In the forgotten recesses of the Eastern Wastes, where the sun dared not shine for long and the winds sang dirges of ancient massacres, a boy was born with no stars in his fate.
His name was Kael Arin.
Not written in prophecy, not heralded by omens. No celestial beast hovered at his birth, no elder divined greatness. He was born in blood, amidst corpses, in a ruined village whose name was erased from the continent's maps long before his first breath. His mother, a nameless slave with shattered spirit, died moments after bringing him into this unwelcoming world. His father—if such a word could even be applied—remained an unknown whisper, perhaps a soldier, perhaps a raider. None cared. None would.
The villagers took the wailing babe, wrapped him in the filthy rags of a fallen servant, and left him outside the southern fences for the wolves to decide his fate. But the wolves did not come. For three days and three nights, the winds howled but no beast approached. The boy cried, silent, then ceased. By dawn of the fourth day, he was gone.
Some claimed a shadow with eyes like dying embers took him. Others whispered of a robed traveler who walked with a cane of bone and left no footsteps. Most believed the baby perished, like so many other discarded lives.
But Kael Arin lived.
Twenty years later, under a red sky stained with ash and the stench of burnt soil, a cloaked figure walked through the same ruined land, once his cradle, now his hunting ground. His eyes, twin shards of void-imbued steel, flicked across the barren horizon. His aura—cold, calculating, unnaturally quiet—betrayed the monstrous truth beneath the skin: this was not a man molded by peace, but forged in cruelty, deception, and hunger.
And he was not alone.
Inside his mind echoed the voice of something older than nations, wiser than sages, and crueler than even Kael himself. It whispered in dead tongues and ancient logic, offering power at prices no sane man would pay. But Kael was not a man to reject darkness. He did not walk the path of righteousness. He followed results.
The wind shifted. Dust swirled.
In the distance, three figures on horseback approached: mercenaries. Hired blades from the frontier, likely here for the bounty placed on a "dangerous sorcerer rumored to defile death itself." Kael grinned beneath his hood.
They saw only a lone traveler. One even laughed.
"A lost scholar?" one barked, drawing a jagged cleaver from his saddle. "Wrong place to ponder dusty tomes, friend."
Kael said nothing.
Another dismounted, eyes narrowing. He was smarter, or at least more cautious. "That cloak... that sigil—"
Before the words completed their crawl from his mouth, Kael moved.
No flash of light. No grand chant.
Just a twist of his wrist, and reality bled.
The earth cracked like old bone. From beneath the mercenaries' horses, shadowy tendrils burst forth—sinewed, whispering, pulsing with hateful intelligence. They snatched legs, pierced chests, and silenced screams before they reached the air. Horses reared and fell. Steel clanged against nothing. One man tried to run; his legs dissolved mid-step, absorbed into the mass of writhing black tendrils that coiled hungrily around his form.
Kael stepped forward, gaze emotionless. The tendrils retreated, melting into the earth like spilled ink. All that remained was silence—and blood.
His hand opened. A single soul flame hovered above his palm, flickering blue, weak. A remnant of the smarter mercenary. Kael closed his fingers and whispered.
"Not enough. But better than nothing."
The voice in his head laughed. "Feed me, Kael. The boundary thins. The gate stirs."
Kael ignored it.
From a hidden pocket, he pulled a thin obsidian vial and let the soul flame drift into it. The vial hissed, pulsed with dull light, and then dimmed. A resource stored. A currency for forbidden craft.
He turned back to the north. His path led to Blackspire, the last stronghold of the Arcane Sovereignty, where necromancers were outlawed, forbidden, hunted like vermin. Where the weak ruled behind gold and titles, and the strong bowed behind polished masks.
It was time to disrupt the order.
Not to reform it. Not to save it. But to burn it down, and rebuild it in his image.
Kael Arin was not a hero. He did not wish to be. Heroes fought for people. He fought for principles.
And principles were not bound by mercy.