Kael Thorn did not dream.

  He relived.

  Fire.

  Screams.

  A shadow with horns towering against a burning sky.

  He woke on cold stone in the ruins of an abandoned monastery. Dawn filtered through shattered arches, casting pale light across scars that mapped his arms and chest.

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  Fifteen years ago, his village burned.

  Fifteen years ago, a demon walked freely beneath a fractured sky.

  He rose without hesitation.

  The air felt different this morning.

  Heavy.

  Charged.

  He stepped into the courtyard and looked north.

  A faint red scar lingered in the clouds.

  Beneath his shirt, the black sigil carved into his chest pulsed faintly.

  The seal was weakening.

  Finally.

  He strapped twin curved blades across his back—steel etched with runes capable of cutting what flesh alone could not.

  He did not fight for kingdoms.

  He fought for revenge.

  If the demon rose again, he would meet it blade in hand.

  And this time—

  It would bleed.