The night fell over Duskveil like a blade, sharp and silent. The keep's towers cut jagged silhouettes against a sky choked with storm clouds, and the wind whispered through the battlements, carrying the smell of ash, rain, and distant fires. Aelric walked alone along the northern wall, hands brushing the cold stone, eyes scanning the horizon. The storm had passed, but the war—both outside and within—was far from over.
He could feel the hunger in his veins, the dark echo of Serath's kiss. It pulsed with every heartbeat, every step, every thought. The power was intoxicating and dangerous, a force that promised the ability to crush enemies but threatened to consume him from the inside. He clenched his jaw, forcing the fire into the blade that hung at his side, letting it burn there instead of spilling into the world.
---
Kaelen appeared silently beside him, as always. His crimson eyes glimmered in the torchlight. "You feel it, don't you?" he asked, voice low.
"I do," Aelric admitted. "And I hate it. It makes me… sharper. Faster. Deadlier. But it doesn't help me find the traitor."
Kaelen nodded slowly. "Power is never neutral. It reveals your instincts, your desires, your weaknesses. You must learn to control it, or it will control you. The traitor is clever, yes, but so are we."
Aelric's eyes narrowed. "So we play their game. Wait, watch, strike when it counts."
"Precisely," Kaelen said. "And sometimes, the hand that guides the enemy is closer than you think."
Aelric's stomach tightened. Kaelen rarely spoke without meaning. The implication was clear: the traitor might not only be a stranger or outsider, but someone who knew Duskveil intimately, someone who could manipulate its lords and soldiers with ease.
---
Inside the council chambers, whispers had already begun to spread. Lords exchanged glances, suspicion hanging over every conversation like a dagger poised to strike. Lady Seralyn paced the room, her violet eyes calculating, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"The traitor's boldness grows," she said finally. "They're not just sabotaging the defenses—they're testing us, learning our weaknesses, and shaping the battlefield to their liking. Soon, the next move will be deadly."
Kaelen leaned against the table, fingers steepled. "Then we must do the same. If the traitor believes themselves untouchable, they will make a mistake. And we will be ready to exploit it."
Aelric listened silently, the fire in his veins stirring. His thoughts kept drifting to Serath's words, to the kiss that had awakened something primal inside him. Power, hunger, speed—but also clarity. Perhaps he could use it to see the traitor before they struck again.
---
That night, Aelric patrolled the inner walls of Duskveil with a small contingent of trusted soldiers. The shadows seemed to cling to him, thick and watchful, as if aware of the danger lurking within the keep itself. Every movement, every whisper, every flicker of torchlight was a potential trap.
They entered the servant's quarters again, this time moving with precision and caution. Aelric's eyes scanned every shadow, every corner. Then he saw it: a subtle mark on the edge of a chest, a sigil carved so faintly that only someone trained to notice it would see it. His heart thumped in his chest. This was the clue they had been searching for.
Grath bent down, tracing the mark with a gloved finger. "It's the same symbol as before," he whispered. "The one left in the burned village."
Aelric's jaw tightened. "The traitor isn't just hiding… they're leaving messages. Playing with us."
---
The investigation led them deeper into the keep, into corridors that were rarely used, passages that had been forgotten over centuries. And there, in the hidden armory beneath the western tower, they found something that made Aelric's blood run cold: a collection of maps and letters, carefully hidden beneath loose stones.
The letters were unsigned, but the handwriting was meticulous, the language precise. Plans for sabotage, hints at patrol movements, details of weaknesses in Duskveil's walls—they had been feeding the demons everything.
But the most damning detail was a note with a single line underlined: The Prince trusts too easily. Exploit the hunger in his veins.
Aelric's eyes burned crimson. He clenched his fists, the hunger within him roaring in response. The traitor knew him. They knew his weakness. And they were using it.
Kaelen appeared silently behind him. "It begins," the lord murmured. "The traitor's game is unfolding. And now, we can play too."
---
As they left the hidden armory, Aelric felt the weight of responsibility settle like iron on his shoulders. The traitor was clever, yes—but every cleverness has a flaw, every deception a crack. And he would find it.
Somewhere in Duskveil, the traitor smiled, unaware that the hunt had turned. And somewhere in the night, Serath's shadow lingered, watching Aelric's hunger with a predatory amusement.
The war was no longer just against demons—it was within Duskveil itself. And Aelric's thirst for vengeance, tempered by the fire Serath had awakened, would either be the weapon that saved the keep… or the force that destroyed him entirely.