Ruins of Mezalith still smoldered when Kaelen and the rebels reached its outskirts. The once-proud city—crowned with spires of white stone and silver domes—was now nothing but blackened skeletons jutting into the sky. Smoke lingered like a shroud, and beneath it lay a silence more terrible than screams.
Ren clung to Kaelen's hand, his small fingers icy. The boy's eyes darted from broken walls to ash-filled streets. He had grown up here, chasing sparrows through crowded markets and slipping through alleys where merchants once sang of spices and glass. Now every corner was a tomb.
Lyra strode ahead, helm under her arm. Her jaw was set, her face unreadable. But her knuckles whitened against the steel of her gauntlet. She had sworn to free Mezalith, not return to its corpse.
The rebels trailed behind, whispering prayers and curses. Some broke into sobs at the sight of familiar doors crushed under rubble, banners of their guilds shredded and blackened. They had left their homes to fight—and returned to find nothing left to reclaim.
Kaelen paused at the shattered gates, his boots sinking into soot. The great archway was cleaved in two, carved with divine fire. The stone bore scorch-marks in the shapes of fingers, as if gods themselves had torn it apart.
"This wasn't war," he muttered. "This was slaughter."
Lyra's gaze flicked back. "The gods wanted a message. They wanted every city that dreams of freedom to remember this sight."
She was right. The destruction was not born of strategy. It was theater.
They entered the husk of Mezalith in silence.
The streets were unrecognizable. Whole districts had collapsed, leaving gaping craters filled with stagnant water and bone. The markets were choked with ash, where tables of fruit and fish had been burned into shadows on stone. The wind carried a bitter stench—burnt flesh and wet earth.
And then came the rain.
At first it was faint, a drizzle that spattered on broken tiles. But soon it thickened, and Kaelen looked up in shock. The droplets were not clear. They were crimson.
Blood fell from the gray sky in steady sheets, painting the ruins scarlet. The stone drank it eagerly, the earth turning to mire. Rebels cried out in horror, some scrambling for cover, others collapsing to their knees in prayer.
Ren shrieked, clutching Kaelen's side. "It's blood! Kaelen, it's blood!"
Kaelen wrapped him in his cloak, shielding him as best he could. The coppery tang filled his nostrils, thick and metallic. The gods had cursed the city further—this was no storm of nature. It was a wound in the heavens.
Lyra raised her face to the sky, unflinching as the blood drenched her armor. "The gods mock us still. Even in death, they feed the city with horror."
Kaelen's stomach churned. Each drop that struck his skin burned faintly, as though marked with spite. He thought of the Black Blade's dream—the visions of gods bleeding. Was this rain a reflection of that? Or was it the gods bleeding mockery into mortal streets?
They pressed on, for there was no shelter. The rebels moved like ghosts, silent and broken, their torches flickering in the red rain.
As they crossed the Grand Plaza, Kaelen halted. The great fountain, once flowing with crystal water, now spewed thick blood. Corpses floated in its basin, their faces unrecognizable, their armor twisted into grotesque shapes.
Ren turned away, gagging. Kaelen pulled him close, whispering, "Don't look. Just hold on."
But Ren whispered back, trembling, "They're still watching us."
Kaelen frowned. "Who?"
The boy pointed.
And Kaelen saw them—statues along the plaza's edges. Once carved as the city's protectors, their marble faces had been defaced, gouged into hideous grimaces. Yet their hollow eyes seemed alive, following every step. Blood ran down their cheeks like tears.
The rebels muttered prayers, some turning their weapons against the statues in desperation, hacking until shards flew. But the stone bled with each cut, spraying them with more crimson rain.
The plaza dissolved into chaos. Some fell to their knees, pleading forgiveness from the gods. Others cursed them, screaming until their throats were raw.
Lyra's voice cut through the madness. "Hold fast! This is fearcraft, nothing more. The gods want us broken before we even lift a blade. Do not give them the pleasure!"
Her command steadied some, but not all. Dozens fled into the side streets, their faith and courage shattered.
Kaelen felt the shard at his side thrum faintly, as if warning him. Or calling him.
And for the briefest moment, through the curtain of red rain, he thought he saw a figure at the far end of the plaza. Cloaked in shadow, watching.
But when he blinked, it was gone.
By nightfall, the rebels sheltered in the ruins of the old council hall. Its roof had caved in, but enough stone remained to shield them from the storm. Fires were lit, casting trembling light against cracked walls.
The blood rain still fell outside, endless. The ground around the hall had become a river of red, pooling at the threshold.
Kaelen sat with Ren near the fire, holding him tight. The boy shivered despite the heat. His face was pale, lips trembling.
Lyra approached, kneeling across from them. "The men are breaking. If this storm doesn't end, they'll scatter before morning."
Kaelen met her gaze. "And if it doesn't end?"
She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "Then perhaps Mezalith will remain a grave, and we will be buried with it."
Her words chilled him more than the rain.
And yet, as the fire crackled and the storm roared outside, Kaelen could not shake the memory of the shadow in the plaza. Watching. Waiting.
The gods had destroyed Mezalith. But something else now lingered in its ashes.
Something darker still.
The night deepened, but the storm did not end. Blood still streamed from the sky, drumming against the shattered city like a heartbeat. The sound was maddening—an endless, wet rhythm that burrowed into the skull.
Kaelen lay awake by the fire, Ren asleep against his chest. The boy twitched in restless dreams, whimpering now and then. Kaelen tightened his hold, whispering soothing words he barely believed himself.
Lyra paced the room like a caged beast, armor gleaming wet with crimson. Her eyes never stopped scanning the shadows. The rebels huddled together, muttering prayers, some already drinking themselves into stupor to drown the terror.
Suddenly, a scream split the hall.
Everyone turned.
One of the rebels staggered through the doorway, drenched, his face twisted in horror. Blood ran from his mouth as if he had swallowed the storm itself.
"They're here!" he choked. "In the rain! They're—"
He collapsed mid-sentence, lifeless, crimson pouring from his eyes and ears.
Silence smothered the hall.
Then came the sound.
A slow, deliberate drip, drip, drip from the doorway. But it was not the rain. It was footsteps—wet, heavy, and drawing closer.
The rebels scrambled for weapons, some shouting, some crying.
Kaelen rose, pushing Ren behind him. The shard at his side pulsed, burning against his hip like a brand.
Lyra moved to the door, sword drawn. "Show yourself!"
The figure stepped into the firelight.
It was cloaked, hood dripping with blood, face hidden in shadow. The storm seemed to fall harder around it, each droplet slapping the stone like thunder.
But when it spoke, its voice was calm. Smooth. Almost human.
"You trespass in a city claimed by gods," it said. "Why linger in graves when you should be ash?"
Lyra leveled her blade. "Name yourself, or bleed with them."
The figure tilted its head, amused. "Names are for mortals. I am what remains when gods feed. Call me… the Harvester."
The rebels murmured in fear. Some backed away entirely, pressing themselves against the wall.
Kaelen's throat tightened. There was no aura of divinity around this being—no radiant power, no searing flame. And yet… something about it gnawed at his soul, as if his very life was being measured.
The Harvester's gaze—though hidden—shifted to him. He felt it like a blade against his throat.
"You carry the shard," it said softly. "The first piece of the blade that cuts even gods."
Kaelen froze.
No one else knew of the shard—not even Lyra.
"How—" he began, but the Harvester raised a hand.
"Do not question what bleeds through the cracks of the heavens. You think the gods fell upon Mezalith by their own will? No. They were lured. Fed. Called to bleed this place dry."
The words sank like stones in Kaelen's chest.
The storm, the statues, the endless blood—it wasn't just divine wrath. Something else had orchestrated it.
"Why tell me this?" Kaelen demanded, forcing steadiness into his voice.
The Harvester chuckled, a sound like bones grinding. "Because you dream of the Black Blade. Because you already walk the edge between mortal and god-slayer. And because when the blood rains end, you will not belong to them—or to us—but to yourself. If you survive."
Before Kaelen could reply, the Harvester stepped back into the storm. His form melted into the crimson curtain, dissolving until nothing remained but the sound of the rain.
The hall was silent again.
Every rebel stared at Kaelen.
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "What shard?"
Kaelen's breath caught. His hand brushed against the hidden piece at his side, the fragment he had found in the ruins weeks before. He had planned to keep it secret, even from her. But now… the secret was ash.
Before he could answer, Ren's small voice piped up from behind him. The boy's eyes were wide, terrified but unblinking.
"He dreams of the sword," Ren whispered. "I saw it in him. The sword that drinks the sky."
The hall erupted. Some rebels shouted that Kaelen was chosen. Others that he was cursed. A few dropped their weapons, muttering they wanted no part in this madness.
Lyra raised her voice above the chaos. "Enough! We bleed together or we die alone. Whether Kaelen carries a shard or a crown, it changes nothing—unless he lets it."
Her words steadied some, but Kaelen felt the weight of every eye. Their fear clung to him like the storm outside.
He said nothing. Because he didn't know whether to call himself chosen… or doomed.
The night dragged on.
By dawn, the blood rain slowed, thinning to a drizzle. The rebels emerged from the hall, wary, stepping into streets slick and shining red. Pools of blood reflected the broken sky, and the air was thick with iron.
Mezalith was drowned. Every street ran with crimson rivers, every house seeped with it. The city would never be cleansed.
As they prepared to leave, Lyra pulled Kaelen aside. Her voice was low, edged with iron.
"If the Harvester speaks true, then you are bound to something greater. But if you falter—if you let that blade consume you—I will end you myself."
Kaelen met her stare. There was no hatred in her eyes, only resolve.
He nodded. "Then pray I never falter."
They left Mezalith behind, the ruins fading into the mist.
But Kaelen knew the city was not just dead—it was marked. A wound in the world. A beacon that would draw gods, monsters, and worse.
And the shard at his side pulsed with every step, whispering silently in rhythm with the fading storm.
Not words. Not yet.
But hunger.