Book One: Rise of the Demonborn
Chapter 6: The Flame That Wouldn't Bow
Kael walked alone.
His undead soldiers were ash—scattered by holy fire. Not that it mattered. They were tools, summoned from memory and bone.
But *this*… this was new.
Pain throbbed in his ribs. His breath came slow. His left wing—seared, cracked, barely hanging on.
He hadn't expected them.
The *Heroes*.
Not knights. Not soldiers. These weren't men bound by law or gold.
They were monsters trained to kill monsters.
The first came at dawn—wrapped in silver armor, etched with runes Kael had never seen. The man's blade shimmered with sunlight itself. The second—hooded, floating, eyes glowing gold—sang a spell Kael couldn't counter.
They moved faster than his undead. They burned hotter than his shadows.
And worst of all…
They weren't afraid of him.
Vaarkos had been the first to fall—pierced through the heart by a light-forged spear.
Kael had watched in silence, no scream, no rage. Just calculation.
Retreat.
He had fled—not out of fear, but logic. Strategy. He could die here, unformed, incomplete.
They were not his war.
Not yet.
Now, limping through the fogged valley beyond Therrow, Kael kept his head low. Blood dripped from his palms, and his power flickered like a dying ember.
The Heroes hadn't followed.
They didn't need to. Their message was clear.
*"You are not ready."*
---
Kael collapsed beneath an old tree, the bark soft with rot. He pressed his hand into the dirt, whispered a guttural word—and from the ground, bones clawed their way up, reconstructing with brutal speed.
Twelve undead.
Familiar. Lesser than before. But they would serve.
He leaned back, staring at the dark sky.
His heartbeat was slow. Cold. Controlled.
But deep inside him… something cracked.
Not fear.
*Doubt.*
His fingers curled into fists.
"They caught me off guard," he muttered.
His voice, flat as ever, held no panic. No trembling.
Just fact.
He reached into his satchel, pulling out a shard of dark glass—taken from the tower ruins weeks ago. It pulsed faintly with cursed essence.
Kael whispered to it.
"Give me what I lack."
The glass cracked. Magic bled into his chest. His body arched as new glyphs burned across his spine, linking to the wings, reinforcing his bones.
Necromancy was never meant to fight gods.
But *he would learn.*
---
Two days passed.
Kael reached the outskirts of Therrow.He didn't attack.
Not yet.
He stood beneath a hill, watching the village from the shadows. It looked the same—wooden houses, smoke rising from stoves, children playing near the well.
His jaw clenched.
He could still see the cellar window where they locked him. Still hear the shouts. The beatings.
He raised his hand.
His undead stepped forward.
But before he could speak—
A flash of gold split the sky.
Kael was thrown back by a shockwave, tumbling into the dirt. His soldiers exploded into dust.
Again.
He rose slowly—breathing hard.
The sky above Therrow shimmered. A figure hovered in golden light—wings of flame, sword of light, hair like wildfire.
Not a Hero.
*A Seraphim.*
A divine hunter sent by the heavens themselves.
Kael's instincts screamed.
He turned.
And ran.
---
He vanished into the forest, his wings bleeding, body shaking—not from fear, but restraint.
He could *not* fight a god.
Not yet.
---