The market square buzzed with morning chatter—vendors shouting prices, children laughing between stalls. Kael walked beside Senn, a bundle of herbs in one hand, a loaf of flatbread in the other. He hadn't stopped grinning since they left the blacksmith.
"Two full bags of supplies," Kael said. "And you didn't grumble once. That might be a record."
Senn snorted. "You're just lucky I didn't make you carry the firewood and the soap."
Then the wind died.
Kael blinked. The air shifted—heavier, colder.
Like something just crawled in through a tear in the world.
A sound like whispering metal rose, barely audible under the bustle.
Senn froze. "Kael—"
Kael's spine stiffened. "I feel it."
They turned just in time to see the first Gate open—a jagged rift in reality, pulsing with black mist. From it stepped a Wraithborn—tall, spectral, eyes like molten void.
Then a second.
Then a third.
Panic surged through the crowd. Screams echoed.
"Go," Senn commanded, already moving to flank.
Kael dropped the supplies and drew his blade. The mark on his back ignited, burning through cloth and skin like liquid fire. But it didn't hurt.
It felt right.
The first Wraithborn lunged. Kael sidestepped, blade cutting across its ribcage. It howled—its body dispersing into black mist. One down.
The second was faster. It came at him in a blur, claws wide.
Kael ducked under a strike, slashed low, then followed with a spin that severed the creature mid-waist. Two.
He could feel it—every move, every flow. Like the blade wasn't just in his hand—it was part of him. His thoughts quickened. His strikes grew cleaner.
The third Wraithborn tried to retreat toward the square's edge. Kael dashed after it, leapt, and came down with a roar—driving his sword straight through its chest. The creature convulsed, then exploded into vapor.
Three.
People watched from hiding spots. Someone even whispered his name.
He grinned.
"I'm doing it," he muttered. "I'm actually—"
That's when the fourth one appeared.
Larger. Slower. Smarter.
Kaell turned, adrenaline surging. "Come on, then," he said with a swagger. "Let's finish this."
The Wraithborn hissed low, circling. Kael stepped forward, casually. Too casually.
Senn's eyes, watching from across the square, narrowed.
He's losing the rhythm…
Kael swung. Missed. The Wraithborn ducked under and raked its claws upward.
Pain lanced through Kael's left shoulder.
He cried out, stumbling back, vision blurring. His sword dropped for half a heartbeat.
No…
The Wraithborn turned away.
Not to flee.
To pounce.
A girl stood frozen near the well, eyes wide with terror. She couldn't move.
Kael reached for his sword—but his arm failed him.
And then—
Flash.
Senn appeared between them in an instant. No wasted movement. Just three perfect cuts. One upward. One across. One down.
The Wraithborn vanished in a plume of black smoke.
Silence followed.
Kael sat on the ground, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He looked up at Senn, who was already kneeling beside the girl, gently helping her to her feet.
Kael's mouth felt dry. "I had it…"
"No," Senn said quietly. "You had it. Until you forgot why you were fighting."
Kael looked away, shame twisting in his gut.
"You let victory speak louder than instinct," Senn added. "You forgot the rhythm. You let the high blind you."
The girl clung to Senn's leg. Her eyes, full of trust and fear, met Kael's.
He looked down at the blood on his hand.
"I got three of them," he said, almost defensively.
"And the fourth nearly cost a life," Senn replied, standing. "Learn the lesson, Kael. Or the next time, it will."
Kael sat still as the villagers slowly emerged from hiding.
Three kills.
One mistake.
And the fire in his back now pulsed not with pride, but with warning.