Death did not come gently.
The hood smelled of mold and old sweat. Kael's breath bounced back at him, hot and panicked, as the executioner adjusted the rope. The fibers scratched his neck raw. Below the platform, the crowd murmured—hungry, afraid, relieved it was not them.
Someone spat.
Someone prayed.
Someone whispered his name like it might bite.
Kael did none of those things.
He listened.
There was a sound beneath the noise of the crowd. Beneath the rain. Beneath even his own heartbeat. A low, distant pressure, like a tide pulling back before it rushed in.
Now, it whispered.
The trapdoor fell.
The rope snapped tight.
Pain exploded through Kael's spine as his weight dropped. His vision went white. The world shrank to a burning ring around his throat as his body thrashed on instinct, boots kicking uselessly at empty air.
He was dying.
And something inside him was smiling.
The mark on his chest ignited.
Not with heat—but with gravity.
The air around Kael collapsed.
The rope screamed as if alive, fibers unraveling mid-strain. The gallows groaned, wood bending inward toward Kael as though pulled by an invisible star. The executioner was the first to die—his body lifted off the platform, ribs caving as he was dragged screaming into the space Kael occupied.
Then the platform shattered.
Kael hit the ground hard, coughing blood, as bodies followed—magistrates, guards, onlookers—ripped from their feet and hurled inward. Bones crushed. Necks snapped. Blood misted the rain.
The crowd didn't scream for long.
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it came.
Silence fell.
Kael lay in the mud, gasping, the hood torn away, rain cooling the burn in his lungs. Around him, the square was ruined. The gallows folded in on itself like rotten teeth. Men lay broken at impossible angles, faces frozen in terror.
Alive.
He was still alive.
"No," someone whispered.
Kael pushed himself upright.
That was when he felt it—not inside this time, but behind his eyes.
You see? the voice said.
It was not loud. It did not need to be.
"I didn't ask for you," Kael rasped, wiping blood from his mouth.
You were never asked, the voice replied. You were chosen.
A pressure bloomed in his chest, centered on the mark. Images flooded his mind—cities collapsing into themselves, oceans draining into black spirals, the sun guttering out like a dying coal.
Kael staggered back, clutching his head. "Get out."
Laughter rippled through his skull, vast and patient.
The world already tried to kill you, it said. Let me show you how to return the favor.
Steel rang.
Kael looked up.
Soldiers were forming a circle around the square—Blackridge's elite, helms etched with sigils, blades humming faintly with enchantment. At their head stood a woman in crimson armor, her expression calm, almost curious.
"Inquisitor Sereth Vale," she announced. "By authority of the Crown and the Sanctum, you are to be restrained."
Kael barked a laugh, raw and hysterical. "You just watched me survive hanging."
Sereth tilted her head. "Yes."
She raised her hand.
The air around Kael froze.
Not cold—still. His limbs locked mid-motion, muscles seizing as glowing runes flared beneath his skin. He crashed to his knees, teeth clacking as invisible weight pressed him down.
Pain unlike anything before lanced through his chest.
The mark burned.
Sereth approached slowly, boots splashing through blood and rain. She knelt in front of him, close enough that he could see the faint scars crossing her throat.
"You're not a god," she said softly. "And you're not the first chosen thing I've put down."
Her gaze flicked to his chest.
"But you are dangerous."
Kael met her eyes, shaking. "Kill me, then."
Sereth smiled thinly. "No."
She leaned closer and whispered, so only he could hear:
"We're going to see what breaks first. You… or whatever's wearing you."
As iron cuffs snapped shut around his wrists—etched deep with glowing wards—the voice inside him chuckled.
Good, it murmured. I was hoping they'd cage you.
Kael screamed as the world went black.