The storm broke at dawn.
Blood-red clouds surged over Dreadhold, casting its black towers in a rust-colored light. The air trembled—not with wind, but with power. A low hum rose from the earth, a warning in a language only those touched by ruin could hear.
Kael stood atop the western parapet, his breathing ragged, his body thin and trembling. The curse gnawed at him from within, but still, his aura burned. Crimson tendrils licked the stone beneath his feet, the sheer pressure of his soul splitting the air.
The Thorns had gathered around him in haste. Eclipse and Luna were first, blades drawn, fangs bared. Solmir followed, his staff glowing with golden flame. Even the stoic Thorn of Iron, Veyra, had come, her warhammer slung across her back. They had sensed it—the break in the veil. The cult was coming.
And they were already here.
From the cracks in the ancient mountain, robed figures spilled forth like insects. Their faces were hidden behind masks carved in mockery of Kael's own sigil. Their hands glowed with forbidden light. Leading them was a tall figure in ceremonial armor, bone-white with veins of obsidian—eyes burning beneath his hood like twin coals of madness.
"The time has come, Vessel," he called out, voice echoing without sound. "Return to your maker."
Kael didn't move. He was trembling, yes—but not with fear.
He was holding back.
"I am no one's vessel," Kael muttered, his voice low but resonant. "I am the Dread King."
The cult surged.
And the Thorns answered.
Eclipse vanished in a blink, her claws slashing through the front line like paper. Luna leapt into the heart of the enemy, her blade becoming a streak of silver light. Veyra crushed the ground, sending a shockwave that threw cultists into the air like rag dolls.
Solmir raised his staff. "I warned them," he hissed to himself. "Now they'll learn why the Thorns are feared."
Kael watched them fight, pride and grief warring inside him. He wanted to join them—but the curse still writhed beneath his skin. His aura flared in bursts, uncontrolled. Each flicker sent runes across his chest glowing red-hot.
Valdran appeared at his side. "We need to move him. Now."
"No," Kael said, forcing his body to obey him. "I won't be hidden like some broken relic."
"You're not—"
"I'm still their king."
Kael stepped forward, each movement an agony—but as he breathed, his aura stabilized. His control returned.
And then he was in the fight.
The battlefield bent around him. Cultists crumbled beneath invisible pressure. Every step he took shattered the stone, every strike carried the weight of a curse that even the gods feared. His eyes blazed with crimson light.
The Heroes of Velharys watched from afar—standing atop a nearby ridge, their weapons sheathed, their faces unreadable.
"Is this what he truly is?" one whispered.
"He's not human," Seris Vale said, her tone cold. "He's a monster chained in skin."
But one among them—Erias, the storm-eyed Hero—did not look away in disgust.
He looked in awe.
Kael turned the tide. The cult began to break—but it was a trap.
A glyph ignited beneath his feet.
"No!" Eclipse shouted, but she was too far.
Chains of light erupted, wrapping around Kael like serpents. The curse flared—too bright, too wild. Kael roared in pain, the Eye flaring to life behind him in a massive illusion of godlike scale.
And then he collapsed.
The battlefield froze. The Thorns tried to reach him—but the cult surged forward, surrounding their prize.
At the center of them stood the cult leader, his mask now removed.
Kael's eyes fluttered open—and met the face of his past.
"You…" he gasped. "You were the one…"
The Mad Sorcerer smiled, eyes gleaming. "I bought your soul once, Kael. And now, I've come to claim what's mine."
In a flash of blinding light, they vanished—Kael, the cult, the curse—gone.
Silence fell.
And then Luna screamed.