The tavern roared with drunken laughter as Kareth slipped into a shadowy alley, clutching the stolen dagger. The blade hummed softly, the ancient runes etched along its edge glowing faintly. Behind him, the sound of pursuing boots grew louder. He had no time to think—only to act.
Vaulting over crates, Kareth ducked into a crumbling archway, the air thick with the stink of decay. A sorcerer’s lair, the locals had whispered. Perfect. His pursuers—mercenaries hired by the slaver he’d robbed—hesitated at the threshold, but their fear wasn’t enough. One leapt in with a howl. Kareth parried with the dagger, the runes flaring to life. The blade drank deeply, the man’s scream cut short as the magic consumed him.
More rushed in. Kareth fought like a cornered beast. The dagger’s power surged, but with every soul it devoured, its pull on him grew. His vision blurred, and the whispers of ancient wrath clawed at his mind.
When the last mercenary fell, Kareth stood trembling. The dagger pulsed in his hand, hungering for more. He wanted to toss it away, but as the slaver’s mocking face flashed in his mind, he tightened his grip. For his sister, still bound in chains, he would pay the price.
The dagger’s glow dimmed, but the whispers promised they would return.
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