Shadow spears through spine and sternum alike, lifting the man clear off the ground before slamming him into the wall hard enough to leave a spiderweb of fractures radiating outward. He does not scream. His lungs never get the chance.
This is not combat.
This is erasure.
And Kael feels it all.
The torque of muscle.
The recoil of power.
Thewrongnessof how easy it is.
The abomination of who he has become.
He is still trapped behind glass—watching his body move with terrifying grace against his will, watching shadow obey with unquestioning loyalty to the rot that possesses him. Every strike lands exactly where it will end a life fastest.
Too fast.
Too clean.
Too much.
Guards flood the wall now—too many, weapons raised, shouts colliding into chaos. Someone blows a horn. Somewhere deeper inside the city, bells begin to toll.
The Decaylikesthis.
But they’re just soldiers doing their job: protecting the city from a threat.
This wasn’t the plan.
But the Decay doesn’t care.
It expands.
Shadows spill across walls, ceilings, doorways, stretching into alleys, curling around corners, anticipating resistance before it forms. A man lunges from the side and Kael doesn’t even turn—his arm flicks and the man’s head snaps sideways at an impossible angle, neck collapsing with a wet, final sound.
Elyssara shouts his name.
Once.
Twice.
He hears her.
The Decay doesnot.
He is already moving again.
A guard drops to his knees, weapon clattering to stone, hands raised in surrender. But the Decay does not recognize surrender. It recognizeslife.
Shadow closes around the man’s chest andcompresses—slowly this time. Deliberately. Ribs bow inward. The man screams, choking on his own breath as his body folds like soft metal under pressure.
Kael feels the scream vibrate through his bones.
He wants to vomit.
He wants to stop.
