Kael let out a dry laugh, the sound almost lost in the heavy wind that blew ash over the shattered wall. The air smelled of iron, magic, and burnt flesh—the classic scent of chaos.
"Yes… until it goes wrong," he replied, pulling his sword from the ground with a metallic snap. "But at least when it goes wrong, I know exactly who to blame."
"You yourself?" Ahri asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Of course." He flicked his wrist, wiping the blade with a wisp of mana, which sizzled in the air before vanishing. "Who else?"
Umbra watched him silently, her spectral form billowing like living smoke. Her eyes, two silver slits floating in the gloom, seemed to pierce him. There was something ancient there—something Kael preferred not to comprehend.
"You're really going to try, aren't you?" she said finally, almost in a whisper.
