The wind howled through Duskveil like a chorus of lost souls. Moonlight spilled over the jagged battlements, illuminating the stone with an ethereal silver glow. Aelric crouched atop the northern wall, cloak whipping violently around him, eyes scanning the horizon. Every shadow was suspect; every flicker of movement could be the traitor or a demon ready to strike.
He had learned to trust his instincts, sharpened by Serath's kiss. The hunger that had once threatened to consume him now flowed like a river he could navigate. He could feel the blood in the veins of the keep, the pulse of the hidden corridors, the subtle shifts of movement that signaled deception.
Somewhere below, someone was watching, waiting. And Aelric intended to find them.
---
Grath and Maelor flanked him silently. The three moved like ghosts along the ramparts, weapons drawn, senses taut. Every step was deliberate, measured. They had decided not to alert the rest of the keep—not yet. The traitor had to be caught in motion, not by chance.
"Do you feel it?" Grath whispered. "The shadow… it's closer than ever."
Aelric nodded, lips tight. "Closer than ever, yes. And clever. Too clever to be careless. But every shadow leaves a trace."
He let his heightened senses guide him, focusing on the faintest scents, the smallest disturbances in the air. His eyes caught it first—a shimmer along the outer wall, too perfect to be wind or moonlight.
"Over there," he murmured, pointing.
Maelor squinted. "I don't see—"
Before he could finish, a figure dropped silently onto the lower walkway. Cloaked in black, movements fluid and deliberate, they moved like smoke through the battlements. But there was a signature in their steps, a rhythm Aelric recognized now: the deliberate, calculated cadence of the traitor.
---
Aelric acted without hesitation. He leapt from the battlement, landing in a roll that absorbed the impact and brought him within striking distance. Silver blade flicked upward, catching the figure across the shoulder. A muffled grunt, a shuffle, but the figure didn't stop.
"You're persistent," a voice hissed, low and familiar. "But persistence won't save you."
Aelric's eyes narrowed. He had seen that voice before, hidden in the smoke of past skirmishes, whispered in intercepted letters, and felt in the corridors of the keep. The traitor's identity had been cloaked for too long—but now the mask was slipping.
"You will answer," Aelric growled, pressing forward, blade glinting in the moonlight. "Why betray your own? Who are you feeding?"
The figure paused, just long enough for Aelric to see it—a glint of gold on the hand, a ring familiar to Duskveil's inner circle. The traitor's identity, at last, began to unravel.
"You think knowing my face changes anything?" the traitor sneered. "I am the hand that guides both shadow and flame. You cannot stop what is already in motion."
Aelric lunged, but the traitor was faster, slipping through the shadows with a speed that rivaled his own. They leapt to the next battlement, silver dagger flashing in the moonlight, aimed to kill. Aelric blocked, parried, countered—each movement a dance of death.
The hunger inside him surged, giving him strength, clarity, focus. He was no longer just hunting a shadow—he was a predator closing in on prey, every muscle, every thought synchronized.
---
Suddenly, the traitor stumbled—a rare misstep. Aelric's blade found its mark, cutting a shallow line across the forearm. The figure hissed, caught off guard, revealing a faint tattoo beneath the sleeve: a sigil matching the ones left at the village and armory.
"You're mine," Aelric whispered, eyes burning crimson. "No more hiding."
The figure froze, then smirked, a mixture of admiration and malice. "Ah, Prince… you've grown stronger than I imagined. But catching me isn't the end. It's only the beginning. There are strings you cannot see, threads you cannot touch. Your enemies are everywhere."
Before Aelric could strike again, the traitor disappeared into a secret passageway, a concealed door in the battlement wall swinging shut behind them. The sound was silent, almost mocking.
---
Breathing heavily, Aelric turned to Grath and Maelor. "They're in Duskveil," he said, voice low, tense. "Still moving among us. And they know our every step."
Kaelen appeared from the shadows, as silent and imposing as ever. His crimson eyes glinted in the torchlight. "Good work," he said. "You've marked the shadow, Prince. Now comes the real hunt."
Aelric's jaw clenched. "They're clever. Too clever. But every shadow has a weakness, every thread has a loose knot."
Kaelen's lips curved faintly. "Indeed. And that knot… you will find it. But remember, Aelric: the traitor is not just a threat—they are a lesson. A lesson in patience, in strategy, and in knowing that vengeance without thought can destroy even the strongest blade."
Aelric stared into the dark horizon, feeling the weight of the night settle on his shoulders. The traitor had revealed a fragment of themselves, enough to ignite the hunt, but not enough to be caught. The war outside the walls continued, but the war within Duskveil—the war of secrets, whispers, and betrayal—was intensifying.
And Aelric, fueled by hunger, vengeance, and the dark power Serath had awakened within him, would not rest until every shadow was uncovered, every string pulled, and every enemy punished.