Cale’s nose twitched.

  Smoke.

  He sniffed again, sharper this time. The scent was strong—char, soot. Wood. Cloth.

  He glanced up.

  A column of thick, black smoke twisted into the sky a few streets away.

  Moon was already looking in the same direction, her silver eyes wide with alarm.

  Without a word, Cale took her hand.

  "Let’s check it out," he said. "There might be people who need help."

  Moon nodded and followed at his side.

  They wove through the winding streets, moving quickly past startled citizens and shopkeepers peering out from doorways.

  When they rounded the corner, they saw it.

  A tall, stone-and-wood building engulfed in flame. Fire roared from every window, belching out thick smoke. Sparks flew like burning snowflakes, dancing in the air above the crowd that had gathered before it.

  People stood frozen—eyes wide, hands covering mouths. Some murmured prayers. Others simply stared.

  And then, above the crackle of the fire and the gasps of the crowd, came a wail.

  A woman.

  She was on her knees, clutching a baby to her chest. Her clothes were scorched, her hair half-singed, and her voice broke with every word.

  "My son!" she cried. "Please—my other boy—he’s still inside!"

  People looked away. No one moved.

  The flames were too strong.

  The doorway had already collapsed.

  "Someone, please!"

  Cale didn’t hesitate.

  He stepped forward.

  Moon grabbed his arm, shaking her head in alarm.

  He met her eyes.

  "I’ll be fine. I promise."

  She let go, though her fingers lingered for just a moment.

  Cale ran.

  He leapt high, crashing through a second-story window, the glass shattering around him in a storm of shards and flame. Heat slammed into him like a wall of hammers, and the smoke coiled instantly into his throat—sharp, punishing.

  But he didn’t slow.

  He followed the sound of crying, weaving through fallen beams and flaming rubble. The floor groaned beneath him, threatening to give way, but his body was already shifting.

  Dark steel spiraled over his skin, forming armor plate by plate. Each breath became more controlled, steady, as the transformation rooted him in purpose.

  Then he felt it.

  A spirit.

  Not just a flicker—no, this was the source. The eye of the inferno. A furnace of rage.

  Like the one in that forest… but worse.

  It floated in the burning heart of the building, suspended in heat. Its shape was vaguely human—charred, skeletal, cracked with glowing molten veins. Its mouth locked in an eternal scream. Hollow eyes flickered with flame.

  Fire wrapped around it like a lover, curling through its ribs, spiraling from its throat, whispering madness.

  Then it shrieked.

  The flames surged.

  Every ember in the room bent to it—wood, smoke, air—all devoured.

  Cale’s jaw clenched.

  His right arm shifted, plates unfurling with a metallic screech. A long, barbed whip of dark iron extended, soulfire lighting its spine in a blaze of blue-white.

  He struck.

  The whip cracked through the air like thunder and lashed across the spirit’s chest. The soulfire burned where it touched—essence unraveling in searing light. The spirit wailed in agony.

  Cale pressed in.

  He closed his eyes and reached into it—diving into memory.

  But there was nothing.

  Only fire. Only hatred. Only endless pain.

  It had burned too long. It had forgotten itself.

  No name. No past.

  Only destruction.

  Cale’s hands reshaped into massive claws, burning bright with soulfire.

  He whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  And then he charged.

  They collided—steel against flame. His claws tore through the spirit’s core, slashing through embered sinew and cursed essence. Each strike ignited flashes of white-blue fury.

  The spirit shrieked, flailed, lashed at him with blazing limbs.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Cale struck one final time, his claws piercing deep into the heart of its being.

  There was a burst of fire and light.

  And silence.

  The flames dimmed.

  The heat drained away.

  Ash floated in the air like the first snow of winter.

  Cale stood alone.

  Then—a sound.

  A cough from a nearby room.

  He turned and rush to that room, heart pounding.

  A small boy was curled beneath a scorched table, face streaked with soot, coughing weakly.

  Cale dropped to his knees.

  “Hey,” he said, gently reaching out. “I’m going to get you out.”

  The boy’s eyes met his, wide and terrified, but full of a flicker of hope. He reached up with trembling arms.

  Cale lifted him.

  Behind them, the ceiling groaned—and collapsed with a thunderous roar.

  The way back was gone.

  Cale narrowed his eyes. No hesitation.

  Dark steel surged forward, shifting into a shield. He turned, raised it, and barreled forward.

  He smashed through the burning blockage like a juggernaut.

  Ash and cinders exploded around him.

  They burst out into a narrow back alley, smoke trailing behind him. His armor retracted, melting into his skin.

  Let them think he was just a man.

  He stepped into the light—boy in arms—as if risen from a myth.

  The crowd gasped.

  The mother screamed—and ran.

  She fell to her knees before Cale, arms outstretched. He handed the boy to her, and she clutched him, sobbing, kissing his head over and over.

  “Thank you,” she wept. “Thank you, thank you.”

  "Good job. " Xentar said.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Cale said nothing.

  He looked down at the boy. The child peeked up from his mother’s embrace and met Cale’s gaze.

  The boy watched him with silent awe, eyes wide—not just with relief, but with reverence.

  Moon rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Cale. Her hold was tight, grounding, as though she could sense the weight pressing on him.

  He let himself breathe.

  But his gaze drifted past her.

  Back to the smoldering building.

  The spirit’s last shriek echoed in his mind. A soul too broken to be saved. A creature that once had a name, a life—transformed in to nothing but heat and hatred.

  Cale clenched his jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, though the spirit was long gone.

  A group of water mages arrived too late. Robes soaked, breath short, they raised their arms and drew water from a nearby well, directing the torrents in perfect arcs. Steam hissed and roared as the flames died beneath their control, but the damage had already been done.

  Cale was gone by then.

  He and Moon stood before the tavern where they'd last shared a quiet moment with Desmun.

  The Branded Boar.

  Laughter and clinking mugs filtered through the cracks of the half-open door.

  But between them and the entrance stood five men.

  At their center stood Gorran, leaning against the doorframe with a crooked grin. He was already daring the fight to start, convinced this boy would be an easy mark. Desmun’s little friend—he’d enjoy roughing him up.

  Behind him, four others loomed. Broad-shouldered. Heavy boots. Hungry for trouble.

  Moon’s hand tightened around Cale’s.

  He stepped forward, gently nudging her behind him, eyes fixed on the group.

  Gorran scoffed as he walked forward.

  He reached toward Moon—

  —but never touched her.

  Cale’s hand shot out and caught Gorran’s forearm in a crushing grip.

  A sickening crack echoed in the narrow street.

  Gorran howled.

  The others lunged.

  The first came at Cale’s jaw with a heavy swing.

  Cale slipped under it, pivoted on his heel, and drove his elbow into the man's ribs—once, twice. The man folded and collapsed.

  Another charged, throwing a desperate hook. Cale caught his wrist mid-air, twisted, and slammed him into the tavern wall. A sweep of the leg sent him crumpling to the ground.

  A third pulled a dagger.

  Cale stepped in, inside the arc of the blade, and landed a swift, brutal kick to the man’s wrist. Metal clattered to stone. A sharp knee to the gut sent him reeling.

  The fourth froze, caught in Cale’s burning stare.

  Then he turned and ran.

  Gorran lay on the ground, clutching his arm, face pale and slick with sweat.

  Above him, Xentar floated lazily, looking down with curiosity.

  “Nice one,” the wisp chirped. “You showed them.”

  Cale didn’t reply.

  He wasn’t proud of what he’d done.

  But they tried to hurt Moon.

  And that was reason enough.

  He turned back to her, took her hand gently, and pushed the tavern door open.

  Warmth rushed out—ale, sweat, firewood, and the echoes of laughter. The place pulsed with life, but none of it touched the quiet weight in Cale’s chest.

  Few patrons spared them a glance. Fewer still seemed to notice the bruised men outside.

  Only one man did.

  Desmun.

  He sat hunched in the far corner, shoulders slouched, a half-empty mug untouched beside his hand. He didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.

  Cale’s gaze lingered on him.

  He looked smaller now—diminished. Now, knowing about his past, Cale felt a storm rising inside him. If anything had happened to Moon the way it had to Flora...

  The thought alone ignited something dark and sharp. Rage twisted quietly beneath his skin, and it surprised him. That raw, protective fury.

  He stepped forward.

  Moon followed behind, silent, present.

  Desmun finally raised his head.

  “Hello, kids,” he said, voice rough but not unfriendly.

  Cale offered his hand. “Hello, Desmun.”

  They shook, the contact brief but firm.

  “How are you?” Cale asked.

  “Just passing the time. And you?” he added, glancing between them. “How was your stay with Meli?”

  “It was fine,” Cale said. “She’s a very kind lady.”

  Desmun gave a slow nod. “Rough as stone, but she’s got a big heart."

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking up at Cale.

  “Why are you here?”

  Cale hesitated. He could feel the weight of Moon’s hand gently brushing his arm. He took a breath.

  “Can we talk outside?” he asked. “It’s... personal.”

  Desmun studied his face for a long second, then nodded.

  They stepped out into a narrow alley behind the tavern. Smoke still lingered faintly in the air, drifting from the direction of the smoldering ruin.

  “I spoke to one of your friends,” Cale began.

  Desmun arched a brow.

  “Brannik.”

  Desmun expression didn’t change, but Cale saw it—the sudden tension in his jaw, the flicker of emotion that tightened his throat.

  “He died before you arrived,” Desmun said quietly, almost bitterly.

  “I spoke to his spirit,” Cale said. “It’s my gift.”

  Desmun turned his head slowly, meeting his eyes.

  “I can speak with the dead. And Brannik... he wanted you to know something.”

  Cale’s voice softened.

  “He told me to tell you he’s sorry. That he never stopped thinking about that day. That he should’ve stood by you. If you hate him, he understands. But he’d rather be hated than forgotten.”

  Desmun stared at the ground.

  His shoulders rose with a deep breath—one that sounded like it was dragged from the pit of his soul.

  He said nothing.

  Then turned.

  And walked away.

  Not in anger.

  Not in shame.

  Just carrying the weight.

  They watched him disappear into the winding streets. The ghost had been laid to rest.

  But Cale’s mind was already turning.

  They returned to Meli’s place. The woman welcomed them with a furrowed brow and a hot bowl of soup, but Cale’s mind was elsewhere.

  He explained quietly, firmly, that he had something to do.

  And he couldn’t take Moon.

  “I’ll be back before nightfall,” he promised.

  Moon looked at him with wide, silent eyes, then hugged him tightly, refusing to let go for a long moment.

  He pressed his forehead gently to hers.

  “I’ll be back,” he repeated.

  And then he was gone.

  Outside, the wind had picked up. Cale moved through it like a blade.

  Xentar appeared beside him, floating like a whisper of light.

  “Where are we going?”

  Cale’s eyes burned with purpose.

  “To save some people,” he said. “And kill some monsters.”

  Xentar floated in silence for a moment, watching the resolve etched into Cale’s face.

  He already saw the bloodshed written in the boy’s shadow.

  Cale moved through the shadowed alleys of Gravemount, guided by the memories of the long dead. The echoes of souls whispered directions into his mind.

  He knew who to avoid. Who to question. And most importantly, who to destroy.

  There were spirits who still lingered who remembered the market beneath the city.

  An underground world hidden below the filth and grandeur.

  And Cale was walking straight into it.

  His mind was quiet, still. But inside that stillness burned one truth.

  There was no salvation for those who sold people like cattle.

  Only judgment.

  And he would be the one to deliver it.

  A robed man walked ahead of him, holding a glowing orb of light in his palm. They were deep in the tunnels now.

  Dust and mildew clung to every surface, the air damp with rot and decay.

  The mage ahead was weak. He could feel the man's soul.

  He had affinity, yes, but so faint it was laughable. It would never be his strength.

  They stopped before a bare stone wall. The man reached for a key hanging from his neck, raised it to the stone—and the key slid in like the wall was made of water. With a turn, the wall groaned and split, revealing a heavy door lined with riveted metal and charred oak.

  Another man stood on the other side.

  Air affinity.

  Stronger. But not enough.

  The man nodded and stepped aside.

  Cale passed him without a word.

  They moved down a narrow corridor, torchless, lit only by faintly pulsing rune-lights embedded into the rock. Along either side, cells lined the walls. Iron bars. Rusted chains.

  Cale’s jaw clenched as his eyes flicked from face to face.

  Elves. Dwarves. Beastkin. Humans.

  Children. Elders.

  Men. Women.

  He knew what awaited them.

  Some would be forced into sex work.

  Others would become sacrifices for forbidden rituals, ingredients for dark potions, or meat for those who like the taste of it.

  The stone beneath his boots cried out with every step.

  At the end of the corridor, they reached a room.

  Small. Functional. A desk. A ledger. Stone walls and glowing crystals embedded in the ceiling.

  Behind the desk stood a man, tall, lean, dressed in fine but dark robes. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale like parchment. His aura radiated cruelty so deeply etched into his being that even the dead had spoken of him in fear.

  A slaver who had forgotten what it meant to be human.

  His name was Vaelric Drell.

  The guide bowed and stepped out silently, closing the heavy door behind him.

  Cale stepped forward.

  He pulled back his hood.

  Vaelric looked up, his eyes narrowing.

  "You’re not one of mine," he said. His voice was silk dipped in venom.

  Cale said nothing.

  The room trembled.

  Vaelric’s body tensed as he gasped. His eyes rolled back—his hands clawed at his chest.

  And then he screamed.

  It wasn’t physical. Not at first.

  Cale had reached into his soul—and began to pull.

  Spirits gathered in the corners of the room, flickering into visibility. Faces twisted in pain. Some covered in blood, some holding small, silent children. All of them watching.

  Vaelric’s soul was ripped free—thrashing, clawing, wailing.

  And Cale dived in.

  A girl. Ten years old. Chained to a slab. Crying.

  Vaelric laughing as a blade etched runes into her skin.

  A man forced to watch his wife sold to a noble’s collection—never to be seen again.

  Children. Drugged. Packaged.

  A mother beaten so savagely she miscarried in the corner of her cell, left to die alone.

  Rituals.

  Feasts.

  They had called it trade. But it was desecration.

  Cale felt bile rise in his throat.

  The fire inside him answered.

  Soulfire ignited around the spirit, the blue-white flame latching onto the rot like a purifying inferno. Vaelric’s spirit thrashed, screaming.

  But there was no saving it.

  No memory of love.

  No seed of remorse.

  Nothing left.

  Only hunger.

  Only cruelty.

  Vaelric’s spirit tried to flee—but there was nowhere to go.

  It howled.

  And then—

  Silence.

  Cale turned.

  In the shadows behind him, the spirit of a child stood watching.

  He smiled.

  And faded.

  Cale exhaled slowly.

  The dead were beginning to rest.

  But the work was not yet done.

  Cale stepped outside the room, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a hollow thud.

  He no longer resembled a man.

  Dark steel encased his body, flowing and twisting like living metal and burning veins of soulfire. From beneath a smooth, black visor, twin orbs of pale blue fire glowed like stars trapped in steel.

  Silence fell over the corridor.

  To the left and right, men and women turned. Some were armored, blades drawn. Others raised glowing hands, weaving spells into existence. Their faces twisted in surprise, then confusion, then dread.

  He was not what they had expected.

  He was something worse.

  The first to fall were the ones with weapons.

  The steel they carried twisted in their hands—betraying them. Swords curved backward, hilts fused to flesh. Daggers burst apart, shrapnel digging into faces. Armor peeled open like fruit.

  The metal burrowed into their bodies, threading through muscle, wrapping around bone, shredding from within like swarms of razor-sharp maggots.

  They died screaming.

  The spellcasters responded next. Fire and lightning leapt across the hall. Arcane bolts burst through the smoke.

  And one by one, those with elemental affinity rushed him, closing the distance for close combat.

  But Cale did not dodge.

  He erupted.

  Dark steel tendrils tore from his back and shoulders, whipping through the air with unnatural speed. They impaled everything they touched—arms, legs, chests. Blood splattered across the corridor walls, painting the stone in streaks of red.

  Some died instantly.

  Others screamed, pinned to the walls like broken dolls.

  But death was not the end.

  Cale’s soul flared to life—an inferno of spectral blue-white flame.

  The dying did not pass peacefully.

  Their souls were pulled toward him, wrenched from their bodies with shrieks only the dead could hear. The moment they touched his flame, they ignited.

  They burned.

  Screaming.

  Disintegrating.

  Obliterated.

  He advanced slowly, step by step, soulfire trailing behind him like an executioner’s cloak. The surviving guards turned, panic in their eyes.

  They tried to run.

  But the path was sealed.

  Spikes of metal had grown from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling—twisting into a lattice of thorns. No way out.

  Cale had triggered it.

  A failsafe—installed by Vaelric to trap and torture his enemies—now used against his own people.

  No one would leave.

  Not alive.

  The corridor became a slaughterhouse.

  The cries turned from rage to terror.

  No one was spared.

  The last man knelt, begging, hands raised.

  Cale looked down at him.

  "Mercy is for the innocent."

  He blade arm cut trough the air.

  One slash.

  Silence.

  Cale stood in the corridor of corpses.

  Only he remained.

  A god of steel and death.

  And in the flickering light of the rune-stones, even the shadows dared not move.