victory if he reached out.
He did not.
Varen shouted orders, but Kael noticed the small fractures in their formation. Movements of the horde betrayed patterns. He could feel the push and pull of each soul, the rhythm of the march. His mind sharpened; his senses, heightened.
The first corpse breached the outer gate. A young woman wielding a torch stumbled back as skeletal hands reached for her. Kael leaped from the wall, spear poised, and struck. Bone shattered beneath his blow. The soul inside cried out, the light fading as the body fell.
More followed. Kael moved like a shadow, cutting, striking, feeding not in gluttony, but in survival. With every soul he consumed, he felt his edge sharpen, clarity returning. But with it came fragments of himself lost: a laugh that was once his, a memory of a warm hand, a whispered name.
By midday, the tide had slowed. The dead were retreating, but the cost was visible. The gates were battered, bodies of the living and dead alike lay across the sand, blood mingling with ash.
Kael stood over the remains of one fallen Warden, the light from the soul still flickering weakly in his hands. He swallowed, not out of hunger, but to contain the pang of guilt that threatened to rise.
Varen approached, eyes wary, silent approval in his glance. Kael's role had been undeniable; the battle had been won, but at a price only he fully understood. The enclave survived, but Kael had crossed another line, and the hunger inside him smiled.