A grotesque satisfaction lingered. Kaelen's hands, still slick with the ichor of the Blight Hounds, trembled slightly. He had done it. He had taken life, not in battle, but in a cold, calculated siphon of energy. The system's prompt, 'Vengeance Point Gained', echoed in his mind, chilling him. Was this the path he was now forced to walk? 'Conjure Wraithling' flashed before his eyes. An unsettling new ability. He stared at the desolate landscape, the twisted, skeletal trees reaching like grasping claws toward a bruised, perpetually dim sky. What would a wraithling even look like? He closed his eyes, focusing. His mind reached for the primal darkness swirling within him, a cold tide that had surged after each siphoned life. It felt like an extension of his own being, yet entirely alien, a predatory instinct he barely recognized. Concentrating, Kaelen extended a hand. He pictured a form, a wisp of dark smoke coalescing into something solid, something loyal. A shiver ran through his body, not from cold, but from the sheer effort. Dark energy pulsed from his palm. It wavered, a sickly, grey mist attempting to gather. It stretched, thinning, then snapped back, dissipating into the oppressive air. He gritted his teeth. Too difficult. The power felt wild, untamed. Again, he tried. He narrowed his focus, ignoring the gnawing doubt. This time, a denser cloud formed, swirling like a miniature vortex above his hand. It flickered, a faint, almost translucent silhouette trying to emerge. It was vaguely humanoid, but twisted, incomplete. It held for a breath, a grotesque, embryonic shape, before collapsing inward with a soft hiss. His arm ached. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, leaving him breathless. This wasn't going to be easy. "Again," he rasped, his voice raw. He needed to master this. He needed every advantage he could get. Hours passed. The dim light of the Blight barely shifted. Kaelen stood, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. He had conjured a dozen failed wraithlings. Each attempt drained him, pulling at his core, making his muscles tremor. Finally, on the thirteenth attempt, a small, hunched figure coalesced. It was barely waist-high, its form ragged and indistinct, like a shadow torn from the world and given a fleeting, cursed life. Two pinpricks of crimson light glowed where eyes should be. It stood. It didn't move, didn't speak, just radiated a palpable, icy despair. Kaelen felt a connection, a faint, mental tether to the creature. It was weak, fragile, but it was *there*.

Chapter 4: Whispers in the Dark