The first thing Kael remembered was the sound of fire.
Not the roar of a blaze. Not the crackle of dry timber. But the soft whisper of embers settling, like the world had exhaled after holding its breath too long.
He couldn't see it, of course.
Not anymore.
He sat on cold stone, knees folded, hands flat on the ground. He could feel the dust—fine as ash—coating his fingertips. The scent of smoke clung to the ruined temple around him, even though the fire that consumed it had burned out days ago.
Kael's eyes were open, but the world remained a void. No light. No shapes. Just a quiet hum behind his skull, like a voice he couldn't quite hear murmuring through his veins.
That voice had a name once. He couldn't remember it.
Only that it died to keep him alive.
Something ancient and divine had shattered itself and buried its last breath in his soul. And when Kael woke, the world had vanished with it.
Footsteps.
He tilted his head slightly, catching the scuff of boots on gravel.
They were trying to be quiet. They weren't good at it.
Two, maybe three of them. Light armor. Moving slowly, with caution. He could feel the way the air shifted around their forms, the pressure of presence.
Hounds of the Sable Creed, maybe. Or one of the relic-hunting cults that picked over temple ruins like vultures.
Kael rose slowly, calmly, every muscle in his body reading the air like braille.
"I don't have anything," he said, voice dry as flint. "Unless you're here for ashes and disappointment."
The boots stopped.
A pause. Then the clink of steel being drawn.
"Blind, and still arrogant," a gruff voice muttered. "Drop your weapon—"
Kael moved.
No blade. No magic. Just instinct.
He spun low, kicked dust into the nearest attacker's face, and slammed his elbow into a gut. The second one rushed him. Kael ducked, caught the man's wrist mid-swing, twisted, and broke it clean.
The third fled.
Smart.
Kael stood still, heart steady. Two bodies groaning behind him.
Still blind. Still breathing.
He turned his head toward the setting sun he couldn't see and muttered, "If you're watching, ghost... this better be worth it."
The wind shifted. Kael caught the scent of burnt sage—faint, almost buried beneath the stench of blood and dust.
Someone else had been here. Recently.
He crouched and ran his fingers across the ground. The stone still held heat, unnatural and focused, like the sun had kissed just this one patch and nowhere else.
A relic had been touched here.
Used. Or stolen.
And not by the grunts he'd just flattened.
He pressed his palm to the heat and listened—not with ears, but with whatever strange sixth sense the Heart had buried in him. For a moment, nothing. Then—
A whisper.
A scream.
A flash of someone running, heart pounding like war drums.
Kael recoiled.
That happened sometimes. Memories that weren't his. Echoes of the Heart's long-dead creators, bleeding into his mind like ink into water. He hated it. But sometimes, it was all he had to go on.
He stood and turned toward the sound of hoofbeats.
More were coming.
Kael didn't like to run. Not because he couldn't. But because running meant he'd been seen. And being seen meant more knives. More hunters. More godsdamned questions.
He moved anyway, slipping through the crumbling archways of the ruined temple, past shattered idols and vine-covered columns. His boots glided over the ground without a sound.
He made it to the treeline just as the riders crested the hill.
Three of them. Horses cloaked in black, riders in silver-threaded armor that glinted even in dusk. He couldn't see them, but he could hear the way the forest quieted when they appeared.
Sable Creed.
They moved like wolves with scripture in their mouths.
Kael didn't move. He didn't breathe. He pressed a hand against the bark of an old pine and waited.
"Two down," one of the riders said, voice hollow behind a polished helm. "Third fled. No sign of the bearer."
"The relic's pulse is faint," another said. A woman. Cold voice. "He's nearby. The Ashbound never stray far from the flame."
Kael's jaw tightened.
Ashbound.
That's what they called him now.
A relic-bonded soul. Dangerous. Cursed.
He preferred "unlucky bastard," but no one ever asked.
Suddenly, the trees to his left snapped.
Kael turned, just as something heavy collided with his shoulder and sent him tumbling.
He rolled, drew the dagger from his belt, and slashed upward—only for his blade to meet a staff.
A wooden one.
Cracked at the end. Smelled like firewood.
"Easy," a voice hissed—young, female, and annoyed. "I'm not with them."
Kael froze.
She was close—too close. He could feel the heat of her breath. Hear the flutter of her heartbeat. Not calm. Not trained. But not afraid either.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"You can ask that after we're not dead," she snapped. "They're circling. We've got maybe thirty seconds."
He hesitated.
Then she grabbed his arm. "Come on, Ashbound. Try not to trip on the way."
Kael hesitated.
The girl's grip was firm, calloused, confident—but not reckless. She knew how to move in the woods. How to stalk prey. How to kill.
"Who are you?" he asked again, voice low.
She didn't answer right away. Just yanked his arm and pulled him through the trees with practiced steps.
"The kind of girl who'll let you die if you keep talking."
"Charming," Kael muttered, keeping pace despite the roots clawing at his boots. "I'll be sure to send you flowers—if I survive."
She stopped abruptly, crouched low behind a crumbling stone wall wrapped in ivy. Kael followed, listening for the riders. They'd slowed. Fanning out. Searching.
He whispered, "You led me deeper into their search path."
"I did," she whispered back. "That's why we're going up."
Before he could respond, she shoved something into his hand—rough wood. A rope. A counterweight.
He raised an eyebrow, or at least the blind equivalent. "A tree lift?"
"You say that like you're not impressed."
"I say that like it's a terrible idea."
She smirked. He could hear it in her voice.
Then she pulled the lever.
The two of them shot up into the air, ropes creaking as the lift mechanism hidden beneath the ivy hoisted them toward the tree canopy. Kael gripped the side with one hand, the rope with the other.
"Hope you're not afraid of heights," she called over the wind.
"I can't see," Kael growled. "They're all the same to me."
The platform thudded into place on a thick wooden landing built high in the branches. She stepped off first, light on her feet. Kael followed with practiced caution, noting how she barely breathed loud enough to register.
Who was this girl?
They crouched in silence for a moment, watching the riders disappear below. Or at least, she watched. Kael just listened.
"I've bought you about ten minutes before they double back," she said.
"Appreciate the effort," Kael muttered. "Still waiting on that name, though."
A pause.
Then: "Arinya."
Something about the name hit a nerve. Familiar. But Kael shoved it down.
"And you are?"
"Unlucky," he said dryly.
She snorted. "Ashbound unlucky?"
Kael's body tensed.
She knew.
He turned slightly. "That a problem?"
"No." She looked at him with unreadable eyes. "But it's going to be."
Kael didn't answer her. He didn't have to.
The wind shifted, brushing strands of her hair across his face—silken, fragrant with wildflowers and smoke. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft. Clear. Not like the hardened bounty hunters or cutthroats who usually came for him.
It had warmth. Like springwater. Or memory.
And Kael, despite himself, wondered what she looked like.
She must be beautiful. He could hear it—hidden in her tone, her confidence, the way the silence seemed to lean toward her when she spoke.
He hated that his mind went there.
He straightened, clearing his throat. "So, Arinya… you always rescue blind men in ruins, or is this a first?"
She chuckled, quiet and smooth. "Only the difficult ones."