It started at the southern training yard, under the blistering sun. Kael was walking with Toma and Garrick, trying to force some normalcy into his routine. They paused to watch a fresh squad running combat drills — the unlucky first wave chosen for "controlled Blight exposure," as Mareen so delicately put it.
At first, they moved stiffly, shields up, swords tight in trembling grips. Then something went wrong. One soldier staggered mid-lunge, dropping his blade. His fingers twisted into claws, nails darkening, veins knotting up like worms under his skin.
The other soldiers backed away.
"Hold him down!" an officer screamed.
But it was already too late. The man shrieked, a wet, gurgling sound, then lunged — not at the training dummies, but at his own comrades. He sank his new claws into a young boy's throat, tearing deep, blood spraying across the packed dirt.
---
Kael was over the fence before he realized it, slamming into the mutated soldier with enough force to crack ribs. The man spun on him, eyes rolled pure black, mouth splitting wide to reveal rows of jagged, unnatural teeth.
Kael's claws emerged without thought. One vicious swipe and the thing's head twisted too far, bones snapping like twigs. The body fell still, dark ichor pouring from its mouth.
He stood over the corpse, chest heaving. All around, soldiers gaped in silent horror — not at the dead thing on the ground, but at Kael, his hands still dripping with gore, fangs retreating behind tight lips.
---
Captain Daric arrived moments later, shoving through the ring of gawkers. His eyes flicked from Kael to the twisted body, then back again.
"Get this cleaned up," Daric barked at the stunned guards. "And if any of you have complaints about how we keep this fortress safe, file them in writing — so I can wipe my ass with them."
He caught Kael's arm on the way past, voice dropping low.
"Next time, make sure it doesn't get that far. The men are frightened enough."
Kael said nothing, pulling free, trying to ignore the warm satisfaction that rolled through his gut. The Blight was pleased with the kill — it always was.
---
That night, the fortress was even quieter than usual. Fires burned low, conversations ended when Kael passed. In the corner of the mess hall, he saw Nell talking with Lyren, both of them casting worried glances his way.
Toma sat across from him with a hunk of bread, trying to pretend nothing had changed, while Garrick toyed with a dagger, spinning it point-down into the table again and again.
"They're going to keep trying it," Garrick muttered finally. "Until they have an army of… whatever you are."
Kael pushed his bowl away, appetite gone.
"Or until everyone ends up like that poor bastard today."
No one spoke after that. The only sound was the dagger's repeated thunk into splintering wood.
---
Outside, Kael found himself drifting toward the outer walls, needing distance from the thick press of fearful eyes. The ramparts overlooked the shadowed fields beyond the torch lines. Somewhere in that dark sea, more Seethe waited — or evolved, whispering in new tongues, building their own monstrous dominion.
Kael closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his chest. The Blight there pulsed warm, eager, whispering promises of power. Of survival. Of vengeance. It told him he was closer to the Dreadborn than to the terrified soldiers who now flinched at his approach.
And deep down, he feared it was right.
that same night, Kael wandered past the courtyard where the drills had gone so horribly wrong. The dirt was still stained dark, the training dummies knocked over and left like broken limbs. A few lanterns swayed in the cold breeze, their light catching on dark smears that the cleaning crews had failed to scrub away. It struck him then how fragile everything here was — the walls, the men, the illusion of control. A single slip, a little more Blight, and all their discipline meant nothing.
---
He didn't realize he'd been followed until Ayla's shadow fell across the ground beside his. She stood close but not quite near enough to touch, eyes tracing the same stains he stared at. For a long moment, neither spoke. Finally she exhaled, a shaky breath that clouded between them.
"Every day, it's harder to look at you and not see… them."
Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away before he could answer. The gap she left felt like a wound.
---
Hours later, Kael lay on his cot, eyes open to the darkness, hearing the fortress breathe around him — coughs, mutters, the faint slap of boots on distant stone. But beneath it all was something else: a slow, steady heartbeat that wasn't quite his, pulsing through him in warm waves. It whispered of hunting, of tearing through soft bodies, of standing over a field of corpses with no fear left to feel.
And though he hated it, a traitorous part of him shivered in longing.
Kael was summoned at dawn, long before the sun crested the mist-wrapped towers. The courtyard was packed with recruits — some fresh-faced, others gaunt and twitching, skin marked by faint black tracery that crawled like frost across their necks.
Elric stood on the raised platform, voice ringing out. "You will be instructed by Kael Everhart. He alone has survived the Blight's full fury. Listen well. Fail to control yourselves — and you will be cut down."
Dozens of eyes turned to Kael. Fear glimmered there, alongside something else: a desperate hope that perhaps this living curse might save them. Kael felt sick. He clenched his fists behind his back, hiding the faint tremor in his hands.
---
They began with simple endurance. The recruits were ordered to run the length of the outer walls again and again. By the third circuit, sweat soaked their tunics, many clutching at their chests. Veins darkened visibly beneath their skin, too fast. Kael smelled the corruption blooming in them, a copper-sweet rot that churned his stomach.
When one collapsed, twitching, eyes wide and bubbling with black around the irises, Kael knelt beside him. "Breathe through it," he said, voice flat. The young man stared, blood dribbling from his lips. Then he convulsed, a hand snapping up toward Kael's throat.
Kael caught it easily. He squeezed. Bones cracked. The body slumped.
Around him, the recruits recoiled. Kael stood, wiping his palm on his coat, forcing his face into a mask of bored disdain. Inside, he felt something break just a little more.
---
Later, Toma approached as Kael inspected another group. His friend's usual grin was gone, replaced by a taut, wary line.
"They're saying you enjoy it," Toma said quietly. "Killing them. Snapping necks like it's nothing."
Kael closed his eyes. The truth was worse — part of him did enjoy it. Not the killing itself, but the terrifying ease of it, the relief that it brought when the Blight purred in satisfaction. When he opened his eyes again, Toma had already stepped back, as if wary of what he might say next.
---
That evening, Ayla found Kael on the inner wall. She leaned there, arms crossed, looking not quite at him but not away either.
"You're doing what needs to be done," she said finally, voice rough. "No one else could. Doesn't mean it has to define you."
Kael didn't answer. The torchlight shivered along the parapets, painting long flickering trails that reminded him uncomfortably of claws. In the pit of his chest, the Blight stretched, content — as if pleased with how easily he fit the role they forced on him.
---
Inside the fortress, whispers multiplied like rot. Some squads now slept in shifts, certain Kael might turn on them in the dark. Others muttered hopes that he would lead them beyond the walls to slaughter every Seethe in sight.
But even among his closest circle, things had changed. Lyren barely met his eyes anymore. Nell flinched when his shadow fell across her bedroll. Only Garrick tried to keep things as they were, but even he sometimes woke from nightmares reaching for his knife.
Kael lay awake that night, alone despite being surrounded by hundreds.
He wondered if this was how it always went: monsters on the outside, monsters growing inside — until no one could tell the difference.