A guttural groan ripped from Fallow’s throat. His body screamed, a symphony of agony centered in his gut and face, a dull throb behind his eyes. He thrashed, disoriented, limbs tangling in coarse blankets. The world was a smear of grey, slowly sharpening into focus. A rough stone ceiling dominated his vision. Familiar, yet distant. He knew this place. The Order's infirmary, not the comfortable guest rooms of his past. Kael sat beside the bed, a still, watchful presence. His posture was relaxed, a study in deceptive calm. “You… fiend!” Fallow roared, scrambling upright. He lunged, a bony fist arcing wildly towards Kael’s jaw. Kael merely watched him come. His punch was a slow-motion travesty. No force, no speed. A whisper of a breeze. His wrist, no thicker than a child’s, trembled. The skin was paper-thin, stretched taut over skeletal knuckles. A dismissive flick of Kael’s wrist. A soundless slap. “Keek!” Fallow shrieked, airborne. He sailed from the bed, a ragdoll hitting the floor with a thud. He rolled, gasping, limbs splaying at awkward angles. A paper doll. Kael observed the collapse with a detached clinical gaze. He'd barely touched the man. The technique’s degradation was accelerating rapidly. A mental note made: be gentler next time, if there was a next time. “On your feet, Fallow.” Kael’s voice was even, devoid of warmth or malice. Fallow clawed at the floor, struggling to rise. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, a marionette with tangled strings. It was pathetic, truly. Kael had monitored Fallow through the night. The initiate’s stolen Essence had sustained him for a short burst, a frantic flare before the inevitable crash. He’d gone through two transfers of stolen vitality, and even then, it wasn't enough. The rapid, systemic decay was stark. Fallow’s body was like old parchment, drying and crumbling in real-time. His eyes, once bright with fervent dedication, now held a haunted, frantic wideness. Kael knew the Essence Drain technique carried severe side effects, but witnessing the advanced stages was always unsettling. “Ugh… I’ll… kill you.” Fallow rasped, bracing himself against the bedpost. His head bled sluggishly from where it had hit the floor. An arm hung at an odd angle, twisted by Kael’s seemingly light tap. Such fragile creatures. Kael considered the delicate balance of life, and the brutal ease with which it could be broken. He needed Fallow lucid. The rage, the desperation, it obscured what Kael needed to extract. He reached out, a palm settling lightly on Fallow’s forehead. “What are you doing…!” A sudden, sharp clarity lanced through Fallow’s mind. A cold, piercing energy, like winter wind through empty canyons, swept through his skull. It wasn’t painful, not precisely, but utterly disorienting. Kael’s arcane touch, a precise application of his ancient, forbidden knowledge, cut through the veil of madness. A localized burst of focused anti-magic, something he'd learned from the Whisperers, from his own past as Malakor. It would clear the haze, temporarily return Fallow to himself. “Ugh…” Fallow groaned again, less a cry of rage, more of confusion. The wildness receded from his eyes, replaced by a dazed uncertainty. “Where… am I?” Memories of the past hours, the bloodlust, the terror, would be fragmented, indistinct. The true horror would return in slow, agonizing waves. “Time for questions, Fallow,” Kael said. Fallow kept his head bowed, cradling his injured arm. His face was a mask of pain, but the defiance was gone. Kael felt a flicker of impatience. He considered a more forceful approach, a physical jolt to loosen the man’s tongue. But no. Brutality begot silence, fear begot lies. Fallow needed coaxing, not breaking. He needed to be shown a path, however narrow. “Who are you?” Fallow mumbled, his voice hoarse. “My identity is irrelevant. Tell me how you learned to drain life, how you learned Essence Drain.” “Essence… Drain?” Fallow’s brow furrowed. He clearly didn’t know the proper name of the art he wielded. “Yes. The technique. The one that siphons vitality from others.” “…..?!” Fallow’s eyes widened, a fresh wave of shock washing over his pallid face. “How do you know?” “Need more proof of my insight?” Kael’s gaze was sharp, probing. Fallow remained silent, his body trembling slightly. “The changes in your body, Fallow. The rapid aging, the wasting. You can only sustain yourself for a few hours after drawing from a lesser source, like a beast. Then, the agony begins. The *Sangong*, as it’s called. The hollow sickness. Your current state confirms it. No amount of stolen life, however potent, would truly alleviate that emptiness.” Fallow’s gaze became fixed, a desperate, nascent hope flickering within the despair. “Isn’t it excruciating when you wake? After a night of feasting on vitality, you find yourself weaker, emptier than before? That’s the feeling of a sudden air gap. A void where energy should be. It leaves you without strength, without purpose.” “……?” Fallow stared, his mouth agape. “Your body isn’t supposed to be like this. When properly executed, Essence Drain should replenish, not consume. But your vitality has dried up, hasn’t it? And since then, you’ve been consumed by an insatiable thirst.” Kael spoke like a seer, describing Fallow’s secret torments with chilling accuracy. If he’d worn a shaman’s robes and painted his face, Fallow might have knelt in supplication. Fallow’s eyes twitched, betraying his growing terror and belief. “These are the side effects, Fallow. The accumulation of dead qi, of stagnant, corrupted life force within your own vessel.” “How…?” The wary suspicion was still there, but his voice held a newfound tremor of hope. “How do I know? Irrelevant. Answer my questions truthfully, and I believe I can remedy these side effects. It won’t be quick, but it’s possible.” A remedy? Fallow’s pupils quivered. He had searched. Desperately. For a cure, a release, anything to quell the burning void within him. All paths had led to dead ends, to mockery, or to further suffering. Yet, here was Kael, smiling faintly, calmly describing his deepest agony and offering salvation. It seemed impossible. “Who *are* you?” Fallow whispered. “My question first. Your answers next. Understanding?” Kael’s smile held no warmth, only a calculating patience. “How can I trust you?” “Trust is optional. I care not if you believe. I could kill you now, Fallow. That was my initial intent.” Fallow hesitated, a battle raging in his haunted eyes. Then, slowly, painfully, he began to speak. He was Fallow, once of the Willow clan from Oakhaven Dell. The Willow clan, he explained, had once been a respected, if provincial, house in Aethelgard. Their ancestral martial art, the Willow-strike Tempest, was renowned for its speed and precision, a mid-tier sword style that had endured for generations. Even in the shadowed fringes of the old wars, they had held their own. “Ten years ago,” Fallow recounted, his voice catching, “Varkos the Shadow Weaver arrived.” “Varkos?” Kael interrupted, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Why?” “He… he sought something. He demanded access to the Whispering Glade, our family’s sacred grove, kept secret for centuries. He claimed it held the Aetherbloom, a source of incredible power…” Kael merely waved a hand, urging him to continue. Varkos. The name struck a chord. Kael remembered Varkos as a particularly ambitious, ruthless disciple from his own past, one who had delved deep into the very arts Kael now sought to eradicate. Of course, the Whispering Glade. Rumors of latent Aetherbloom power had always circulated among the dark practitioners, though Kael himself had never bothered with such localized, petty sources. Varkos, ever greedy, would certainly have scoured everywhere. The head of the Willow clan, Fallow’s father, would have refused. No family would betray their sacred lands. That would have been the spark. The fight. And Varkos’s skills, honed in the deepest shadows, were formidable. “My father… Varkos beat him to death. My mother hanged herself, consumed by grief.” Kael’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. He’d seen such devastation countless times in his past life. Varkos, once given a target, would stop at nothing. “Ah. Is that so.” Kael’s voice was flat. “……..Yes?” Fallow looked up, confused by Kael’s detached tone. He continued, bitterness twisting his features. “It was all because of him. Varkos did this to me…” “Ah!” Kael breathed, a sudden memory piercing his calculated composure. *Varkos.* Kael remembered the other, the *only* other person, besides himself, to truly grasp the intricacies of Essence Drain. And it had been Kael, in his previous guise as Malakor, who had taught Varkos the forbidden art. A terrible secret, shared with a promise of absolute silence. “Varkos, that utter idiot!” Kael muttered, almost to himself. “…Yes?” Fallow stammered, bewildered. “Nothing. Continue.” “Anyway, I couldn’t control the lust for life, for revenge. I fled my home. I should have died then.” Fallow looked at his emaciated hands, regret etched onto his face. He seemed on the verge of tears. He couldn't suppress the thirst. Kael knew that particular craving. The emptiness. “I tried to resist. But it grew stronger, ever stronger…” Yes, Kael understood. Seeing Fallow's slumped shoulders, his broken spirit. Varkos, that fool. He’d never properly understood the Essence Drain. Kael had beaten the knowledge into him, yes, but the deeper nuances, the precautions, the methods of avoiding the *Sangong* – Varkos had been too arrogant, too impatient to learn. He must have taught Fallow only the bare mechanics, none of the safeguards. So, the carnivorous lust, the accumulation of dead qi, would have manifested almost immediately. A profound irritation seized Kael. Varkos, the imbecile. If you don't know how to teach, then don't. You destroy a man’s home, force him into this cursed art, and then leave him to suffer? It was worse than just killing him. But then, a cold realization settled. The true cause, Kael mused, might actually stem from the Aetherbloom. Varkos’s greed for it led him to the Whispering Glade, which in turn led to Fallow’s family's destruction. The very Aetherbloom Kael himself had inadvertently benefited from during his reawakening. A strange twist of fate, indeed. Was this karma? A continuation of past lives? No, Kael firmly pushed the philosophical musings aside. He wasn't *that* sentimental. Yet, an unwelcome weight settled in his chest. A flicker of something that felt suspiciously like guilt. *Damn it*, he thought, *am I actually becoming… emotional?* The Order's incessant righteousness was clearly having an effect. Kael sighed, the sound barely audible. “Why didn’t you die?” “Why? I don’t know. Perhaps… perhaps I didn’t want to die, even with this cursed art consuming me.” Fallow let out a broken, self-deprecating laugh. It was a rhetorical question from Kael, a moment of morbid curiosity. He hadn't intended to provoke a breakdown. But Fallow began to weep, tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks. As he spoke of his past, the fractured memories of his madness slowly coalesced. The faces of those he had killed would be returning to him, one by one. “Ah, to live. To live and sate this hunger… How can I face my ancestors?” “Alright, Fallow. That’s enough lamenting.” “I’m sorry.” Fallow choked back a sob, then knelt before Kael, his injured arm hanging uselessly. “I don’t know who you are, but thank you for bringing me back to my senses.” “Gratitude is premature. Now, your transgressions. Your sins.” Kael leaned back, contemplating Fallow. *Damn it. What to do?* He considered. Fallow had indeed killed innocents. But the ultimate catalyst was Varkos. And Varkos had been taught by… Kael. A direct line of culpability, however indirect, led back to Malakor the Whisperer. An inconvenient truth. Yes. He would help. Essence Drain, at its core, wasn't inherently evil. It was a potent art, a foundation-builder for more refined manipulations of vitality. It was simply misunderstood, and in the wrong hands, twisted into something monstrous. And Fallow, however misguided, had a connection. He was, in a twisted sense, an alumnus of Kael's own forbidden teachings. Kael let out another sigh, this one heavier. He drew his blade. The pure white steel of Kael's blade, *Serpent's Kiss*, shimmered in the dim light. A faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated from the ancient metal. ZRRRT! Kael moved with a blur of speed, the blade a silver flash. Not a strike to kill, but to excise. PITT! PPPPPIT! Drops of crimson sprang from Fallow's skin. Not deep wounds, but precise, almost surgical cuts along twelve specific points on his body, where the corrupted qi had pooled. The floor received the spattered blood. “…!” Fallow froze, staring at Kael, then at the blood. His eyes, wide with confusion, silently asked: *Why not kill me? What is this?* “I told you. The side effects. We can purge them.” “…Ah!” Fallow gasped, a sudden dawning comprehension. “Your blood here, Fallow, is a reservoir of stagnant, dead vitality. A festering core. And.” Kael sheathed *Serpent’s Kiss* with a soft click. He walked to Fallow, kneeling. His hands, warm and oddly steady, settled upon Fallow’s head and the injured arm. “From this moment, I will cleanse the corruption from your body. Do not move. Focus.” “…!” Fallow’s eyes widened again, this time with sheer astonishment. A dizzying succession of shocks. He had expected death, or a more brutal interrogation. But Kael was not only sparing him, but offering to heal him? ‘Ah!’ A silent cry of wonder echoed in his mind. “Dismiss useless thoughts. Allow my power to guide you. Fail, and you truly die.” Kael’s voice was firm, brooking no argument. “Yes!” Fallow whispered, his voice trembling. He relaxed his kneeling posture, settling into a meditative cross-legged position. --- SUMMARY: Kael confronts Fallow, easily subduing the weakened practitioner and revealing his comprehensive knowledge of the forbidden Essence Drain technique and its devastating side effects. Fallow, desperate for a cure, recounts his tragic past and how he learned the dark art from a former disciple of Kael's, prompting an unexpected sense of guilt and responsibility in Kael, who then begins the arduous process of cleansing Fallow's corrupted body.

A Serpent's Unsettling Guilt