The morning sun hung low in the sky, its pale light cutting through the gloom of the swamp as Kael emerged from the cave. The air was damp and heavy, filled with the scent of mud and decay, mingled with the coppery tang of dried blood. His tattered cloak swayed lightly in the breeze, barely clinging to his shoulders as he trudged forward.

  Most of his minor wounds had already scarred over, the shallow cuts and scrapes reduced to faint lines on his pale skin. His more grievous injuries—those that would have killed an ordinary man—were now nearly fully healed, the flesh knit back together with only faint traces of lingering pain. Kael’s body, built and honed through centuries of hardship and the mysterious power of the Ashen, had once again proven its resilience.

  Attached to his back, tied tightly with lengths of torn fabric, was the severed head of the Harrowmatriarch. Its grotesque visage, twisted in a final expression of rage, dangled heavily behind him, leaving a faint trail of dark, dried blood that mixed with the swampy water beneath his boots. The water sloshed and splashed as he moved, breaking the stillness of the morning.

  The swamp gave way to firmer ground as Kael approached the town. The settlement, which had been blanketed in an oppressive fog the day before, was now clear and bright under the new day’s light. The sun’s rays illuminated the narrow streets and modest buildings, casting long shadows that danced gently with the stirring of the wind.

  Kael's presence shattered the quiet routine of the morning. The townsfolk, who had begun their day with chores and idle conversation, halted the moment they saw him. One by one, they turned to face him, their eyes widening in shock and fear. His entire body was drenched in dark blood, smeared across his face, arms, and torn armor. His shredded cloak hung in tatters, unable to conceal his identity any longer. The mark of the Ashen—once hidden in shadows—was now laid bare for all to see.

  The silence of the town was deafening, broken only by the faint whispers of the people as they stared at him. Some faces were twisted in fear, others in disgust, and a few in barely concealed rage. Kael could hear their voices as clearly as if they stood beside him.

  “That’s him… one of them.”

  “He’s a monster.”

  “What’s he even doing here? He doesn’t belong.”

  He ignored them, his expression calm and unchanging, and kept moving forward toward the tavern. His boots thudded heavily against the cobblestone street, leaving faint, muddy prints mixed with streaks of blood.

  “You fucking monster!” a voice rang out, louder than the whispers, cutting through the tense atmosphere. Kael paused, tilting his head slightly to the side. His sharp ears picked up the faint whistle of a rock soaring through the air, aimed at the back of his head.

  The stone hit the ground behind him with a dull thud, missing its mark as Kael stepped forward without flinching. He could have let it hit him—it wasn’t as if it would have caused him any real harm—but his reflexes acted before he could consider the consequences. The act seemed to terrify those already frightened of him, while those consumed by anger became even more enraged.

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  Kael pressed onward, his crimson eyes fixed on the tavern in the distance. The whispers grew louder behind him, fueled by fear and resentment.

  “He shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why didn’t he just let the thing kill him?”

  “Blood-soaked beast…”

  But he paid no mind to their words. He had seen these reactions before, lived through them countless times in countless towns. It was always the same: the looks of horror, the whispered curses, the rejection. Yet it never mattered. He did his job, collected his reward, and left.

  As Kael reached the tavern, he pushed the door open with a heavy hand, stepping inside without a word. The warmth of the fire and the smell of stale ale greeted him, but he didn’t pause to take it in. His focus was singular—he was here to collect what was owed.

  Kael stepped into the tavern, his towering frame casting a shadow across the room as the door creaked shut behind him. The warmth of the hearth crackled softly in the background, but the air felt thick with unease. All conversation ceased the moment he entered, the handful of patrons frozen in their seats, eyes glued to the blood-soaked figure now striding through the room.

  At the far corner, in the same spot as before, sat Kallen. The man’s slouched posture and distracted gaze betrayed his discomfort, but as he noticed Kael approaching, his face drained of color. He straightened abruptly, his breath hitching, and nearly recoiled as the Ashen drew closer.

  “Dear God… You’re…” Kallen’s voice trembled, his words trailing off into an almost inaudible quiver. His eyes darted over Kael, taking in the torn armor, the shredded remnants of the cloak, and the dark blood that seemed to seep from every fiber of his being.

  Kael ignored the man’s reaction entirely, his expression cold and unyielding. “The monster was a den of Harrowmoths,” he stated flatly, his voice low and gravelly, devoid of any dramatics or pride. “I brought the head of the Harrowmatriarch.”

  As he spoke, Kael shifted slightly, turning his body just enough for Kallen to see the severed head of the Matriarch secured to his back. The grotesque thing swayed faintly, its lifeless maw frozen in a snarl, its bulbous eyes staring into nothing. Dark blood dripped from the torn flesh of its neck, splattering onto the floor in thick, viscous drops.

  Kallen’s face twisted into a mixture of horror and revulsion, and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. His hands fumbled at his belt as he reached for the promised reward. “I—yes, of course,” he stammered, pulling a small sack from his side. The faint jingle of Cilfa coins sounded as he shakily placed it on the table. “Here… here’s your reward. The town… we’re… we’re thankful, truly. But please…” His voice faltered as he avoided Kael’s crimson gaze. “Take the coin and leave.”

  Kael sighed, a deep, weary exhale that seemed to echo his frustration more than his fatigue. Without a word, he snatched the pouch of coins from the table with a swift motion, the sound of his bloodied gauntlet scraping against the wood making Kallen flinch. Leaning forward, Kael fixed the trembling man with an unblinking stare.

  Kallen leaned back instinctively, the fear in his wide eyes unmistakable. Kael loomed over him for a moment, the tension in the air so thick it seemed to silence even the crackling fire. Finally, with a hint of begrudging sarcasm, Kael muttered, “You’re welcome.”

  Straightening, Kael reached for the strap securing the Harrowmatriarch’s head. With a sharp pull, the monstrous trophy fell from his back, landing on the floor with a sickening *thud*. The sound echoed through the room, causing a few onlookers to flinch in unison. Blood oozed from the severed neck, pooling on the tavern floor.

  Kael didn’t glance back as he adjusted the strap on his shoulders and turned toward the door. The heavy weight of the townsfolk’s glares followed him as he stepped out into the morning light.

  The chatter that erupted behind him was impossible to ignore, though he made no effort to respond.

  “Beast in human skin…”

  “He’s no better than the things he kills.”

  “How could Kallen even let him in here?”

  The voices mingled with the wind, rising and falling like an oppressive chant. Kael walked steadily, his boots splashing through the muddy streets. The sunlight reflected faintly off the dried blood that caked his armor, giving him the look of something otherworldly—a phantom of war and death.

  The curses and whispers continued as he left the settlement behind, their sting faint against the weight of his experience. It didn’t matter that he had saved their lives, that the Harrowmoths would no longer terrorize their town. To them, Kael was just another monster. Perhaps, in their eyes, he was even worse.