Dust motes danced in the anemic light filtering through the perpetual gloom of Aethelgard, disturbed by the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting canvas. Thorne moved with grim efficiency among the recently fallen, his boots crunching on dried blood and fractured bone. Other logistical soldiers grumbled, their faces smeared with grime and weariness, but Thorne rarely paused. He simply lifted, carried, and deposited. “Never seen a man so eager for the death harvest,” Corporal Kael grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm. His gaze lingered on Thorne’s retreating back, a mix of grudging respect and unease in his eyes. “Moves like a wraith himself.” Thorne offered no reply, merely a tight, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. They wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. His silent labor was a ritual, a clandestine communion with the grave. Back on the scarred expanse of the battlefield, the air hung heavy with the coppery tang of recent slaughter. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer pulsed above certain corpses – the ‘Lingering Echoes’ he sought. Most were dim, fleeting, like dying embers. But some pulsed with a deeper, more substantial glow. Survival in Aethelgard was a brutal calculus. Promotions, accolades – those were distractions. Thorne craved only strength, a bulwark against the inevitable rot. His ambition, a cold ember deep within him, whispered of a future beyond the soldier’s meagre lot, a future only power could secure. He knelt beside a felled Ebon Guard officer, its armor scorched and rent. A viscous, silvery mist ghosted upwards, clinging to the air like cold breath. Thorne’s hand hovered, then settled. A jolt, sharp and sudden, coursed through him. The air thinned, and the echo flowed, a frigid current rushing into his core. Muscles tautened. Thoughts sharpened. A subtle warmth bloomed within his chest, a flicker of life added to his own diminishing flame. Echoes of a fallen Ebon Guard Captain absorbed. +5 Vitality, +5 Acuity, +5 Resilience, +5 Spirit, +5 Lifespan. First absorption from a ranked officer. A Glyph-Sealed Cache manifests. A shiver traced his spine. A Glyph-Sealed Cache. Thorne had heard whispers of such things, rewards for claiming powerful echoes. A quiet thrill, cold and sharp, pierced his usual detachment. This was a true bounty. His mental command was immediate. Open Cache. Glyph-Sealed Cache opened. Acquired: Echo-Woven Cuirass. Thorne felt the intangible item coalesce, a faint pressure against his senses. He envisioned it: a dark, supple armor, thrumming with latent protective power. A shield against the myriad dangers of this decaying world. He would don it in the privacy of his tent. This windfall stoked a hunger within him, a silent, urgent craving. He scanned the charnel field, eyes now sharp, seeking. Other officers. Higher ranks. Their echoes would be richer, more potent. Moving a lifeless Aethelgard soldier onto a drag-cart, Thorne’s gaze swept across a pile of mangled enemy corpses. A tell-tale ripple in the stagnant air. A subtle tension. Not decay, but presence. Not far, Commander Valerius, his face etched with the weariness of command, supervised a small group of Aethelgard soldiers. They approached the same mound of bodies, preparing to clear them. Then, a pair of eyes snapped open within the heap. Glinting like obsidian shards. A hand, gaunt and pale, tightened around the hilt of a hidden blade. Soldiers drew closer. Thorne saw the subtle shift, the coiled readiness, moments before it erupted. A burst of motion. A shadow detached itself from the pile, an Ebon Guard warrior, his movements shockingly fluid despite his apparent wounds. His blade arced, quick as viper’s strike. Corporal Ren gasped, a sound choked off as the steel plunged into his unarmored throat. He crumpled, a gurgling sound escaping his lips as the blade was wrenched free. The Ebon Guard kicked the dying man aside, his eyes alight with a feral madness. He spun, blade flashing, engaging two more unprepared Aethelgard soldiers. They scrambled, fumbling for their weapons. Chaos erupted. Shouts. The clang of steel. Valerius barked orders, his voice raw. “Blades out! Cut him down!” He drew his own heavy sword, surging forward. A dozen Aethelgard soldiers rallied, their faces a mask of sudden fury and desperate courage. Logistics duty didn't preclude merit. A living enemy meant a chance for glory, a promotion. Even amidst the dead, death still hunted. Thorne observed. This Ebon Guard had endured, feigning death through two prior sweeps by battle-hardened troops. An unusual patience. A rare ferocity. He noted the man’s speed, the cold calculation in his eyes. Not a common soldier. He watched the skirmish, a dozen soldiers converging on one. The outcome seemed inevitable. Thorne had no desire to join the scramble for a killing blow, a shared echo. But the Ebon Guard was faster than they anticipated. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Commander Valerius. A visceral understanding passed between them. The Ebon Guard moved, a whirlwind of desperate violence. One soldier fell with a severed arm, another with a gash across his chest. He charged Valerius. Valerius met the attack, his sword ringing against the Ebon Guard’s. But the enemy was a blur of motion, parrying with a jarring force, then a vicious kick to the commander’s gut. Valerius grunted, stumbling backward, collapsing hard onto the unforgiving ground. The Ebon Guard snarled, eyes burning with a death-lust that promised no quarter. He raised his blade high, both hands gripping the hilt, poised to deliver a killing blow. Soldiers screamed, rushing forward, but they were too late. The arc of the blade was already descending. A cold calculation, quick as lightning, ran through Thorne. Valerius, for all his bluster, had shown Thorne a quiet leniency on several occasions. And a living commander was a useful asset. A dead one… a complication. Thorne’s hand went to the heavy field-knife sheathed at his belt. His grip was sure, his arm a coiled spring. This was not a weapon meant for throwing, but for close-quarters butchery. Yet, in his hand, it became an extension of his will. He threw. The blade sang through the air, a dark streak against the grey sky. It struck the Ebon Guard mid-swing, piercing through a chink in his armor, slamming into his chest with brutal force. The man’s eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief replacing the bloodlust. His body spasmed, the raised blade clattering from his grasp. He staggered, a wet cough escaping his lips, then crumpled. Valerius, spared by inches, pushed himself up, staring at the fallen enemy, then at Thorne. Killed Wraith Vanguard General. +20 Vitality, +20 Acuity, +20 Resilience, +20 Spirit, +20 Lifespan. All core attributes exceed 200. A Glyph-Sealed Cache manifests. A profound surge, exhilarating and chilling, washed over Thorne. A true general. A powerful entity indeed. The echo resonated through him, a deep hum of stolen life and stolen strength. His vision sharpened further, the world seeming to gain a starker clarity. And another cache. The gambit paid off. Valerius, still breathless, knelt beside the fallen Ebon Guard. He fumbled at the man’s belt, extracting a tattered, blood-soaked war-standard. His eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath. “Commander, are you alright?” “Damn beast killed Kael and two others.” A logistics soldier, still trembling with adrenaline, kicked the dead general’s side. “No ordinary soldier,” Valerius murmured, his gaze fixed on the war-standard, its symbols denoting a high-ranking command. He rose, his eyes sweeping across his scattered men. “Who threw that blade?” Thorne remained silent, his hand already back at his belt, feeling the empty sheath. His gaze lingered on the fallen general, absorbing the last wisps of the powerful echo. He knew his secret was safe. For now.

A Feast of Fallen Souls