Night fell heavy over the ruins of the watchtower. The rebels settled in restless silence, keeping their fires low, wary of smoke that might betray their presence. Lyra posted sentries, their silhouettes stark against the dim glow of the stars. Kaelen lay with Ren curled against his side, the boy's breathing shallow, twitching with dreams he could not escape.
Kaelen himself resisted sleep for as long as he could. The shard pulsed at his belt, whispering still, a ceaseless murmur just beneath the surface of thought. Protect him. Carry him. Lead him.
But exhaustion crushed even defiance. His eyes closed, and the world fell away.
He stood in darkness.
Not the soft veil of night, but a darkness thick and absolute, as if the stars themselves had been extinguished. Beneath his feet stretched endless ground—smooth stone that drank the light, slick with shadows. There was no horizon, only black.
And at the heart of that black stood a sword.
It towered above him, buried to its hilt in the stone, the blade rising higher than a man, forged of obsidian so deep it seemed carved from the void itself. Faint crimson light traced its edge, as though veins of fire bled within it.
Kaelen's breath caught. His hand moved toward the weapon without thought, drawn by some force deeper than will.
A voice slid through the air, low and cold.
You come at last.
Kaelen froze. "Who's there?"
Names are chains. You may call me what you will. Blade. Shadow. Fire. All the same.
The sword's surface rippled, reflecting not his face but a dozen others—warriors, kings, beggars, each with eyes hollowed by the same hunger.
Kaelen staggered back. "This is a dream."
The voice curled, amused. And yet you hear me. And yet you fear me.
The ground pulsed. From the sword's base spread cracks of crimson light, spidering across the stone. The air grew hot, heavy with the scent of ash.
You carry a shard of light. A fragment of god's fire. It whispers to you, binds you. But it is nothing compared to me.
Kaelen's hand brushed the shard at his belt, only to find it gone. In its place, his palm burned, a faint scar in the shape of a blade.
"No," he muttered. "I won't—"
You will.
The sword throbbed, and with it came visions.
He saw Mezalith, not burning but whole, towers of marble shining beneath the sun. Yet above it loomed the gods, wings of flame and storm, descending in endless number. Kaelen stood alone before them, a figure small as dust.
Then the sword was in his hands, and with one swing the gods screamed. Their light split, their crowns shattered, their immortal blood ran black across the streets.
The city rose in triumph. A crown was set upon his head, obsidian and fire, and thousands knelt, chanting his name.
Power. Worship. Victory.
Kaelen's breath came fast, his chest tightening. For a moment, he wanted it—wanted the strength to cut gods from the sky, to make them bleed as they had made him bleed.
But then he saw Ren.
The boy knelt among the corpses, his small hands drenched in divine blood, his eyes gone hollow and black. A crown too large for his head slipped sideways, and in his voice echoed the blade's whisper: All thrones are thrones of ash.
Kaelen stumbled back, choking on the vision. "Stop it!"
The voice sharpened. You deny because you fear truth. The gods cannot be slain by light alone. Their fire is endless. But mine… mine devours fire. Mine drinks eternity.
Kaelen clenched his fists. "What are you?"
I am the blade that killed the first god. I am the hunger that waits at the root of every crown. I am the end of fire and the beginning of shadow.
The sword pulsed brighter, the crimson veins splitting the dark.
Take me, thief. Take me, liar. Take me, protector. I will give you strength beyond gods. Strength to shield the boy. Strength to carve a throne from their bones.
Kaelen shook his head violently. "And what will you take in return?"
The voice smiled, if a voice could smile. Only what you already know you will lose.
The stone beneath his feet cracked. Black fire surged upward, wrapping his legs, pulling him toward the blade. The closer he drew, the louder the whispers became—not one voice now, but many, a chorus of every wielder before him, screaming, laughing, begging.
He reached the hilt. His hand hovered over it, trembling.
Behind him, faint and small, came Ren's voice. "Don't."
Kaelen spun. The boy stood at the edge of the dark plain, pale and shivering, his eyes wide with terror. "Don't touch it," Ren pleaded. "If you do, I'll lose you too."
Kaelen froze. The voices surged louder. Take me. Take me. Take me.
His hand shook. Sweat slicked his brow. His body screamed to grasp the hilt, to claim the power that could slay gods.
But his heart screamed louder.
Kaelen ripped his hand back. "No."
The blade roared, crimson light exploding, fire tearing across the plain. The ground split, shadows howled.
Then you will crawl, weak and broken, while the boy dies screaming!
The world shattered.
Kaelen jolted awake, gasping, sweat streaming down his face. The shard glowed faintly at his belt, its light flickering as if in pain. Ren stirred beside him, eyes fluttering open.
"Kaelen?" the boy whispered.
Kaelen pulled him close, heart hammering. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
But his hands still burned with the memory of the hilt. And in his ears, faint and lingering, the whisper remained: You will take me. In time.
The morning broke gray, clouds smothering the dawn. The rebels stirred uneasily, their eyes sunken, as if the night itself had been haunted. Some muttered of strange dreams, visions of shadow and fire. None dared speak them aloud for long.
Kaelen sat apart, staring at the shard in his hands. Its light was dimmer now, unsteady, as though some deeper force had drained it. His palms still bore faint red lines, shaped like a hilt. No matter how hard he rubbed, the marks remained.
Ren crouched beside him, eyes bleary from little sleep. "You dreamed too, didn't you?"
Kaelen froze.
The boy's voice trembled. "I saw you. With a sword. Black as night."
Kaelen's breath caught. "That wasn't—" He stopped. The lie crumbled in his throat. There was no hiding it. Not from him. "Yes. I saw it."
Ren hugged his knees, gaze distant. "It spoke to me too. Only a little. Just enough to scare me."
Kaelen's chest tightened. If the boy could hear it, then the blade's reach was wider than he feared.
Lyra approached, her armor faintly gleaming in the pale light. She carried herself with purpose, but her eyes lingered on the two of them. "You both look as though you've wrestled demons in your sleep."
Kaelen shot her a sharp look. "Maybe we did."
She frowned but said nothing more, turning to issue orders to the rebels. Soon, they began breaking camp, preparing to march south again.
Kaelen lingered, weighing whether to share what he had seen. But he imagined Lyra's reaction—her hunger for any weapon to wield against the gods. If she knew of the Black Blade, she would stop at nothing to claim it. And that, Kaelen could not allow.
Not while the whispers still clawed at his mind.
The day's march was long, winding through jagged passes where the wind howled like mourning voices. The rebels spoke little, their exhaustion worn like armor. Each carried scars—visible and hidden—from Mezalith's fall.
Kaelen walked with Ren, keeping the boy close. But with each step, the memory of the dream gnawed at him. He could still feel the weight of the blade, the rush of power, the thrill of gods bleeding before him.
It terrified him how much he wanted it.
By afternoon they reached a narrow valley where black stone jutted from the earth like broken teeth. The rebels paused to rest, but Kaelen drifted from the group, his feet carrying him toward the stones.
They hummed faintly beneath his touch, as if echoing the dream.
"Kaelen," Ren whispered, tugging at his sleeve. "Don't."
Kaelen blinked, shaking free of the pull. He turned sharply, forcing a smile. "It's nothing. Just rocks."
But Ren didn't believe him. The boy's eyes were sharp, too knowing for his age.
That night, as the rebels huddled in silence, Kaelen sat awake while Ren slept against him. The stars above were faint, veiled by ash. His mind churned with fragments of the dream—the blade's whisper, its promise, its threat.
He drew the shard from his belt, studying its dim glow. "You burn against it, don't you?" he murmured. "You fear it."
The shard pulsed weakly, as if answering.
Kaelen clenched his jaw. "Then why show me? Why bring me there?"
There was no reply, only silence heavy as stone.
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the shard. He wanted to believe its light was enough. That they could fight with hope and rebellion and human will. But he had seen the gods descend like storms, unbroken by fire or steel.
And in that vision, only the Black Blade had struck them down.
The thought festered like poison.
Sometime before dawn, Kaelen dreamed again.
This time, he stood at the edge of a vast chasm, its depths swallowing all sound. At the center, suspended over the void, floated the Black Blade, its crimson veins brighter than before.
The voice curled around him like smoke. You deny me, yet you return. You will always return.
Kaelen gritted his teeth. "I didn't choose this."
Choice is a lie. Hunger is truth. And you hunger, Kaelen. Not for crowns. Not for thrones. But for strength. Strength to protect the boy. Strength to end the gods who killed your city. Strength to stop running.
Visions flared again—the gods burning villages, Ren screaming as fire consumed him, Lyra falling with her chest pierced by a divine spear. Kaelen, powerless, always powerless.
Then, with the blade in his hands, the visions shifted: gods crumbled, fire quenched, Ren alive, safe, smiling.
The temptation was agony.
His hand twitched toward the blade again, trembling.
But once more, Ren's voice cut through. Small. Fragile. Please don't leave me.
Kaelen's knees buckled. He clutched his head, screaming. "Leave me alone!"
The dream shattered, throwing him back into darkness.
He woke gasping, clutching Ren so tightly the boy stirred with a groan.
"Kaelen?" Ren mumbled.
"I'm here," Kaelen whispered fiercely. "I'm not leaving. Not ever."
But as dawn crept gray across the hills, Kaelen knew the truth he dared not speak.
The Black Blade would not stop calling.
And one day, he feared, his answer might change.