The sun crept up gently—not at all how Kael felt after the night he'd slogged through.
Soft golden sunlight slipped across the floor, lighting up the room: a well-worn toy rabbit sat guard near Alia's bed, and the kettle from last night still rested, forgotten, on the stove. The world seemed warm again. But inside, Kael felt frozen, as if some part of him never really made it back from the Ridge.
Beside him, Mira began to stir, hair a tangled halo on her pillow. Her hand curled protectively around Alia's waist. Kael watched them breathe—slow and safe, untouched by the darkness that pressed on his soul.
He should have felt relief. But instead, he felt like a ghost; a man only pretending to be alive.
By midday, Kael was out again—this time, unarmed. No sword. Just errands:
Bread. Salt. That bolt of cloth Mira wanted for curtains. Supposedly just another normal day.
But the streets felt strange.
Some windows were half-shuttered as he passed. Snatches of conversation faded out when he got close. A little kid pointed openly, only for his mother to yank him away, eyes wary.
They weren't afraid of the man.
They were afraid of what he was—the story. The Reaper with the Blade of Shadows.
It felt like his reputation showed up before he did.
Kael kept moving, jaw clenched. Running wasn't his style—not unless someone he loved needed him.
But today, even the baker wouldn't look him in the eye.
"Two loaves," Kael said, dropping a few coins.
The baker just stood there.
Kael softened his tone. "Please."
Only then did the bread arrive, slid across the counter as if passing a truce. Kael took it and left, wordless.
In the alley by the blacksmith's, a voice called out.
"You can't keep hiding forever, you know."
Kael didn't turn. Not at first. The voice was young, almost cocky.
A boy appeared—maybe seventeen. Messy boots, crooked grin, satchel stuffed with papers and a flute sticking out the top.
"You're him," the boy said.
Kael stayed silent.
"The Reaper. The one who slays the monsters and disappears before anyone blinks."
Still no answer.
The boy edged closer, voice quietening, serious. "I saw what you did on the Ridge. That wasn't luck. That was skill."
Finally, Kael turned to him, eyes cold. "Are you following me?"
Both of the boy's hands went up. "No, no. Just… watching from a safe-ish distance."
"And why's that?"
The boy grinned bigger. "Because I want in. There's something worse coming—worse than anything out there. And you"—he pointed right at Kael—"you've seen it too."
Kael's smile was small, sad, almost bitter. "You don't know what you're asking for."
The boy only shrugged. "Maybe not. But I know what I see."
A moment's pause. "You got a name?" Kael asked.
"Derrin," he answered at once.
Kael nodded. "Then go home, Derrin. While home is still there."
And with that, he turned and walked away. If there was one lesson Kael had learned, it was that storms always caught someone in their path—usually just for standing too close.
That night, Mira noticed.
"You're not eating," she said softly, passing him a bowl of stew.
Kael took a bite, forced a thin smile. "Just tired."
She didn't press. Never did. But her hand rested against his under the table—just for a moment, telling him, I'm here.
He clung to that.
Alia lay sleeping, clutching her toy rabbit close. Safe, for now.
And if that was all the peace he could hope for tonight, he'd take it.
Kael slipped outside into the cool air, scanning the heavy clouds over the hills. Something in the wind—a faint, thrumming energy—felt familiar. Like magic, old and wild.
Beneath it—all but lost in the distance—he sensed something colder. Watching. Waiting.
Far beyond the city, in a stretch of land no fire dared light, figures stirred.
A person shrouded in violet stood before a mirror that shimmered like liquid, replaying the same image:
Kael.
With each replay, a mask hovered just beyond his reach—never worn, but never far away.
Without moving their lips, the figure spoke. "He's resisting."
From somewhere beyond the mirror, another voice—a dry hiss—answered, "For now."
The mirror shifted. It showed Alia, sleeping peacefully.
The violet figure's fingers twitched.
"Shall we intervene?" they asked softly.
The first voice went icy. "Not yet. Let him think he's safe. Let the cracks spread."
The mirror flickered back to Kael, who, for a heartbeat, seemed to look through the glass—as if he could feel them watching.
The cloaked figure smiled, lips twisting.
"The deeper the love," they whispered, "the sharper the pain when it shatters."
To be continued…