Kael’s grip tightened on the Quartermaster’s tunic. Theron, a man whose jowls usually sagged with the weight of Order rations, now hung suspended, feet kicking feebly in the dusty air of the supply depot.
“A simple question, Theron,” Kael’s voice was calm, a silken cord hiding steel. “Where is Initiate Orryn?”
Theron choked, a gurgling sound escaping his windpipe. His eyes, wide with panic, searched Kael’s face for mercy. He found none. Kael’s gaze was a glacier, cold and unyielding.
*Pathetic.* Kael thought. *This is the bastion of idealism? A few choice words and they unravel.* A dismissive flick of Kael’s wrist sent the man sprawling amidst sacks of stale grain. Theron gasped, clutching his throat, dust rising in a cloud around him.
“Answer me, now,” Kael commanded, his boot tapping an impatient rhythm on the flagstones.
“He… he’s gone, sir!” Theron whimpered, scrambling back. “Vanished last night. Like the others.”
“‘The others’?” Kael’s brow furrowed. That was new. His previous inquiries had been met with vague dismissals of desertion.
“Yes! The same way! Found in the morning, but… not really there.” Theron shivered, recounting the horror.
Kael knelt beside the man, a predatory stillness in his posture. “Describe it. Every detail.”
Thoroughly frightened, Theron complied, voice barely a whisper. “Just… a husk. Dried out. Like a long-dead leaf. But it was Orryn, just yesterday, full of life, full of… spark.”
Kael’s mind raced. He’d seen this before. Not in Aethelgard, not in the sanitized halls of the Order. He’d seen it in the shadowed ruins of his past, in the grim work of Malakor the Whisperer.
“Essence Drain,” Kael murmured, the words a bitter taste on his tongue. A forbidden art. A perversion of natural energies. It wasn't simple vampirism, no, but a cruel siphoning, leaving only an empty shell.
He knew the technique. He’d taught variants of it, refined crude forms into devastating tools of war. But never like this. Never this crude, this… complete.
The raw power of another ripped away, leaving a dry, withered corpse. This wasn't a subtle pilfering for strength. This was utter consumption.
A tremor of cold fury ran through Kael. *Who would dare?*
Kael remembered the doctrine, the ironclad rule of the Whisperers. *Never drain a living source to utter extinction.* It was not a moral code, but a pragmatic one. To do so invited corruption.
The raw, stolen life force, when consumed completely, twisted the user. It birthed a terrible hunger, a frantic, unquenchable thirst. It gnawed at the mind, blurring the line between predator and prey.
Madness was the inevitable companion, a descent into feral bloodlust, until the user themselves became a dessicated husk, consumed from within by the very power they craved. Theron spoke of ten such incidents. Ten victims.
*So the fool is already far gone,* Kael concluded. *Ten times he’s broken the most basic rule. Ten times he’s invited the blight upon himself.* The implications were dire. Someone in Aethelgard was practicing the dark arts Kael had left behind. Someone crude, untrained, and dangerous. And it pointed back to *him*.
Kael rose, his gaze hardening. “How many times has this happened?”
“Th-this is the tenth, sir,” Theron stammered, still clutching his throat. “First it was strays, then livestock. Now… Initiates.”
“And the pattern?”
“Always at night. Always in isolated spots. Always… near a source of life.” Theron wrung his hands. “We tried to set guards, but… there’s no telling how many. It’s like a phantom.”
*No phantom. Just a desperate addict.* Kael’s lips thinned. It was clear. Someone was nearby, someone linked to his past, or at least to the forbidden lore. And they were suffering the side effects, losing their sanity.
A cold resolve settled in Kael’s chest. He couldn’t let this go unchecked. Not only was it a threat to Aethelgard, but it was a direct echo of his past, a shadow that could expose him.
His eyes took on a dangerous glint. “Find me a map of the Order’s outer holdings. Every stable, every farm, every livestock enclosure.”
---
In a crumbling annex beyond the Order’s main walls, a figure hunched over a flickering tallow lamp. His name, if he remembered it, was Fallow. But the hunger had long since stripped away such trivialities.
His eyes gleamed, wet and frantic, in the dim light. Two days. Two long days since the last kill. The thirst was a constant, searing fire in his gut, a frantic buzzing behind his teeth.
He craved the living essence, the fleeting spark that calmed the inferno within him. The memories of the last initiate, Orryn, were a hazy, ecstatic blur. The raw power, the warmth, the brief, glorious relief.
He laughed, a dry, rattling sound. It was an ugly thing, this addiction, this constant need. But the thrill. The pure, intoxicating rush of the steal. It was unparalleled.
The smell of blood always sharpened his senses, honed his frayed nerves. He licked his lips, anticipation tightening his gaunt frame. Night approached.
---
Fallow slipped through the moonlit shadows of the Order’s farmlands, a ghost amidst the grazing stags of the Nightwatch. Tonight, he sought the stables. The rich, vibrant life force of the horses called to him, a promise of temporary oblivion.
*Just enough.* That was the rule, what little sanity he retained whispered. *Just enough to sate the thirst. Not too much. Don’t cause an incident.* But the voice was growing fainter with each passing night. The need was overwhelming.
He moved with practiced stealth, a predator in his element. The snorts and stomps of the horses inside the stable were a promise.
A twig snapped.
“Hey.”
Fallow froze, his head snapping up, feral eyes scanning the darkness. No one. He was always alone.
“Looking for something?”
A figure stepped from the deeper shadows beneath a gnarled oak. A man in the standard dark-blue tunic of an Order mentor, arms crossed, posture relaxed. Too relaxed.
Fallow’s heart hammered. Panic, then rage, surged through him. “Who… who are you?”
The man simply watched him, a cool, appraising gaze that pierced through Fallow’s carefully constructed veil of invisibility.
“Well, you’ve seen me now,” Fallow hissed, the small, crude knife he favored, an unadorned shard of blackiron, appearing in his hand as if by magic. His baggy clothing, once loose, now felt taut across his starved frame.
A thin smile played on the mentor’s lips. “Indeed.”
“Then you must die.”
Fallow lunged, a desperate, animalistic thrust, aiming for the mentor’s throat. He put all his meager, stolen strength into the strike, moving with unnatural speed.
*Clang!* Fallow staggered back, a searing pain shooting up his arm. The blade, his trusted blade, vibrated violently in his hand. It had struck… something. Something impossibly hard.
A deep gouge marred the ancient oak tree where the mentor had stood moments before. But the mentor himself remained upright, a few paces away, his arms still crossed, unmoving. *Impossible.* His strike had been perfect. It always was.
Fallow’s gaze darted from the tree to the mentor, who had effortlessly sidestepped his attack, barely shifting his weight. He hadn’t drawn a weapon. He hadn’t even truly moved.
*A fluke,* Fallow decided, shaking his head. *Must be a fluke.* He spun his crude blade, the tremor in his hand settling. He fixed his feral gaze on the mentor. There would be no second chances. There had never been such a man who survived his first strike.
*He will die.*
Fallow stamped his foot, kicking up loose soil, and launched himself again. This time, he poured every ounce of his borrowed vitality into the attack, a whirlwind of desperation and dark energy.
*Whoosh! Whoosh!* The air shrieked around his blade as it sliced through the night.
*Zurik! Ta-da!* Fallow’s blade whistled past the mentor, missing by a hair’s breadth. Again, the man hadn’t drawn a weapon. He simply weaved, a dance of minimal motion. A hand, flat and open, brushed Fallow’s arm, deflecting his aim.
An expression of mild disdain crossed the mentor’s face. It was as if Fallow was not even worth the effort of a real fight. But the raw, contained power radiating from the mentor’s body… it pricked Fallow’s skin like a thousand needles.
*Death.* If he pressed further, he would die. The thought was alien, terrifying. He’d never felt this before. He broke off, scrambling back, eyes wide, blade held defensively.
“You… what are you?” Fallow gasped, the first real fear in weeks clenching his stomach.
“That’s the question I have for you,” Kael replied, his voice still unnervingly calm. “How do you know Essence Drain? Who taught you this… perversion?”
“Essence Drain… how?” A flicker of confusion, then cold recognition, crossed Fallow’s maddened eyes. He didn’t know the name of the technique, perhaps, but he knew its secret.
And he knew the man in front of him knew his secret. That meant he *must* die.
A primal surge of strength bloomed within Fallow, a manic, desperate power. He wasn’t a warrior. His stolen art wasn't for direct confrontation. It was for swift, unseen strikes. For finding the gap, exploiting the weakness.
“Hah, you’re quite amusing,” Kael mused, watching Fallow’s escalating frenzy.
Fallow didn’t reply, his tongue darting out to moisten his parched lips. “Now I will kill you.”
Kael observed Fallow’s desperate stance. The man was good, in a raw, untamed way. His blade was sharp, his movements swift. But he was blind to Kael’s true power. He couldn’t discern the depth of the chasm between them.
This was the corruption. The Essence Drain had consumed his mind, leaving him a blood-hungry beast, incapable of rational thought, blind to the true danger before him. It was a common outcome for those who abused the power. They became so focused on the next kill, the next hit, they lost all sense of self-preservation.
*Boom!* Fallow lunged, a desperate, guttural roar escaping his lips.
“Haha! Die! Die!”
Kael didn’t attack. He merely evaded.
He danced around Fallow’s wild, frenzied slashes, his movements precise, economical. The blackiron blade, razor-sharp, occasionally grazed the hem of Kael’s tunic, but never found purchase.
Instead of widening the distance, Kael pressed closer, his intention clear: to observe.
Fallow’s crude blade work was surprisingly effective. In terms of sheer, brute application of the weapon, it was almost artful in its murderous intent. Every strike aimed for a vital point, every thrust designed to kill.
“Targeting the major conduits, aren’t you?” Kael murmured, as a frantic slash aimed for his femoral artery.
Fallow's blade swept past Kael’s chest, who leaned back, his body a supple arc. It was remarkable how the man controlled such a heavy, utilitarian blade with such deadly precision, making it flow like a lighter weapon.
It spoke of immense, self-taught dedication, corrupted as it was. What a waste.
Kael found himself in a dilemma. Should he simply end it? But he needed answers. Who had taught Fallow this technique? Or had he stumbled upon it? And if so, how? These questions kept Kael’s hand from striking the killing blow. He could have ended the fight in the first breath.
“Hahaha!” Fallow’s laughter grew more unhinged, more desperate. He was fully consumed by the fight, by the hunt.
*Dangerous.* Ten more kills, and Fallow would be utterly lost, a shambling monster with no self-control.
*Zurik!* Perhaps Kael’s momentary hesitation, his intellectual curiosity, had cost him. Fallow, sensing the tiniest opening, slashed out with renewed frenzy.
*Ouch!* “...!”
The blade connected. Kael saw it clearly. But it stopped with a jarring, metallic screech.
Fallow’s eyes widened, drawing back. The blade. His blade. It was held firmly in Kael’s right hand, trapped.
“Curiosity satisfied,” Kael said, a humorless grin spreading across his face.
“...!?”
With a quiet *snap*, the blackiron blade fractured. Kael’s grip had simply been too strong, the raw force too much. The crude blade shattered into jagged pieces.
“I’ll let you live, for now,” Kael declared, his voice chillingly calm. “Until I learn precisely what you are, and who sent you.”
“...!” Kael’s grin tightened.
*Thump!* Kael’s left hand plunged into Fallow’s abdomen, a controlled, powerful strike that hit exactly where the old Whisperer arts recommended for incapacitation.
“Cough!” Fallow doubled over, gasping, his eyes bulging, like a prawn caught on a hook.
Before he could recover, Kael’s right fist, the one that had just shattered the blade, swung horizontally, a swift, twisting blow.
Fallow, still reeling from the gut punch, couldn’t even register the incoming strike, even as his eyes watched it.
*Crack!* The fist connected with Fallow’s chin, sending his head snapping sideways. The light in his eyes dimmed, then vanished.
*Plop.* Fallow crumpled, unconscious. Kael looked down at the inert form, then seized him by the collar, dragging him towards the deeper shadows.
“It seems,” Kael mused, the night air cool on his face, “my stay in Aethelgard will be extended. And far less idyllic.” The irony was not lost on him. He had sought a new life, free from the shadows, and here they were, dragging him back in.