The morning light in Duskmoor was thin and gray, like water seeping through a c***k. Fog clung to the broken streets, curling around the burned-out shells of houses and the toppled statues of forgotten saints. The ruined temple where Kael had made his lair looked almost like a skeleton itself—its walls cracked, its great front doors long gone, the shattered stained-glass windows leaking pale rays that fell in slanted beams across the soot-stained altar.
Inside, Kael stood silent before the crumbled statue of the old god. His back was straight, hands clasped loosely behind him, his head slightly lowered as though listening to something far away. The morning breeze slipped through the broken arches, stirring his dark cloak around his boots.
The soldier sat on a fallen pillar sharpening her
