The wind came first.
It swept down from the Veins of Stone, carrying with it the tang of black rivers, of stone bleeding like open veins, and a distant, ominous hum that thrummed in Kaelen's chest. The shard reacted instantly, pulsing violently beneath his ribs, whispering in a voice that was no longer merely temptation — it was command:
They are weak. Kill them. Show your power. Become.
Kaelen's shadow writhed at his feet, stretching, twitching, as if it too hungered for release. He pressed both hands to the shard, willing it to stay dormant, but it throbbed like a heartbeat that was not his own.
Lira stood beside him, silent but watchful, golden eyes reflecting the dark rivers in the distance. "They are innocent," she warned. "Do not listen. The shard will promise strength, glory, and dominance. It will tell you it is mercy to strike. It will lie."
Kaelen clenched his teeth. The wind carried screams — faint at first, then growing louder. A small village, tucked in a valley of ash and jagged rock, was under attack. Hollow Crown soldiers had come, burning, looting, killing. Children cried. Mothers screamed. The shard's pulse accelerated, whispering feverishly:
Crush them. Show mercy through fire. Take control.
Kaelen's shadow quivered. For a moment, he imagined stepping forward, letting the shadow surge. One strike, and the Hollow Crown soldiers would be dead, the village saved, but not by him. By the shard. By the dark power that pulsed in his chest.
He shook his head violently. "No!"
But the hunger was cunning. It whispered of efficiency, of power, of the absolute control he could wield. One release of the shadow, and the threat would be gone. Innocents would live. It was a gift — but a gift stained with blood that was not his own, a gift that demanded submission to the shard's will.
The shadow stretched, eager, like a predator sensing prey. Kaelen forced it back with every ounce of will, but sweat ran down his brow. Every heartbeat was a war. Every breath a battle against temptation.
Lira stepped closer. "Kaelen, listen to me. The shard will not be satisfied. If you give in now, it will not stop. It will claim more than the Hollow Crown. It will claim you. You have to decide — will you be master, or servant?"
The screams grew louder. Kaelen's heart twisted. Mothers holding their children, soldiers raising torches, the smell of smoke and blood mingling in the air. The shard pulsed faster, hotter, its whispers growing insistent:
Do it. Obey. Show your power. Save them.
Kaelen's hands trembled. His shadow quivered, stretching, then recoiled, as if testing his control. He thought of the Ashborn trial, of the Shroudbound, of the blood he had refused to spill. Control was fragile. Every act of restraint had built his mastery — but now the stakes were higher.
One wrong decision, one misstep, and the shard would no longer obey him. He could feel it, patient and cunning, a hunger that could not be sated. The moral line he had clung to seemed thinner than ash in the wind.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward. The shard flared violently, black veins beneath his skin pulsing as if alive. Kaelen lifted his hands, shadow coiling around them like liquid night, waiting for his command.
Then he remembered Lira's words: The shard will lie. Power obeys no master.
Kaelen closed his eyes. The screams pierced his ears, the shadow pulsed like a beast ready to strike, but he forced restraint. Slowly, deliberately, he directed the shadow to shield, not strike. It curled protectively around the villagers, forming a barrier of darkness that deflected arrows and torches but did not kill.
The Hollow Crown soldiers hesitated, confused. They had expected a massacre, a dark knight obeying a malevolent god fragment. Instead, they faced a moving shadow that blocked and restrained but never struck.
Kaelen's body ached. Every breath was fire, every heartbeat a war. But slowly, the soldiers began to falter, retreating as Kaelen's controlled shadow herded them away from the village. Mothers and children scrambled to safety, eyes wide with awe and fear. The shadow obeyed him, but each movement cost him — mental and physical exhaustion pressing against the limits of mortal flesh.
When the last Hollow Crown soldier fled into the mountains, Kaelen sank to his knees, chest heaving. The shard pulsed violently, whispering one final time:
You resisted. For now.
Kaelen swallowed bile and ash. He had saved the village without killing, without surrendering to the shard. But the cost was clear: each act of restraint had fed the hunger, sharpening it, teaching it patience, cunning, and cruelty.
Lira approached, hands steady on his shoulders. "You did it. You saved them. But do you understand now? This is what it means to carry a fragment of a god. Every choice matters. Every restraint strengthens it. And every temptation is a test. You survived this night… but the shard does not forget."
Kaelen pressed a trembling hand to his chest. The shadow curled protectively around him, exhausted but obedient. The villagers stared from a distance, unsure whether to flee or worship the dark figure that had saved them. Kaelen did not know what he had become.
Above the Veins of Stone, black rivers gleamed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the shard. Somewhere deep beneath, ancient stone groaned, and a whisper slid across the mountains:
Rise… or fall. Hunger waits for no one.
Kaelen exhaled slowly. He had made the right choice — he thought — but he could feel the shard watching, waiting. Control was temporary. The hunger was eternal. And somewhere, in the dark places of the world, the true trials were only beginning.
The mountains loomed, silent and patient, and Kaelen understood one terrible truth: power was never a gift, never a tool. Power was a living, breathing thing, and it demanded not just obedience, but sacrifice, restraint, and sometimes blood that was not yours to give.
The villagers began to emerge, murmuring prayers and gratitude, but Kaelen could not meet their eyes. He was no savior. He was a shadow-wielder, a fragment-bearer, a man walking the knife's edge between mortality and monstrosity.
And behind him, the shadow coiled, waiting. Hungry. Patient. Watching.
Kaelen rose slowly, hands pressed to his chest. The shard throbbed violently one last time. He had survived. But the shard, and the mountains, and the dark, waiting world beyond the Veins of Stone… they were not done with him.
The real choice has only begun.