A Dread Sentinel is a creature divided—one boot planted among the living, the other sinking into death's marsh. Inside Kael, that split ran deep: human emotions pushing one way, undead instinct pulling the opposite. The two currents clashed often enough that, back when this was only a game, the class was infamous for ignoring player commands and acting independently. Kael had always avoided it precisely for that reason—so the morning he woke in this body, his mood barely fit on any human scale.
Out of habit, he pressed a gauntleted palm to his chest and felt nothing. The heart had gone silent the instant the class took over. Still, un-life had its perks. Keep the inner furnace stoked—same principle as topping up a fuel tank—and the machine ran fine.
He marched now with a rucksack twice the size of anyone else's. Thorne, a curly-haired mercenary, had trudged at his elbow for nearly an hour before blurting:
"Ha! Toting other people's gear and not a bead of sweat. Perks of being half-dead, yeah?"
"More or less."
"Maybe I should try the path of the Night Goddess myself. Word is she doesn't fuss about who you were."
"Not a road I'd recommend. The body's… inconvenient."
Thorne laughed. "Heard the senses turn dull. Meaning when it's time for—well, you know." He made a crude hand gesture, forefinger pistoning through a circle of thumb and forefinger. "Life's about pleasure, right? Why bother staying vertical if you can't feel a lady's arms? Uh—sorry."
Kael didn't bristle, didn't even blink. The merc scratched his head, embarrassed, then brightened.
"Anyway, proper introductions. Thorne, son of Gollen. That was my mate Varric, who you saw sliced up back there. I'm an iron-plate sellsword, shield-bearer of the second Tier."
Tier was another word for level in the old interface: beat formidable foes, visit a shrine, and advance. The rules here matched the ones Kael had memorized years ago. Chain mail, round shield—second Tier checked out.
"You've built the role well," Kael said.
"Put in the grind, yeah. And you? Thought I'd heard the name but—eh?"
"Kael. First Tier Dread Sentinel."
"What? You swing like that on Tierone? Figures—a knight's chassis to start with." Thorne's grin returned. Whether Kael sat at Tierone or ten hardly mattered; allies this strong were tickets to future coin.
The merc launched into chatter, quiet stretch on the front, price of contracts, latest scandal at court. Kael nodded now and then, half-listening. Banning the noise seemed pointless; stray facts might prove handy.
A sharp voice rose behind them.
"Excuse me—may we walk with you?"
Thorne frowned over his shoulder. Lira, the novice priestess, stood hands on hips, worry etched deep. A dozen survivors trailed her, every one drained thin.
"These people don't have your stamina," she said. "Please, let's slow a bit."
"No," Thorne snapped. "Night's coming. You want camp set among prowling beasts?"
"But… children, elders—"
Her protest dwindled; she knew the request was steep.
Thorne clicked his tongue and turned to Kael. "Sir Kael, why not drop the load? Dead weight will kill us."
Lira's eyes flared. "Abandon the weak? Are you even human?"
"In a world where folks sell their kin for coin," Thorne snorted, "what's a little pragmatism?" He nodded toward Kael. "Does this matter to you?"
"Truthfully, no," Kael answered. Rational calculus said Thorne was correct: strangers, no shared goals—dragging them along risked everyone. Undead logic urged him to cut ties.
Something warmer argued otherwise.
He stepped toward Lira. She backed up, knees shaking, memory of that blood-smeared kerchief fresh.
"Lira, yes?" His tone was steady metal.
" I-I don't think we're on first-name terms, are we?"
"Lira. Give me a reason to lead you."
Not tell me—a deal. She twisted a platinum strand of hair, her worry tic. Sunlight was already brushing the hilltops; time leaked away.
Money? Sure, even a half-dead knight respected gold. Problem: She barely owned travel fare. The battered refugees behind her looked worse. After a long pause, she spoke:
"I can't pay now."
Kael began to turn; she hurried on.
"But I swear the debt will be mine. The temple says I'm promising—my rank will rise soon. When you need a priestess's strength, I'll answer, by faith."
"So you'll repay with your body," Thorne chuckled. "What say you, Sir Kael? She might be bluffing. Couldn't even cast a proper miracle earlier."
Kael weighed it. Maybe Lira would never climb high. Even so, half a healer beat none. Dread Sentinels seldom found friendly clergy; services came at extortionate rates. A binding favor inside the Church of Light was nothing to sneeze at.
"You swear on your creed?" he asked.
"I do." Her blue eyes shone—light he no longer carried.
"Deal."
Relief shuddered through her. Thorne merely smirked. "If she's useless, you can still collect in other ways," he said, leering. Lira folded her arms across her chest; Kael ignored them both.
"Rest's over. Move."
He set the column in motion. Pace slowed with the burden, Lira drifting among the refugees to buoy spirits. Kael's gaze kept sliding to the treeline on either side.
"Why the constant look-back?" Thorne murmured, uneasy. "Still daylight."
"There were seven."
"What?"
"The one-eyed beasts. We killed six. One fled."
"Oh." Fear widened Thorne's eyes.
"Know anything of Devourer habits?"
"Uh, not really…"
"They're territorial pack hunters," Kael said. "Packs have alphas. Loyal to the end. The missing one will fetch the rest."
"You mean they're tracking us?"
"Too late—they're near. I can feel it."
Dread Sentinel trait: Unholy Sense. Touch, pain, taste dull; other perceptions sharpen. The sixth sense prickled whenever blood scent or killing intent thickened. Kael's nerves hummed: enemies imminent.
Thorne scanned the quiet woods. Nothing stirred. Survivors glanced up, confused. He finally understood Kael's lowered voice. "Best keep this from them…"
"No point in panic."
"So—your plan?"
"Fight."
"Can we win?"
"We have to."
Thorne swallowed. If battle was inevitable, staying clustered beat scattering. The pair drifted back to the center. Lira saw their grim faces and clutched her silver sigil.
Minutes crawled. Dusk bled into full darkness. Torches flared one by one.
A wet hiss cut the silence.
Something whipped from the black, coiling round a torch-bearer's wrist.
"What?" The man yanked, but the slick tongue pulled harder, aiming to drag him away.
Kael moved first. His sword flashed, severing the appendage. Blood slapped the leaves; a shriek rattled the night.
Dozens of red pinprick eyes ignited in the gloom. Lira's face drained of color.
"Too many," she breathed.
Kael's calm held. He fixed on the largest aura, twice the mass of the rest, padding forward, drool stringing between tusk-like fangs. The alpha tasted revenge already.
Blue light blossomed behind Kael's visor as he dropped the helm's faceplate.
Moonrise edged over the hills.
The night belonged to the Dread Sentinel.