The dream didn't fade; it was ripped away.

  One moment, Caldreth was standing in the training courtyard, smelling the pipe tobacco on Morvain's armor and feeling the gentle tap of Serintha's fingers on his wrist.

  The next, he woke with a sharp, ragged gasp, his body jerking upright.

  "Morvain!" he shouted, his voice cracking. He reached out, fingers grasping at empty air. "Serintha!"

  Silence answered him.

  There was no courtyard. No bruised purple sky. No laughter from the girl with the blood-glass hair.

  He was lying on a slab of cold stone covered in rotting, moth-eaten velvet. Dust motes danced in a singular beam of grey light filtering through a collapsed ceiling. The walls were black stone, carved with delicate, sweeping reliefs of vines, but the stone was cracked, and the furniture reduced to splintered skeletons of dark wood.

  Caldreth froze, his hand still outstretched. The reality of it crashed down on him, not like a wave, but like a landslide. The crypt. The slaughter.

  They were dead. The grief hit him hard. A sob ripped through his chest, a raw, ugly sound. A darker memory surfaced. A memory not of sight, but of action.

  Caldreth went rigid.

  He looked down at his hands to steady himself and froze. The grime of the Wastes was still there, but the skin beneath it had changed. The ash-gray had been replaced with skin of polished alabaster. It was pale, luminous, and smooth as marble.

  He turned his hands over. His fingernails were no longer jagged and broken; they were hard and filed to sharp points.

  His mind reeled back to when he awoke in the crypt, guided by the Tome's cold command.

  Hungry.

  The two savaged bodies in the crypt. The bile rose in his throat.

  "No," Caldreth whispered, shaking his head. "No, I didn't..."

  He had taken their blood and desecrated them. Morvain, who had taught him to hold a sword. Serintha, who had calmed his fears. He had turned them into fuel. He had left them as desiccated husks on a cold floor to feed a grimoire that latched onto him like a parasite.

  Caldreth gagged, retching onto the stone floor. He ran his tongue over his teeth and flinched as he tasted copper. His canines had lengthened. They were needle-sharp, pressing against his lower lip.

  "You..."

  Caldreth reached for the Tome, his fingers clawing for the leather binding of the Tome, needing something to blame, something to destroy.

  His hand grasped nothing but the torn fabric of his trousers.

  The Tome was gone.

  "Where are you?" Caldreth roared, the sound tearing at his throat. He scanned the ruined room, his vision sharp, picking out every crack in the stone, every speck of dust. But there was no book. No red text to justify the atrocity.

  "You made me do it!" he screamed at the empty air.

  Only the echo of his own voice answered. He was alone. Alone with the monster he had become.

  Caldreth let out a long, trembling breath, his hands shaking. The rage was still there, a white-hot inferno, but without the Tome to target, it turned inward, settling in his gut like a stone.

  He scanned the room, searching for a reflection. A vanity mirror lay shattered in the corner, the glass dusted with centuries of ash.

  As he stood to reach it, the movement was fast. His body felt lighter, balance perfect, muscles coiled and responsive in a way they had never been before.

  The world itself suddenly seemed sharper. Wind whistled through cracks in the masonry three rooms away. The scent of dry, ancient dust filled the air, but beneath it lay a distinct, metallic undercurrent, ozone and rot.

  He scrambled over to the mirror, wiping away the dirt with a trembling hand.

  A stranger stared back.

  His face was angular and regal, but the skin beneath the Wasteland grime had transformed. The ash-gray was gone, replaced by a deep, natural bronze that shimmered with an inner vitality. It was the radiant complexion of the Sangrathi.

  A hand reached up, pulling a lock of hair forward. No longer a matted, greasy mess, the strands fell past his shoulders in a sheet of vibrant, molten gold, clean and catching the dim light. Tucking it back revealed ears that tapered to elegant, pointed curves.

  But it was the eyes that held him most. The paleness was gone. In its place, irises burned with a vibrant, arresting scarlet, bright as fresh blood and glowing with a faint inner light.

  A noise in the hallway cut through his newfound focus. Footsteps. Heavy and wet, were approaching

  Caldreth spun around, moving with grace to the opening where the door should be. He peered around the frame, his new, sharper eyesight piercing the gloom of the corridor.

  Hulking shadows moved at the far end. He saw gray skin and pulsing black veins.

  Infected.

  Caldreth darted back into the room. He reached out to slam the door, his fingers closing on empty air.

  "Damn it," he hissed, realizing the frame was empty, the wood rotted away centuries ago.

  He reached for his blade at his hip.

  Empty.

  He patted his other pockets, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Everything was gone.

  He scanned the room for a weapon. A rock, a piece of wood, anything. But there was only dust and brittle, rotted furniture that would crumble on impact.

  He was trapped. Unarmed.

  Caldreth pressed his back against the far wall. He raised his hands, curling his fingers into claws, trusting the new sharpness of his nails.

  Two figures appeared in the doorway.

  They were large, their jaws unhinged to reveal rows of jagged, sharp teeth. Green pustules swelled along their necks. They stepped into the room, their milky, void-like eyes sweeping the space before landing on him.

  Caldreth tensed, waiting for the scream and the charge.

  Nothing.

  They stood there, watching him, their heads twitching, but they made no move to attack. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

  Without a sound, the creatures turned around. They walked back out of the doorway and turned left, heading down the corridor.

  Caldreth lowered his hands, blinking. He crept to the doorway and peeked his head out. The two infected were standing ten paces away. They were looking back at him, waiting.

  "Odd," Caldreth whispered to himself.

  He looked at his empty hands, then back at the monsters.

  "If they wanted me dead, I'd be dead," he muttered.

  He stepped out of the room and followed them into the dark. They led him down the corridor and out through a collapsed archway, emerging into the open air of the ruins.

  The obsidian towers he remembered from his dream were choked with vines that shouldn't exist here. Thick, fleshy tendrils that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic beat. Large, translucent pustules dotted the vegetation, bursting to release plumes of heavy green mist that drifted through the streets like poisonous fog.

  Black and green sludge coated the cobblestones, slick and glistening.

  It was the liches. They weren't just occupying Nethervale; they were corrupting it, terraforming the dead stone into a reflection of their own decay.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  But it was the movement that unsettled him most.

  The ruins were alive. Dozens of infected moved through the square, not with the frenzied aimlessness of the Wastes, but with purpose. They hauled debris, cleared pathways, and stood sentinel at intersections.

  And they weren't alone.

  Men and women in tattered rags moved among them. Cannibals. The same scavengers who hunted humans and demons alike were here, working side-by-side with the monsters. They carried crates of supplies and cleared rubble, sweat slicking their brows.

  Caldreth stayed close to his two guards, his skin crawling as he walked through the square. He felt eyes on him. The cannibals paused their work as he passed, staring at his pale skin and the crimson fire of his eyes with a mixture of awe and terror.

  The transition from the dream was sharp and cold.

  Caldreth blinked, his vision swimming as the purple sky of his memories gave way to the oppressive grey stone of a fortress courtyard. He was moving, or being moved. Rough hands gripped his arms, dragging him forward.

  He shook the cobwebs from his mind. He was in Nethervale.

  But it wasn't the city he remembered. It was a hive.

  Men and women in tattered rags moved among the ruins. Cannibals. The same scavengers who hunted human and demon alike were here, working side-by-side with the monsters. They carried crates of supplies and cleared rubble, sweat slicking their brows.

  Caldreth stayed close to his two guards. He felt eyes on him. The cannibals paused their work as he passed, staring at his pale skin and the crimson fire of his eyes with a mixture of awe and terror.

  A shadow fell over him.

  A massive figure stepped out from behind a stack of iron crates, blocking the path. The infected guards stopped, their heads cocking, but they did not attack.

  Caldreth looked up. And up.

  It was Ravik. But the nervous, shivering scavenger from the campfire was dead and buried.

  The man standing before him had swollen with unnatural muscle. His skin had blackened, looking less like flesh and more like charred wood that refused to crumble. His jaw was distended, revealing a pair of jagged, yellowing fangs that hooked over his bottom lip.

  But the horror was in the asymmetry. Ravik's left arm hung lower than his knee, the flesh rippling with black tendrils that coiled and uncoiled like living wire. His hand ended in a massive claw that dripped a viscous, dark fluid onto the stones.

  One of his eyes was human. The other was a flat, glowing emerald orb, the mark of the Myrrakhael.

  "You look small," Ravik rumbled. His voice was a deep, grinding bass that vibrated in Caldreth's chest.

  Ravik took a heavy step forward, the sheer density of his new form cracking the paver beneath his boot. He loomed over Caldreth, sniffing the air. A look of cruel, arrogant amusement spread across his blackened face.

  "What's the matter, little lord?" Ravik sneered, tapping his long, mutated claw against Caldreth's chest. "Not so tough without your special little book, are you?"

  Caldreth stood his ground, his crimson eyes boring into the cannibal's mutated face. He didn't flinch. He didn't tremble. He looked at Ravik with the pity one might show a sick dog.

  "This appearance does not suit you," Caldreth said, his voice calm, cutting through Ravik's posturing like a razor. "You can wear the skin of a monster, Ravik. But a sheep in wolf's clothing is still just mutton."

  Ravik's grin vanished. The insult struck a nerve; Caldreth saw the man's mutated face twist, his bravado cracking for just a second to reveal the insecurity beneath.

  "They evolved me," Ravik snarled, clenching his mutated fist. The black tendrils surged, tightening like ropes. "I used to fear the dark. I used to scrounge for scraps in the dust, terrified that you or your kind would find me. Now?"

  Ravik leaned in, his green eye flaring with manic power.

  "Now I am the hunger."

  He reached out, his massive claw hovering near Caldreth's throat, toying with the idea of snapping his neck just to see if he could.

  "I could peel you like a fruit," Ravik whispered, a drop of drool escaping his fangs.

  A sound like steam escaping a pipe came from Caldreth's right.

  Ravik froze.

  The two Infected demons escorting Caldreth had stepped forward. They inserted their massive, grey bodies between Ravik and Caldreth. They stared at the mutated cannibal with dead, milky eyes, a low, vibrating growl building in their throats.

  Ravik's sneer faltered. He looked from one demon to the other.

  "I am an Overseer of the New Order!" Ravik barked, his voice cracking with sudden indignation. "I command you to move!"

  The infected didn't blink. They didn't care about titles. They smelled the source on Caldreth. To them, Ravik was just another predator threatening the hive's heart.

  One of the demons snapped its jaws at Ravik's mutated arm, a clear warning to back off.

  Ravik snarled, his pride warring with the reality of the situation. He glared at the demons, then at Caldreth, his green eye burning with hate. He realized he couldn't touch the prize. Not yet.

  He stepped back, straightening his massive frame. He spat a glob of black phlegm at Caldreth's feet.

  "Enjoy your guards, meat," Ravik laughed, the sound wet and ugly.

  He turned, sweeping his mutated arm out to shove a crate of supplies off a nearby ledge, sending it crashing to the ground just to display his strength.

  The infected guards turned back to Caldreth, their aggression vanishing. They nudged him forward, guiding him away from the sunlit ruins and toward the dark throat of the citadel.

  They descended a spiral staircase that plunged deep into the rock, the air growing colder and sharper with every step. At the bottom, the architecture shifted from elegant spires to the heavy, functional black stone of a prison.

  The infected stopped at an open iron door.

  Caldreth stepped inside.

  The room was vast, a cavernous hall with vaulted ceilings lost in the gloom above. It was brighter here, illuminated by dozens of iron braziers burning with ghastly, green fire that cast long, sharp shadows against the stone. Rows of iron-barred cells lined the far walls, most empty, some filled with mounds of rags.

  The center of the chamber had been cleared of debris and converted into a macabre workshop. Heavy stone tables were scattered across the floor, covered in unrolled scrolls, alchemical glassware, and strange, rusted instruments of dissection. One bench held the dismantled carapace of a demon; another was stacked high with maps of the Wastes.

  "You're awake," a voice said from the shadows.

  Krim sat on a stone bench in the far corner. The necromancer looked exhausted, his hood pulled back to reveal the gaunt angles of his face. He watched Caldreth enter with mild curiosity.

  Caldreth didn't answer. He didn't even look at Krim. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his jaw set so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.

  Krim stood up slowly, his eyes widening as they swept over Caldreth's form. He didn't see the ashen, silt-choked wretch from the crypt anymore.

  "You look..." Krim started, his voice trailing off as he squinted, as if trying to reconcile the image with his memory. "Different. Substantially so"

  He stepped closer, circling Caldreth with a look of clinical, almost disturbed curiosity. "Your skin has the luster of polished bronze. It's too radiant for this hole. And your hair-" Krim reached out a hesitant finger toward the vibrant gold strands now falling past Caldreth's shoulders, then pulled back.

  Krim looked over Caldreth, his eyes narrow. "Is the Tome's doing? Was it suppressing your true appearance to keep you hidden, or did it simply decide you were finally worth the effort of looking alive?"

  "Krim," Caldreth whispered. The name came out low, vibrating with suppressed rage.

  "And he speaks," Krim sighed. "I assume the lack of acknowledgement means you are still processing the fact that we were dragged across the Wastes by-"

  "I remember," Caldreth cut him off. He turned, fixing Krim with those new, burning scarlet eyes. "The crypt. The two bodies on the floor."

  Krim blinked, thrown off by the shift in topic. He tapped a finger against his chin. "Ah. Yes. The ones savaged by the demons? The ones you siphoned? Messy business, that."

  Caldreth took a step toward him. His hands weren't fists; they were claws, fingers curled as if ready to tear.

  "They were my caretakers," Caldreth said, his voice flat, dead. "While I slept... I remembered. They died protecting me."

  Krim's mouth clicked shut. The cynicism vanished for a split second, replaced by a flash of genuine surprise.

  "Ah," the necromancer said. "Apologies then."

  "The Tome made me do it," Caldreth hissed, closing the distance. "And it made me siphon them like cattle."

  Krim took a half-step back. He saw the murder in Caldreth's eyes, a raw, wounded violence that was looking for a target.

  "I tried telling you," Krim said, his voice neutral, though his eyes darted to Caldreth's hands. "Things that rip their way into the Underworld from the aether are bad news, Caldreth. They do not have morals. They have appetites."

  A sound of crackling electricity echoed off the stone walls, cutting their conversation short. Krim snapped his head toward the center of the room. Caldreth followed his gaze.

  In the center of the chamber, Velcryn and Myrrakhael floated in the air, silhouetted against the green fire of the braziers. Suspended between them, held aloft by a swirling cage of fire and frost, was the Tome. It hung there, dark and defiant.

  Velcryn drifted closer, his skeletal hand extending toward the leather cover. He didn't touch it; instead, he wove a spell, a delicate tendril of blue frost reaching out to pry the cover open.

  As the frost made contact, a spiderweb of red electricity exploded from the book.

  The bolt slammed into Velcryn's magic with a hiss, shattering the frost and forcing the Lich to recoil, his skeletal hand jerking back as if burned. The Tome remained hovering, sparkling with a lingering current of crimson lightning, daring them to try again.

  Krim called out to the liches. "It answers only to him."

  "So it seems," Velcryn rasped, the frost around him crackling. He turned, his eye sockets flaring with a glacial blue, fixing on Caldreth standing in the doorway.

  Caldreth narrowed his eyes, a flash of cold anger settling on the liches. He didn't speak. He raised his right hand.

  The Tome pulsed. A violent wave of crimson force erupted from the leather cover, shattering the cage of fire and frost into glittering dust.

  Velcryn hissed, drifting back as the book shot across the room. It flew through the air, a trail of red mist bleeding from its pages, and slapped into Caldreth's open palm.

  The vibration was instant. A purr of recognition that traveled up his arm and settled in his chest. But to Caldreth, it didn't feel like a reunion. It felt like a shackle snapping shut.

  He looked down. The leather cover groaned, peeling open on its own accord. Ink, boiled up from the parchment like fresh wounds, forming words that whispered into his mind.

  The Veil is sundered, Caldreth.

  Since your awakening, I have starved you. I consumed my own strength to shroud your blood, to hide your nature from the hunters who would snuff us out before we could spark. But the Veinstone shattered the silence. The demons have seen the truth; they know what you are.

  Caldreth felt a rush of heat flood his veins. It was a bribe. The Tome was flooding him with the returned strength of the Sangrathi, restoring the raw physical might of his bloodline, coupled with the aritifacts thrumming potential.

  And he knew, with a sickening clarity, why it had done it.

  It hadn't killed his caretakers. The demons had done that. The Tome had refused to let their deaths be a waste. It had harvested the only resource available to keep its new host breathing. It was cold logic.

  It was exactly what a survivor would do.

  We hide no longer. The strength I spent on shadows now flows into you. It is a fraction of what I was, but enough for what we must do. Wear your true face. Let the Underworld see the Sangrathi and tremble once more.

  It begins at Shatterdeep.

  Caldreth gripped the spine, his fingers digging into the leather until the binding groaned under the pressure, a silent acknowledgment of their pact. He hated the logic, but he would use the result.

  He lifted his gaze, the vibrant, violent scarlet of his eyes cutting through the gloom

  "This belongs to me," Caldreth stated with cold authority.

  If his power was a foundation built on the blood of Morvain and Serintha, then he would ensure it was worth the cost. He would use it to become what they had trained him to be, a predator.