CHAPTER 1: Tasteless Blood

  Nivrael, etched into the very heart of Vadrenn, was the final gasp of a world that refused to die. The region—the vastest of the five—loomed like a titan, armored by mountain ranges that clawed at the sky and walls that defied reason. Though constant ash drifted down like a curse within the capital, the city remained the sole vestige of order. Beyond lay the open wastes of Morvhal, where existence was a savagery; a wilderness where law had dissolved under the weight of the dust. The guards stationed at the gates did not watch those who entered; they kept their eyes fixed on the horizon with a visceral terror, keenly aware that those walls were the only frontier between their fragile society and the absolute annihilation lurking within the mists.

  That gray snow had not always been there. It had begun to fall after the final battle of the gods, a poisonous residue serving as the legacy of a war that had shattered everything. Since then, sickness had become the natural state of man.

  Kael advanced along the main artery with a frigid arrogance. Around him, the crowd was a mosaic of fear and fabric. Everyone wore tunics that covered them completely—a desperate defense against the air that gnawed at their lives. The wealthy paraded in garments impregnated with threads of gold, pretending the precious metal could filter out fate, while the destitute wrapped themselves in filthy rags that barely contained their coughs. Everyone sought within the weave of their clothes a shield against a sky that only knew how to suffocate.

  Kael, standing five-foot-seven with his white hair cropped close, cut through the wind without any protection. His face was uncovered, defying the poison that withered all others. The scars peeking from beneath his clothes were witnesses to a past so lacerating that the present could no longer wound him. As he passed the dry fountain, he ignored the statue of the Guardian of the Gates. No one prayed there anymore; faith had rotted into contempt. A man used the god’s granite hand to beat rancid meat, trying to tenderize it. The gods were now mere obstacles of stone. Kael watched them with his pitch-black eyes, and the man at the altar looked away, intimidated by a gaze that cut deeper than the cold.

  He did not cough. He did not fear. He walked through the plague like the rightful owner of the shadows.

  Beside him, with a heavy gait that crunched the accumulated ash, walked Rangar. The beast was a mass of compact muscle, his white fur stained with brown patches that looked like maps of forgotten lands. Rangar was missing half of his lower jaw—a war wound that left part of his teeth exposed in a permanent snarl of ferocity. Yet, his yellow eyes were the only place where Kael still deposited his humanity. They were best friends; the dog accompanied him everywhere, being the only creature capable of enduring the cold that emanated from the white-haired man.

  Before heading to the upper district, Kael stopped at a supply stall in the lower market. There, leaning against a pillar of black stone, Bren awaited him. He was a veteran of a thousand battles, rugged, wearing armor that held more notches than years of life. He had the tired gaze of one who has seen the abyss so many times he no longer fears the dark. They were the only two who spoke to each other as equals in all of Vadrenn.

  "You're late, and your shadow looks hungrier than yesterday," Bren grunted, tossing a piece of dried meat to Rangar. The dog caught it in mid-air with lethal precision.

  "The ash is thicker today," Kael replied, his voice flat. "The guards on the wall won't take their eyes off the horizon. Something has them restless."

  Bren shook the gray dust from his tattered cloak. He didn't wear the gold-trimmed tunics of the Council pigs either; his skin was his only filter.

  "They say something is moving at the borders," Bren said in a whisper. "The scouts swear the wind brings non-human screams—echoes of a war that should have ended eons ago. The Council is terrified, Kael. They want us to see what lies beyond the wall before fear stops their hearts."

  Kael stroked Rangar's head, feeling the roughness of the animal's jaw. In the distance, the bells of the central city began to toll.

  "Before we go to those cowards, we’re heading to the Breach, outside the wall," Kael ordered. "I’m not stepping into that hall without knowing exactly what we’re facing."

  Beyond the Wall: The Encounter in the Mist

  They crossed the Iron Gate into the vastness of Vadrenn. Visibility was near zero—a soup of gray particles that devoured the light. Rangar stopped dead, his hackles rising. A growl vibrated in his throat, and his yellow eyes locked onto a mass emerging from the fog. Kael knelt. Before him lay a golden silk tunic, shredded and coated in a black substance that seemed to burn the fabric.

  "One of theirs made it out," Bren muttered, drawing his steel. "Or something came in and took him."

  A few yards away, half-buried, they found a man. He was from the Council’s personal guard. His body was twisted, and his veins were black threads pulsing beneath his skin like parasites. Kael grabbed him by the armor and hauled him up without compassion. The guard opened his eyes, veiled in a deathly gray, and gripped Kael’s arm, leaving a smear of pitch.

  "...The Threshold..." he whispered, before life escaped through his pores.

  Bren spat on the ground. "An old word for an old fear. If the shadows are speaking again, all of Vadrenn is doomed."

  Kael stood up, wiping his sleeve with indifference. Inside him, the name resonated with a strange vibration. He looked into the mist, feeling a dull throb beneath his clothes—a weight that didn't belong to his visible scars, but to something much older he preferred to keep buried.

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  "Let’s go," he stated. "They fear that what was forgotten has found a way to settle the score."

  They walked back and ascended to the high district of Nivrael. Reaching the doors of the Great Hall, Kael shoved them open with his shoulder, interrupting the murmuring of the leaders. The thunder of bronze against stone made the councilors jump in their seats. The perfumed air of the hall was invaded by the scent of rancid ash and ozone trailing off Kael.

  He entered with a steady stride, followed by Bren and the rhythmic trot of Rangar. The dog’s incomplete jaw dripped thick saliva onto the flawless marble—a stain of brutal reality amidst such opulence.

  "I hope your wine is better than your security," Kael remarked. "Because outside, your men are dying."

  The High Councilor shifted in his seat, adjusting his silk filter. Beside him, the other four members of the Council sat rigid. They were the five powerful elders of Nivrael. One chair was empty. The seat of the sixth.

  "You arrive at a moment of uncertainty," the High Councilor said. "The sixth councilor did not return from his inspection. The sentinels report shadows, but nothing concrete. Tell us if the border is safe for our caravans."

  "Caravans?" Bren cut in with a dry laugh. "Your caravans are nothing but splinters and black meat now. There’s nothing left to trade out there."

  Kael stepped forward, forcing the men to recoil.

  "I found the trail of your sixth man. A silk tunic tossed in the filth of the frontier, shredded by something without claws. And beside it, a guard with lungs turned to pitch."

  The High Councilor turned pale. The idea of a councilor beyond the walls didn't fit with their cowardice. There was a secret hidden in that "inspection."

  "What was he doing so close to the Breach?" Kael asked, narrowing his black eyes. "A man who fears the ash doesn't go to the edge unless he’s looking for something. Or someone."

  "It was a routine inspection... the seals of the Union..." one of the leaders stammered.

  Kael cut him off with a sharp gesture. "His guard died with a single word on his lips: Threshold."

  The name hit the room like a sledgehammer. The High Councilor stood up, his hands trembling against the table.

  "Impossible! The Order of the Threshold vanished five years ago. All of Vadrenn united; we sacrificed blood to erase them from existence. Not a single one remained."

  "Then explain to me," Kael retorted, "why your sixth councilor has left his clothes in the hands of a ghost."

  Suddenly, the air grew heavy, as if oxygen were being replaced by lead. An unnatural cold raced through the pillars, crystallizing the ash on the walls. Rangar let out a deep growl, his eyes fixed on the great stained-glass window in the ceiling, where the images of the ancient gods of Lythara seemed to watch with judgment.

  "Kael..." Bren warned, gripping the hilt of his greatsword.

  A dry thud echoed through the dome. A dull impact, like a bundle of wet meat falling from the sky. The stained glass turned an absolute black—a stain spreading like ink, devouring the light. The ceiling gave way.

  A body slammed heavily onto the circular table. It was the sixth councilor. Or what was left of him.

  He wasn't wearing his ceremonial robes. He was wrapped in a shroud of black pitch oozing from his own pores. His skin was the color of burnt flesh, and his eyes had been sewn shut with rusted iron wire. On his forehead, branded by fire, shone a rune Kael recognized instantly. The leaders screamed, knocking over chairs as they fled. The corpse did not move, but from its throat erupted a distorted, manifold voice:

  "The wall is merely a delay... The blood of the Union has no more taste..."

  Kael stood his ground, a hand resting on Rangar. He felt the mark beneath his clothes begin to pulse in response to that darkness.

  "Bren, get these cowards out of here. Now."

  "And you?" Bren asked, watching the pitch begin to rot the silk tablecloth.

  "I’m going to see if this message has a reply."

  An exhalation of gaseous pitch billowed from the deceased, transforming into a black wall of pressure. The air became saturated with thousands of whispers that knew every betrayal of the clans and every sin of the Council. Bren covered his ears, staggering under the weight of the truths the fog screamed at him.

  Kael, however, simply closed his eyes.

  He allowed the whispers to crawl up his neck, but inside him, they found nothing but a wasteland of ice. Without opening his eyes, he moved forward, guided by the sound of Rangar’s claws on the marble. The dog moved through the mist like a phantom, marking the path toward the corruption. Reaching the table, Kael seized a heavy iron candelabra and, with a brutal motion, brought it crashing down onto the sixth councilor’s skull.

  CRACK!

  The sound silenced the "radio" of the Threshold. The mist dissipated, leaving behind the stench of rancid flesh. Kael opened his eyes and looked at the lifeless body. Rangar let out a raspy huff.

  "Too much noise for so little substance," Kael declared, dropping the bloodied iron. He turned to the leaders. "You have your answer. The Threshold isn't coming to negotiate. It’s coming to reclaim what you failed to protect."

  Kael walked toward them, ignoring the High Councilor's sobs.

  "You thought the wall of Vadrenn was eternal. But a wall is only as strong as the men who defend it. And you are nothing but shadows dressed in gold. You’ve squandered the clans' sacrifice to live in a crystal palace while Morvhal chokes. The Threshold knows your will has rotted, and now they’re coming to collect the debt you refused to pay."

  Rangar let out one last growl toward the empty throne.

  "Let’s go, Bren," Kael ordered, turning his back on them. "There’s nothing left to hear in this cemetery of silk."