When the Monster Wakes

Day two of living in his new body.The kitchen had fallen into a routine of quiet suffering.

Kael'thar, hands deep in a mountain of greasy dishes, towering before him. But he was memorizing every detail of the house layout. The weak window. The unlocked pantry that led to the back hall. He'd mapped the way out like a war campaign.

Until they came again.

The twins. Syle and Lyle.

They swaggered in with wicked grins, tossing a half-eaten sandwich on the floor.

"You missed a spot, rat," Syle sneered twirling her hair 

Kael'thar ignored him. He had endured worse than insults from children.

"Maybe we should remind him how to clean," Lyle said, yanking a towel and snapping it against Kael'thar's back. The sharp sting barely registered—but it was the principle.

Still, Kael'thar did nothing.

Then Lyle grabbed a bowl of water and poured it over the clean plates. Soap and filth slid into Kael'thar's hard work.

Still… nothing.

Then Syle spat directly into the soapy water. Defiled it.

Still… nothing.

But when Lyle shoved him from behind, laughing as Kael'thar's elbow knocked a dish to the floor and it shattered?

That was the trigger.

Kael'thar straightened.

"You think this is funny?" His voice was like distant thunder.

Damon smirked. "Yeah. What're you gonna do about it, dish boy?"

Kael'thar turned slowly.

"Pray your bones heal straight."

And then he moved.

Fast.

Too fast for either brat to react.

He grabbed Lyle by the collar and slammed his face into the counter with a dull, sickening crunch. The boy screamed as his nose exploded in blood. Before he could fall, Kael'thar kneed him in the stomach, doubling him over, then threw him across the room like trash. Lyle hit the shelves and collapsed in a heap.

Syle shrieked and tried to run—but Kael'thar was already behind her. He grabbed her arm and twisted—hard. A snap echoed through the kitchen as she howled in agony.

"You wanted to play, little lords?" Kael'thar snarled. "Then scream like a pig in your own filth."

He dragged her by the hair, smashing her face-first into the floor. Blood smeared across the tiles. The she cried broken.

Kael'thar stood over them, heart pounding.

For a fleeting moment, it felt good. Right. The Overlord returned, if only briefly. They had no idea the kind of predator they'd tried to toy with.

Then—

"HE'S KILLING THEM!" A shrill voice from the hallway. A maid.

Kael'thar's eyes shot to the door.

No time for his original plan. No time for stealth. No time for patience. 

He ran.

Ran like hell itself was behind him.

Because maybe it was.

And this time?

He was ready to burn his way through whatever stood in front of him.

–

Without hesitation, Kael'thar snatched a heavy iron pan from the wall and smashed the window open. Shards rained down, but he didn't care. He vaulted onto the counter, twisting through the jagged frame like a shadow.

His arms bore deep cuts, but adrenaline dulled the pain.

Outside, the backyard was mostly clear—faded grass, overgrown weeds, and the scent of gasoline. To the far left: a stack of wooden crates used for deliveries, leaning against the rear perimeter wall, about eight feet tall.

He sprinted across the yard barefoot, feet slapping the dirt. A voice behind him screamed, "GET HIM!"

Kael'thar leapt onto the crates. The stack groaned under his weight, but he used momentum to scale them before they could collapse.

The fence was topped with rusted metal spikes. But between two posts, the spikes were broken—one of his earlier observations.

He ran along the narrow crate top and launched himself through the gap.

For a moment, the world slowed—wind against his face, shouts muffled behind him. Then he landed hard, rolling through thorny bushes.

Pain lanced up his side. A bruised rib, maybe. A cut lip. Blood on his arm. But he was out.

He looked back at the house." I'm sorry Zayn, it useless to fight your body. I swear I'll come back, for their punishment."

"For what they did to you."

He kept low, moving behind broken fences and trash bins, weaving through the alleyways of the nearby neighborhood. Cars passed. A dog barked. Someone stared, but he didn't stop.

He didn't know where he was going. All that mattered was distance.

Kael'thar had escaped.

But this wasn't victory. 

The world was still—too still.

Kael'thar stirred beneath a threadbare blanket of cardboard and damp newspaper, his body curled behind a rusted dumpster in the alley between a bakery and a boarded-up barber shop. The night had been cold and cruel, the wind biting through the thin clothes of the boy he now inhabited.

His limbs ached. His side throbbed where he'd landed during the escape. His breath misted faintly in the early morning air. Hunger gnawed at his gut, but he'd known worse.

He pushed himself upright slowly, groaning from the stiffness, dirt and ash clinging to his skin.

Then…

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound of synchronized marching boots.

Kael'thar narrowed his eyes, peering around the corner.

A procession of soldiers marched down the main road—dozens of them in perfect unison, armor gleaming silver in the morning light. Their weapons were ceremonial but sharp, uniforms pressed and immaculate. At their front, a massive crimson banner bearing the insignia of a crowned wolf swayed in the breeze.

Kael'thar blinked.

This was no local patrol.

These men carried power in their steps. Discipline. Respect. Authority. Wherever they went, civilians dropped to their knees, heads bowed in reverence. Even children stopped playing. Shopkeepers froze mid-motion. Old men touched their foreheads and bent low.

Then it happened.

The captain at the head of the column turned his gaze toward the alley—toward him.

Kael'thar tensed.

The captain's eyes widened slightly. Then, without a word, he stopped. The entire column halted in perfect sync behind him.

And then…

He dropped to one knee.

All of them did.

A silent wave rippled through the street. Dozens of elite soldiers, kneeling… to a boy in rags.

Kael'thar stepped into the morning light, frowning.

"What… is this?" he muttered.

He looked down at himself—still the teenager's scrawny body, still bruised, still filthy.

But to these men… it was as if they were seeing a ghost. Or a god.

The captain, still kneeling, lifted his gaze with reverence.

"Your Grace…" he said, voice shaking. "You live."

Kael'thar's mind reeled.

His instincts screamed—lie, hide, observe—but his soul stirred. They know something. This… this wasn't coincidence.

A hundred thoughts surged through him.

Was this about the body he now occupied?

Or was it him they recognized?

The cold was gone. Replaced by something colder.

A power he hadn't summoned.

A past he didn't remember.

And a world that apparently… had not forgotten him.

The soldiers knelt.

The townspeople knelt.

Even the wind seemed to still in reverence.

Kael'thar alone stood, rigid, unyielding. His bare feet dug into the cold stone of the alley as the sound of war drums echoed faintly in the distance—announcing the arrival of someone… important.

Then, through the crowd-lined street, came the procession.

Six armored men in black and gold bore a raised

platform on their shoulders. Velvet draped the sides, and atop it sat a figure cloaked in royal crimson, with a dark crown gleaming like blood in the sunlight.

Kael'thar's breath caught.

Him.

Auron.