The night swallowed the camp in a silence so thick it felt wrong. Not even the usual distant howls of Seethe prowlers broke through. Smoke still curled lazily from the remains of Daric's pyre, drifting like sorrow itself across the cold ground.
Kael couldn't pull his eyes from that blackened patch of earth. It was absurd how small it looked. After everything Daric had been — the countless lives he'd saved, the years of gruff mentorship, the way he'd stood unflinching in the face of horrors that would make other men break — it seemed obscene that he was reduced to a smear of soot and ash.
His hands clenched around the hilt of Daric's sword, knuckles paling. The blade was chipped, notched from countless clashes, stained by blood both human and not. It felt wrong in Kael's grasp, as though the steel itself resented the unfamiliar weight. The dreadborn inside shifted, pressing against his ribs in small, insistent pulses, as if it too mourned the fallen captain — or perhaps simply scented weakness, eager for a chance to claw free.
Ayla sat a few paces off, legs drawn up to her chest, arms locked tight around them. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, fixed on the dark horizon as though searching for something just beyond sight. Garrick hovered nearby, making a fumbling effort to check over their salvaged gear. Every so often he'd glance at Ayla, mouth opening slightly, then close again without saying a word. Nell moved like a ghost among them, gathering up scattered ration crates, folding torn canvas — anything to keep her hands busy, to give her grief somewhere else to live.
Lyren stood near the edge of the clearing, one hand resting on his sword hilt, the other scrubbing at his jaw. His eyes weren't still for a moment, constantly tracking the tree line, the shadows, the Dominion tents that had sprung up at the camp's fringes. When they landed on Toma, who paced alone by the supply wagons, they narrowed. There was something simmering in them that hadn't quite boiled over, but Kael could feel the heat of it from here.
He rose finally, joints protesting. The dreadborn power under his skin pulsed again, a living ache. He didn't trust himself around the others — not yet — so he wandered toward the perimeter. The blight had advanced while they were distracted by their own pain. Filigrees of black-veined growth spidered over rocks and dirt, tiny pustules swelling with foul moisture. Kael crouched and laid a hand just shy of it. The corruption almost seemed to lean toward him, like it recognized kin. He pulled back sharply.
Voices drifted from deeper in camp. Dominion adjutants in crisp field cloaks moved from squad to squad, their hollow courtesy as chilling as the night air. Kael strained to catch snippets:
"...accelerated trials..."
"...subject compatibility promising..."
"...strict observation protocols."
It prickled the back of his neck. They always spoke like that, Dominion officers — as if the soldiers were nothing but entries on a balance sheet, assets to be shuffled, traded, discarded when inconvenient. He'd seen it too many times already. Daric had kept them somewhat at bay, a stone they couldn't easily roll aside. Now he was gone. And the Dominion, like rot, seeped in.
Kael turned, meaning to rejoin his squad, when he caught sight of Toma speaking with one of those officers. The man was older, gaunt, his uniform immaculate. His hand settled on Toma's shoulder, squeezing in a way that was almost paternal. Toma looked... off. Pale. His eyes darted around as if afraid to be seen. When he spotted Kael watching, he stiffened, gave a jerky nod, and moved away fast.
Ayla intercepted Kael halfway back. "You look like you're about to break something."
He grunted. "Maybe I am."
Her gaze softened, only slightly. "Don't. We can't afford to lose you too."
That made something inside him twist. "It's not losing me you should worry about. It's what might crawl out if I slip."
She reached out — hesitated — then dropped her hand. "Then don't slip. We're already on the edge."
They walked back together, finding Garrick and Nell seated by a makeshift lantern. Lyren still loitered close, shoulders rigid. Kael sank down opposite them, feeling the silence spread again like frost.
"You notice Toma acting strange?" Lyren finally muttered.
Kael only nodded. Garrick shifted uncomfortably. "Could just be grief. Or guilt. We all saw him start that fight with you."
"That wasn't just some heated words," Lyren snapped, his voice cracking. "He practically spit on Daric's grave by turning on us right after."
"Hey," Nell whispered. "Not here. Not now."
But Lyren ignored her. His eyes burned into Kael's. "You think he'd sell us out? If the Dominion offered him something?"
Kael exhaled, long and low. "I don't know. But I saw one of their officers hand him a satchel earlier. Could've been anything. Could've been orders. Or threats."
Ayla rubbed her forehead. "It's tearing us apart before the Seethe even have a chance."
Another heavy pause fell, filled by the distant wails of something hunting far off. Garrick absently picked at a scab on his knuckle until it bled, staring at the droplets like he couldn't quite remember how they got there.
Hours crawled by. They didn't sleep — not really. They just drifted in and out, jostled awake by nightmares or the smallest sounds. The dreadborn inside Kael prowled restlessly, whispering that he was wasting precious power on caution. That he should let it loose, cleanse every creeping rot in his way, Dominion and Seethe alike. It took everything he had not to listen.
Just before dawn, Kael stood again and wandered. His legs carried him to where Daric had fallen. The bloodstains were darker now, already drying into cracked patches. He crouched low, pressed a hand there, let the cold seep into his skin. Images flashed unbidden — Daric's surprised eyes, the horror in Ayla's scream, the Graven's armored maw crushing down.
He jerked back up, fists trembling. The dreadborn's hunger surged, clawing for release. For an instant he could almost see through new eyes — everything tinted red, edges sharpened, breathing shapes of power and heat. His claws itched to shred something, anything, to feed that unholy appetite.
"Kael."
It was Lyren, voice low, tired. He stood a few paces off, not reaching for his weapon, though his hand twitched by the hilt. "You alright?"
Kael forced the dreadborn back with a snarl, his features smoothing painfully. When he looked again, the world was normal — bleak, grey, but normal. "No. But I'm managing."
Lyren nodded once. "Keep managing. For all our sakes."
They walked back together. As they passed one of the Dominion tents, Kael glimpsed Toma inside, speaking urgently to another officer, voice too soft to catch. Toma's expression was twisted with something like desperation. A fresh coil of dread twisted Kael's gut.
Dawn broke sluggishly, painting the blighted landscape in tarnished gold. The squad gathered by habit more than will. Ayla passed around hard bread none of them truly wanted. Nell chewed slowly, eyes vacant. Garrick leaned against a post, watching them with haunted humor.
Kael stood, unable to stay still. "We'll need new supply runs. And fresh scouting. The Seethe won't let up just because we're grieving."
Ayla snorted bitterly. "Course not. They'll smell our hurt like fresh blood."
Lyren hefted his sword, rolling out tense shoulders. "Then we don't give them the satisfaction."
Their eyes met — all of them. Something silent passed between them then, an unspoken promise that even with Daric gone, they'd hold. Or at least try to.
Kael turned away before they could see how close he was to breaking.
The Dominion officers watched them from afar, inscrutable. One of them scribbled on a slate, glanced at Kael with calculating eyes, then turned and disappeared into the command tent. Kael shivered, though the sun had fully risen. The weight of unseen decisions pressed on him, heavy as any chain.
Near noon, another squad stumbled in — not reinforcements, but ragged survivors from a different outpost. They brought stories of entire trenches overrun in hours, of Seethe that moved like smoke, impossible to strike. One man sobbed openly as he described losing a friend to something that bloomed from the ground, swallowing him whole. Kael felt his stomach turn. The blight was learning, evolving. And the Dominion's answer seemed to be pushing them harder, testing more reckless strategies.
When night approached again, Kael found himself alone by the perimeter. He didn't trust the quiet. The dreadborn in him stretched lazily, content for now, but hungry. Always hungry. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, trying to center himself, to hold on to the last fragments of who he was before this monster clawed inside his chest.
A twig cracked behind him. He spun, blade half-drawn, but it was only Toma. The other soldier jumped, hands up.
"Easy," Toma hissed. "I'm not the enemy."
Kael didn't sheathe the blade. "Could've fooled me."
Toma's eyes narrowed, something ugly flickering there. Then it faded into exhaustion. "We're all on edge. I get it. But you keep glaring like you expect me to sprout claws."
Kael stepped closer, until Toma had to crane his neck. "No. I expect you to start talking. About the Dominion. About why they keep singling you out."
Toma's mouth worked. For a heartbeat Kael thought he might actually spill something. But then his jaw snapped shut, and he shook his head.
"You wouldn't understand," Toma muttered, pushing past.
Kael watched him go, suspicion gnawing deeper. When he looked up, he realized Lyren stood on the other side of the clearing, having seen everything. They shared a nod — an agreement without words. Keep watch. Keep wary.
Because something was moving beneath their feet, in the Dominion's shadows. And Kael could feel it drawing closer, inch by inch.