The morning after the fire-feast came with a strange stillness.
The air over Duskmere hung heavy with mist, thicker than usual, curling low over the river like pale fingers unwilling to let go of the earth. Even the birds were quiet, their usual chorus muted. Only the creak of wood and the soft lapping of water against the docks broke the silence.
Kael stood by the threshold of his home, watching the river with uneasy eyes. His body was tired, but his mind had not rested since the night before. The whispers still echoed faintly in his skull, a chill that no fire could burn away.
Behind him, the sound of wooden bowls clattering came from inside. Mira's voice followed, bright and full of morning cheer.
"Brother! Come eat before Father finishes it all!"
Kael turned slightly, catching a glimpse of her small figure bustling at the table, her hair still messy from sleep. For a moment, the sight softened him. She was light in a world that seemed full of shadows.
But the unease in his chest did not fade.
---
Breakfast was simple: porridge sweetened with a drizzle of honey, and a small piece of roasted fish left from the feast. Horan ate quickly, as always, his mind already on the day's work.
"The river's been strange lately," his father muttered between bites. "Traps set full one day, empty the next. As if the fish know something we don't."
Kael glanced up, alert. "Strange how?"
Horan shrugged. "Just… strange. Fewer birds, too. The otters have gone quiet. Even the reeds look sickly in places."
Mira wrinkled her nose. "Maybe the river's angry because people threw their scraps in it last night."
Horan chuckled, ruffling her hair. "A river doesn't get angry, girl. It just flows."
Kael lowered his gaze, hiding the tension that rippled through him. He had learned in his past lives that the world did grow angry, in its own way. Darkness poisoned rivers, skies, even the soil beneath one's feet. When the balance cracked, everything living felt it first.
And if Duskmere's river was sickening…
He clenched his spoon tighter. It begins here.
---
Later, while the village went about its business, Kael slipped away to the woods beyond the river. The trees were tall and sparse, their branches dripping with dew. He found a clearing where the mist thinned, sunlight filtering weakly through the canopy.
Here, away from prying eyes, he let the weight of his other lives settle upon him.
He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. Memories rose like ghosts.
He felt the grip of a sword in his hand—the calloused strength of Aedric the Warrior, who had fought with steel until his last breath. He remembered the disciplined stances, the precise swings, the way a blade could become an extension of one's will.
He felt the whisper of runes on parchment—the cold patience of Lorien the Scholar, who had chased forbidden knowledge until madness claimed him. Strange sigils burned in his vision, etched into his mind as clearly as the day he had written them.
He felt the weight of a crown—the crushing burden of Theron the King, who had commanded armies and betrayed his own ideals in the name of survival. His voice echoed, heavy with decisions that had cost too much.
And he felt the sting of betrayal—the guilt of Varos the Traitor, who had bartered hope for a fleeting chance, and lived his last moments despised by all.
Four lives. Four truths. Four failures.
And now… Kael.
He opened his eyes, drawing a stick from the ground. With a firm grip, he began to move. The stick cut through the air, clumsy at first, then sharper as muscle memory not his own surged forward. Stances flowed—high guard, low sweep, pivot. The movements of a warrior long dead, reborn in him.
Sweat soon dampened his brow. His breath came heavier. But the rhythm steadied him, grounding his scattered thoughts. For a moment, he was not a fisherman's son fumbling in secret. He was a fighter again.
Yet each swing also brought doubt. His body was fourteen, untrained, frail compared to the hardened forms of his past selves. Could he stand against what was coming with this frame?
The stick cracked sharply against a rock, splintering. Kael let it fall, chest heaving. His hands trembled.
He was not ready. Not yet.
But the darkness would not wait.
---
By midday, whispers spread through the village.
Two fishermen had not returned from the river. Their boats were found drifting, nets torn, but no sign of the men themselves.
At first, the villagers muttered of accidents, of drinking too much at the feast and slipping into the current. But unease soon took root. The river had always been their lifeblood. Now, it felt like it was turning against them.
Kael listened quietly as neighbors gossiped, his heart heavy. This was no accident. He could feel it, the same way he had felt storms before they broke in past lives. The corruption had touched the river.
When evening came, he returned to the banks alone. The sun dipped low, turning the water into a sheet of crimson and gold. The mist was thicker than ever, coiling unnaturally as though alive.
Kael knelt, staring into the current. At first, it was only his reflection—pale face, dark hair clinging to his brow, eyes older than his years. But then… the surface rippled.
Shadows writhed beneath.
They twisted like serpents, dark shapes slithering just below sight. Faces appeared—half-formed, grotesque, mouths opening in silent screams. The water itself seemed to whisper.
Join us.
Fall again.
You cannot fight what is eternal.
Kael's breath caught. His hand hovered above the surface, drawn as though by invisible strings. The cold tugged at his soul, promising release from the burden of endless rebirth.
Give in.
He shut his eyes, teeth gritting. "No."
The shadows writhed faster, pressing against the thin barrier of water, as if eager to claw their way free. The whisper deepened, becoming a chorus.
You belong to us, soul-bearer.
Kael staggered back, breaking the pull. His heart raced, his body trembling. For a moment, he had almost… almost yielded.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it.
A figure stood on the far side of the river, half-shrouded in mist. Tall, cloaked in tattered robes, its face hidden beneath a hood.
It did not move. It only watched.
Kael's breath stilled. His skin prickled with cold recognition. He had seen figures like this before—agents of the darkness, servants of the whisper.
The figure raised its head slightly, enough for Kael to glimpse a sliver of pale, unnatural skin, and eyes that gleamed faintly red.
A chill surged through him.
Then, as the mist thickened, the figure was gone.
The river flowed on as if nothing had stirred it.
Kael remained frozen, his fists clenched at his sides.
It had begun.
The darkness was no longer whispering from afar. It was here, watching, waiting.
And if he did nothing, Duskmere would be the first to fall.