Chapter 6 – The Zealot's Shadow
The dawn came pale and brittle, a thin light that barely pushed back the weight of the night. Kael hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that hand clawing out from the mountains, shadow spilling across the world. The Hollow One. The words clung to his mind like rot to bone.
Nyra moved silently, breaking camp with mechanical precision. She didn't ask if he'd slept. She didn't need to. One look at his bloodshot eyes told her everything.
By midmorning, the Wastes stretched endless again. No cover but jagged rocks. No sound but the crunch of boots on dust. Kael found himself chewing on his own thoughts, the whisper still echoing in his skull.
Finally, he broke the silence. "You know more than you're saying."
Nyra didn't glance at him. "I know enough to be afraid."
Kael smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Fear doesn't suit you."
Her gaze flicked sideways, cold as steel. "Then you haven't been paying attention."
Before he could answer, she froze. Hand up. Eyes narrowing at the horizon.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. "What is it?"
"Riders."
Kael cursed under his breath. At first, he thought raiders again, but the silhouettes moving against the sun weren't scattered or chaotic. They rode in formation, cloaked, with banners fluttering faintly in the wind.
Not raiders. Zealots.
Nyra's jaw clenched, lightning crawling faintly over her fingers. "Storm Temple."
Kael spat into the dust. "They don't quit, do they?"
"They never quit," Nyra said flatly. "Not until I'm ash."
The riders closed fast, iron-shod hooves tearing the ground, sun gleaming off polished armor marked with the Storm's Eye — the Temple's holy sigil. At their head rode a priest-knight, his helm crested, his cloak lined with storm-feathers. His voice carried over the plain, booming like thunder.
"Nyra Thunderhand! Oath-breaker! Blasphemer! Surrender now, and the Stormfather may grant you a merciful death!"
Kael groaned. "I'm beginning to hate introductions in this realm."
Nyra didn't answer. She pulled her hood back, stormlight already sparking across her arms. The air thickened, charged, the storm answering her fury.
Kael cracked his neck and drew steel. "Guess we're not surrendering, then."
The zealots charged.
The first clash was a thunderclap. Kael met a rider's downward strike with a parry that jarred his broken ribs, but he turned it aside and drove his sword up under the man's guard. Blood sprayed hot as the zealot toppled from the saddle.
Another bore down on him, spear thrusting. Kael rolled aside, cursing, and came up slashing, severing the spearhead clean from its shaft. The zealot swung a gauntlet at his jaw — Kael ducked and rammed his blade through the man's thigh, toppling him into the dust.
Nyra was fury itself. Lightning roared from her hands, shattering shields, burning through armor. She moved like a storm given flesh, blade singing, every strike laced with thunder. A zealot tried to flank her; she turned, eyes blazing, and a bolt of raw blue fire tore him from his saddle, leaving nothing but charred bone and ash.
But for every one that fell, more pressed in. The zealots circled, disciplined, their chants rising in harsh unison.
Kael cut another down, panting, blood slick on his hands. "How many are there?"
"Enough to bury us," Nyra spat, deflecting a blade with her crackling arm.
The priest-knight at the front raised his staff, chanting in the storm-tongue. The clouds above churned black, lightning spearing down around him. His voice boomed, amplified by the heavens themselves.
"By the Stormfather's will, the heretic dies!"
The sky split.
A bolt of divine lightning crashed toward Nyra, brighter and hotter than any mortal storm. Kael barely had time to shout before it struck.
The world went white.
When Kael's vision cleared, Nyra was still standing. Barely. Smoke curled from her cloak, blood ran from her nose, but her eyes burned brighter than the priest's own storm.
Her voice was a snarl. "You think he can stop me?"
She raised both hands to the sky. Lightning answered — raw, uncontrolled, tearing through the zealots in a storm of fire and fury. Horses screamed, men burned alive in their armor, the air split with thunder.
When it ended, only a handful of zealots still breathed, the rest scattered corpses across the Wastes. The priest-knight sat stunned, his staff smoking, his face pale beneath his helm.
Kael staggered forward, blade still ready. "Not much of a sermon."
The priest's eyes flicked to Kael, then back to Nyra, fear finally cracking his faith. He wheeled his horse and fled, the last of his men scrambling after him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Kael lowered his sword, panting. "Gods damn, woman. Remind me never to piss you off."
Nyra collapsed to one knee, clutching her side. The stormlight faded, leaving her pale, trembling. Kael was at her side in an instant, hauling her up before she could fall.
"You're bleeding."
"Better than being ash," she muttered, voice weak.
Kael smirked, though worry gnawed at his gut. "Fair point."
They staggered back toward the ruined arch, blood and smoke clinging to them both. Above, thunder still rumbled faintly, as if the storm itself watched.
Kael glanced at Nyra, her face pale, her eyes still burning faintly. He remembered the whisper from the night before, the Hollow One's voice pressing into his skull.
Between Serik's leash, the zealots' wrath, and the buried gods clawing at the world, Kael Thorne began to wonder if coin was worth any of this.
But he wasn't the kind of man to turn back. Not now.
Not when the storm had already chosen its course.