Eron had seen blood before.
He had grown up poor. Hunger bred violence. Streets taught lessons no book ever would. He had seen men beaten for coins, women dragged into alleys, bodies left under rain like refuse no one wanted to claim.
But this—This was different.
This was violence with purpose.
The chamber still rang with echoes when Eron staggered back, Kael’s weight heavy in his arms. The runes along the floor guttered like dying stars, smoke curling from cracked sigils. Shadows retreated reluctantly, as if dragged away from a feast.
Kael’s body was burning not fever—power.
It pulsed beneath his skin in violent surges, veins lit faintly with ember-gold light. His breathing was shallow, uneven, every exhale scraping like glass in Eron’s ears.
“Kael,” Eron whispered again, fear tigh
