The warehouse had burned through the night.
By morning, it was little more than a blackened skeleton—walls collapsed, beams jutting like the ribs of a corpse. Ash and blood clung to every stone, and the stench of charred flesh lingered in the air, heavy and inescapable.
Inside the ruin, silence reigned.
Kael sat on a shattered crate, the Devil’s Dagger resting across his knees. His cloak was scorched, his chest still marked with the shallow cut of a Watcher’s blade, but his posture was relaxed, almost regal. His crimson aura flickered faintly around him, steady and patient, as if even the embers of his power refused to die.
In his hand, the corrupted shard pulsed. Its silver surface was no longer pure; crimson veins crawled across it, glowing with a steady heartbeat. Each pulse sent a
