Kaelen touched the rune-brand on his forearm—the mark of the Slayer’s Oath, though he had never taken it. Not formally. His shame was not failure, but survival. Three winters ago, in the tunnels beneath the Howling Heights, he had watched his entire Stonebeard throng fall to a Bloodthirster’s axe. He had been the last, trapped under a collapse, listening to the daemon’s laughter fade as it turned toward the surface.
He stood on the shattered ramparts of the north gate, the jagged scar of a Hellcannon impact still raw beneath his boots. Below, the camp followers and refugees huddled around flickering braziers, their faces hollow. Once, these walls had bristled with the banners of a dozen knightly orders. Now, only a tattered griffon standard hung limp from the keep. return of reckoning
A sharp cry pulled him from the memory. Down in the courtyard, a Bretonnian Questing Knight was arguing with a Witch Hunter. The knight’s voice carried, thick with frustration. Kaelen touched the rune-brand on his forearm—the mark