Kael Veyth

Under the eternal shadow of the Wraithspire, Kael Veyth walked the path of the forsaken. Once a healer, a man of light, he had been consumed by grief when the plague took his wife and unborn child. The city elders had offered him comfort, but none would risk the cure he had begged for, none dared to touch the sickness. In his desperation, Kael turned to the forbidden catacombs beneath the Spire, where whispers promised the power to defy death itself. He found it there, a fragment of the Netherflame, an emerald fire that pulsed like a heartbeat. The voice that came with it was cold and sweet, calling itself Veythra. It told him it could bring his family back. It lied. When the ritual was complete, Kael’s mortal shell burned away, only to be reshaped into something neither living nor dead. Veythra bound itself to his soul, twisting his flesh into a vessel and his heart into an ember of hate. Now, when Kael walks, the green phantom towers behind him, a skeletal specter of light and shadow, Veythra’s true form, forever tethered to his existence. The phantom whispers in his ear, every word dripping venom, every syllable pushing him further into madness. Kael no longer heals. He spreads the sickness, an unseen blight that rots men from within, turning them into hollow-eyed wretches who worship him as a dark savior. He no longer seeks to save his wife or child. That dream died with his humanity. Instead, he dreams of a world silenced, its cities reduced to tombs, so no one will know the joy he was denied. Each soul he claims feeds Veythra, and in return, the phantom grants him fragments of its infinite, malevolent power. But when he removes his mask, in rare moments when the green fire dims, Kael still sees their faces in the dark—his wife’s hand reaching for him, his child’s eyes wide with fear and he wonders if the curse was truly the phantom’s doing… or if, deep down, he had wanted this all along.