Akhash

The ruins whispered with the ghosts of a civilization long forgotten, much like the memories Akhash tried to bury. He sat before a small fire, its amber glow casting long shadows across crumbling stone walls reclaimed by nature. His massive broadsword lay beside him, still stained with blood from his most recent hunt.     Akhash's scarred hands trembled slightly as he stared into the flames. Four months. Only four months since everything had been taken from him. The fire crackled, and in its dancing light, he saw Lara's face—her gentle smile and the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed.   Weakness. Sentiment. Distraction.   He growled low in his throat, the sound rumbling through the empty ruins. His dark blue-gray fur stood on end as memories flooded back unbidden. The celebration of his appointment as Sword Saint. The pride in Lara's eyes. Her hand guiding his to feel their daughter's kicks within her womb.   "I had everything," he whispered to the night, his deep voice rough from disuse. "Everything."   The wind howled through the broken columns, carrying the scent of approaching rain. Akhash's red eyes narrowed as he recalled the peace negotiations. The calculated distraction. The moment he realized he'd been played for a fool.   He unsheathed a small dagger, turning it over in his hands. It belonged to one of the conspirators—a minor noble from the Holy Empire who had begged for mercy before Akhash separated his head from his shoulders three days ago.   "Seven down," he muttered, etching another mark into the stone beside him. "And still no answers."   Each kill brought him fragments—whispers of a mastermind, someone with enough power and influence to orchestrate his downfall. Someone who had harbored enough hatred to destroy not just his reputation, but everything he loved.   Tomorrow he would continue north, toward the capital. The trail of conspirators led there, to the heart of power where his enemies lurked in shadows. Each death brought him closer to the truth, to the name he sought above all others. The puppet master who had pulled the strings.   Akhash pulled a worn leather pouch from his belt, emptying its contents onto the stone floor. Seven insignia rings, taken from seven corpses. Different houses, different allegiances, yet somehow connected in their hatred of him. The former Sword Saint traced a claw over the engravings, searching for the pattern he knew must exist.   The rain began to fall, pattering against the ancient stones. His ears twitched at the sound, senses ever alert even in this moment of dark contemplation. He'd chosen these ruins deliberately—remote enough to avoid patrols, yet positioned perfectly for his journey to the capital.   "I will find you," he promised the nameless, faceless architect of his suffering. "No matter how many I must kill, no matter how deep you hide."   His tail flicked with agitation as he remembered the whispers that had followed him even in his glory days. The sidelong glances, the muttered slurs when they thought he couldn't hear.   "Beast."   "Animal."   "Savage."   Perhaps they had been right all along. Perhaps this was always his true nature—blood and vengeance and death.   He closed his eyes, trying to summon Lara's face again, but found only emptiness. Even her memory was beginning to fade, replaced by cold determination.   "Is this what you wanted for me?" he asked the darkness. "To become the monster they always claimed I was?"   Only the rain answered, drumming steadily on the broken roof above.   Then his ears suddenly pivoted toward the forest edge. Amid the natural symphony of rainfall, something discordant caught his attention—a rustling too deliberate, too controlled to be wind or wildlife. His nostrils flared, catching a scent that didn't belong to the ruins or the forest.   In one fluid motion, Akhash extinguished the fire with a handful of dirt and retrieved his sword. The massive blade seemed to hum with anticipation in his grip as he stood his ground.     The rustling came again, closer now. Not the movement of a patrol—too cautious, too singular. Someone tracking him, perhaps, or another fool seeking the bounty on his head.   "I can smell you," Akhash called out, his voice carrying easily through the rain. "Step into the clearing now, or I'll hunt you down and gut you where you hide."   His red eyes gleamed in the darkness, pupils dilated to capture what little light remained. Four months of being hunted had honed his instincts to a razor's edge. Whatever lurked in those woods would find no easy prey here—only a predator waiting to add another mark to his tally.   "Last chance," he growled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "Show yourself."