Chapter 9 — Blood Beneath the Ashes
The great hall of the Draeven clan was heavy with quiet noise.
Torches guttered as if they too caught their breath. Elders sat in carved chairs, cloaks drawn tight, fingers drumming on arms, eyes flicking toward the side chamber where Rigorus had been kept. Mazraa stood at the head of the table, the burn marks of the recent wildfire still faint in the grain of the wood beneath his palms.
"They've burned the giant," one elder muttered, voice low. "Dreadmaul's body was cremated before the wind could carry the scent too far. His headless corpse was a warning and a question."
Another leaned forward. "But whose wrath delivered that ending? You saw what the boy did. That was not simple swordsmanship.
Footsteps echoed. The side door creaked open.
Rigorus entered, a black sash tied across his chest, sleeves loose around his forearms. His movements were slow. Bruised. Not fully healed. But steady. And when he looked at them, the room quieted—utterly.
Mazraa's lips pressed into a line. "You should still be resting."
"I need answers," Rigorus said. "And you need the truth."
He walked to the center of the hall. Light flickered across his pale hair and the twin swords on his back.
"You all watched the duel with Kairos," he began. "But you don't know what happened after I left. You don't know what I fought next."
Whispers died instantly.
Rigorus's voice remained calm, preacher-like in cadence—but the weight behind it drew their breath shallow.
"Something attacked me at the edge of the crater. A man—if I can call him that. Towering, mad, cruel. Called himself Dreadmaul. And just before I killed him…"
He paused. His fingers clenched.
"…he called me 'brother.'"
The room shifted. An elder flinched as if struck. Another sat up straighter.
Rigorus looked toward his mother. "You said I had no other brothers. So who was he?"
Celestia's expression cracked. Just a tremor. But Rigorus saw it.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I swear I don't—"
"You do," Rigorus cut her gently, not out of anger, but sorrow. "Or maybe not the full truth. But something… something in the past. Dreadmaul wasn't lying. He spoke with rage, yes, but also betrayal. Like someone cast him aside."
Mazraa's voice rasped through the quiet. "What else did he say?"
Rigorus nodded slowly, recalling. "He said... 'I was the shame they buried. The bastard they exiled. The blood they erased.'"
Silence reigned. Then:
"…Kaelvron," an elder whispered.
The name sent shivers.
"Kaelvron," another echoed, haunted. "How did we forget?"
Celestia's eyes widened. Her hand went to her mouth.
Rigorus turned. "Who is Kaelvron?"
Mazraa's face had gone pale.
He stepped forward, voice hoarse. "Kaelvron was your uncle. Vormith's son. A Draeven prince. Your father's older brother. A man of terrible will… and even greater sorrow."
Celestia staggered a step back. "That can't be…"
"It is," Mazraa said. "Vormith was clan head then. Kaelvron was his eldest son. A warrior. Cold. Gifted. Ruthless. And…"
He looked at her now.
"…he fell in love with you."
Celestia froze.
"He challenged your chosen match. Fought your betrothed in secret, defied tradition. But when Vormith intervened, Kaelvron vanished. No one saw him again. Some said he was exiled. Others… believed he'd died."
"But he didn't," Rigorus said grimly. "He survived. Had a son. Raised him on fury and silence."
Mazraa nodded, his voice trembling now.
"I was tasked to watch over him. Vormith's order. From the shadows. But… he disappeared. I failed. And now his son returned… as a monster."
"No," Celestia whispered, tears welling. "Dreadmaul… was Kaelvron's child?"
"The resemblance," one elder said quietly. "The aura… the madness…"
Another whispered, "I remember Kaelvron's last words: 'If I am denied my blood… I will raise one of my own.'"
Rigorus's throat tightened.
All this time.
The man he killed—was his cousin.
His brother.
He had slain the son of the bloodline they buried. A blade meant for monsters had carved through his own blood.
A silence fell so deep, it hurt.
Mazraa's fingers curled against the wood. "We forgot Kaelvron. We let his name be erased from our halls, our memories… but blood remembers. It always does."
Rigorus looked down at his hands. Calloused. Bloodied. Shaking slightly.
"I didn't know," he said quietly. "When I killed him… I didn't know."
Celestia stepped forward, eyes glistening. "You couldn't have. None of us knew. But Kaelvron's story… his fury… was never just about me. It was about the clan that cast him aside."
"And now his son rose to avenge that wound," an elder said.
Another leaned forward. "But if Dreadmaul was Kaelvron's son… and Kaelvron was Vormith's heir—then there may be more blood hidden. More heirs."
"No," Mazraa said firmly. "Kaelvron raised that boy in secrecy. I scoured the wastelands for years. There was only one."
"Still," another elder murmured. "The past has come clawing back. And Rigorus now stands atop the ashes of that bloodline."
Celestia walked to Rigorus and placed a trembling hand on his cheek.
"You've avenged many. But I fear, my son… you've also inherited ghosts."
Rigorus closed his eyes. The hall grew heavy again. Torches flickered in the still air.
And somewhere, deep within, he felt the weight of it—
The blood he carried.
The sword he wielded.
And the grief he never asked for… but now could never release.
IN THE LANDS FAR FAR AWAY FROM THE DRAEVENS
The silence was deep.
Four sons knelt in the flickering torchlight, heads bowed low to the stone floor, afraid to even breathe too loudly. The mountain wind outside howled like an ancient beast, crawling through the cracks of the stone temple.
Then—
footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried. Almost casual.
And then, he appeared.
Kaelvron.
A demon of a man.
Flanked on both sides by two women draped in dark silks, their forms barely concealed beneath his arms, Kaelvron stepped into the sacred chamber like a mockery of reverence. His long robe hung wide open, exposing his scarred, chiseled body—the torso of a war god. Muscles coiled like vipers beneath golden skin marred by ancient battles.
In his right hand, he held a half-drunk bottle of blood-colored alcohol. His left hand, possessive and firm, rested across the curves of the woman beside him, fingers digging into her waist as if claiming her in front of his own sons.
He smelled of liquor, sex, and smoke—like the world had burned and he had danced in the ashes.
And gods above… he looked young.
Unnaturally so.
Younger than any man his age should have looked. As if time had paused out of fear. His face was sharp, jawline like it had been carved from steel, and his long, unkempt hair fell across his shoulders like a lion's mane.
Kaelvron looked immortal.
But his eyes betrayed it all—those eyes were not sane.
He stopped a few feet from his kneeling sons. The women whispered something to him, giggling in his ears, but he waved them off with a grunt, letting them trail to the sides of the room like shadows fading into incense smoke.
And then silence returned.
Kaelvron took one last swig from the bottle and let it fall, shattering on the stone with a loud crack.
His eyes roamed over the four kneeling men.
"...Where," he said, voice heavy and hoarse, "is Dreadmaul?"
No answer.
Kaelvron stared.
His smile curved, slow and serpentine.
"Why do you all look like widows at a funeral? Hm?"
He crouched in front of his third son, the one trembling the most.
"You four were supposed to be monsters," Kaelvron said, voice laced with mockery. "Killers. My sons."
His expression turned cold.
"Yet I smell death in the wind... and it doesn't belong to Rigorus."
The second son finally raised his eyes, sweat trickling down his face.
"Dreadmaul… was defeated," he said. "Killed."
Kaelvron froze.
He blinked once.
"…By who?"
"…Rigorus."
A beat of silence. Then laughter—low and broken, slipping into something unnatural.
Kaelvron rose, his robe still open, his chest heaving with mirthless chuckles. "So… the forgotten boy kills the giant? That's rich."
He stepped back toward the altar, staring up at the ancient mural of the Draeven lineage.
"Celestia's mistake lives," he whispered.
The light caught his eyes—mad and glimmering.
"Let them praise him. Let the people chant his name."
He turned to his sons again, lips curled into a grin that dripped with venom.
"But when they call him savior… we will remind them what blood built this world."
His voice echoed off the walls like the curse of a god.