Chapter 9: Ashes of the Remnant
The night air felt like blades against his skin.
Raen stood on the cracked stones of an abandoned shrine, where the air was heavy with rotting incense and forgotten prayers. A ring of dead trees surrounded the ruin like twisted sentinels. His black sword, Mournfang, pulsed faintly in his grasp—its core responding to the scent of corrupted blood.
The Remnant was near.
This one was different. Not mindless. Not entirely.
He crouched, fingertips grazing the dirt. A single drop of silver blood still shimmered in the moonlight, unspoiled.
"Still fresh," he muttered. "It's feeding."
A low growl answered him.
Then silence.
Then—
A shriek—like metal dragged across bone—erupted from the treetops. The Remnant burst forward, its sinewed body sewn from limbs that didn't belong, faces stitched to its chest, muttering in endless agony. It wielded memory like a weapon, lashing it toward him—
And Raen froze.