The storm had passed hours ago, but the smell of rain still clung to the air. Smoke curled gently from the chimneys of Ravenholt, a small village crouched beneath the shadow of the northern hills.
Its people were simple — farmers, hunters, smiths — bound by routine and superstition. They whispered of ghosts in the woods and gods that had long since turned away. Yet even the old tales couldn't prepare them for the man who walked out of the mist that morning.
Kael.
His cloak was torn and caked with ash. His eyes — cold, grey, and distant — carried a weight that made men avert their gaze. In one hand, he held a blade wrapped in black cloth; in the other, nothing but silence.
The first to see him was a child tending goats by the stream. She ran screaming back to the village, shouting about a man "whose shadow moved before him."
By the time Kael reached the square, half the village had gathered — armed with pitchforks, hammers, and fear.
"Who are you?" the village elder demanded, voice trembling more from age than courage.
Kael stopped, rain dripping from his hair, and studied the old man for a long moment.
"Just passing through," he said finally. His voice was calm — too calm — the kind that made people uneasy because it carried no warmth, no anger… nothing at all.
"You bring death with you, stranger," spat one of the men. "I've seen your kind before — cursed, hunted. The mark's on your chest, isn't it?"
Kael didn't answer. He could feel it — the mark burning faintly beneath his shirt, pulsing with every heartbeat like an unspoken truth.
"I don't seek trouble," he said, stepping forward. "But if you try to stop me, you'll find it."
The villagers hesitated. No one moved. Something about the way he spoke — that quiet authority — made them believe him.
Then a scream broke the tension. From the edge of the village, a woman ran, clutching her son. Behind her, a creature — all claws and bone — crawled from the treeline, dragging itself on twisted limbs. Its body pulsed with the same crimson energy Kael knew too well.
The people scattered in panic.
Kael moved before they could blink. The black cloth slipped from his blade, revealing a faint shimmer of red runes. One swing — and the creature's head hit the dirt.
Silence fell.
The villagers stared in disbelief. The elder stepped forward again, his eyes wide. "You... you saved us."
Kael wiped the blood from his blade. "No," he said softly. "I saved myself. That thing was hunting me."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the whispers began again — some grateful, others afraid.
"Monster."
"Savior."
"Cursed."
"Protector."
By nightfall, every door in Ravenholt was shut tight. Lanterns burned behind barred windows as Kael sat alone by the old well, staring into the reflection of a man he no longer recognized.
The voice inside him broke the quiet.
"They fear what they don't understand. Let them. Fear is the first step to obedience."
Kael said nothing. The rain began again, washing blood into the earth as he whispered to himself — words the curse could not hear.
"I didn't come here to be their savior. I came to remember what it's like… to still be human."
But deep down, he wasn't sure he could.