The crater still smoked where Aurelion had vanished.The survivors of the rebel band stood scattered at its edge—burned, broken, and afraid. They had faced soldiers, warlords, even sorcery before, but never a god. And now, staring at Kaelen, they did not see a savior.
They saw something worse.
Whispers rippled through the crowd"His veins… they were black.""The blade moved by itself.""He's no man—he's cursed."
Kaelen's head throbbed with the echo of the shard's whispers. The fragment pulsed faintly against his chest, hidden under scorched cloth, but its hunger lingered in every heartbeat.
Ren clung to him, defiant against the stares, but Kaelen felt their distance growing—not from Ren, but from everyone else. Even Lyra.
Lyra stood at the edge of the crater, her arms crossed, her face shadowed. She had seen him resist the shard, yes—but she had also seen him almost surrender. The way his eyes had turned black, the way shadows had crawled across his skin.
She remembered a legend: The Black Blade does not grant strength. It devours it. It turns bearer into blade.
"Kaelen," she said, her voice level, "the rebels will not follow you."
He lifted his gaze. "They don't need to."
"They do." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Without them, we have nothing. But they will never trust you now."
He wanted to argue, but the truth was in their eyes. Every rebel kept their distance. Some gripped their weapons when he passed, as if expecting him to strike them down.
To them, he was no longer one of their own. He was a shadow.
Night fell over the Shattered Hills. The rebels made camp among the ruined ridges, but their circle of fire did not include Kaelen. He sat apart with Ren, the boy dozing against his shoulder.
The shard stirred in the dark.
"Forsaken," it whispered, its voice soft and venomous. "They will never claim you as theirs again. You belong only to me."
Kaelen pressed a hand to his chest, nails digging into his flesh. He hated the shard. He hated how right it sounded.
He remembered the moment in the amphitheater—the surge of strength, the thrill of holding Aurelion's fire at bay. Part of him still craved it, like a starving man craving poison.
"Kaelen."
He looked up. Lyra stood there, half in shadow, her expression unreadable. She glanced at the sleeping Ren, then back at him.
"You saved us," she said quietly. "But the way you fought… it frightened them."
"It frightened me," Kaelen admitted.
Lyra knelt across from him, resting her scarred hands on her knees. "The blade is killing you."
He didn't answer.
"You can still walk away," she pressed. "Leave the shard. Let it rot. Maybe then they'll see you as a man again, not a monster."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. Walk away? Could he? Every time he touched the shard, he felt its chains sink deeper into his soul.
And yet—he remembered Aurelion's fire. Without the shard, he and Ren would be dead. Without the shard, Lyra would be dead. Without the shard, the gods would win.
"I can't," Kaelen said finally. His voice was quiet, but final.
Lyra's lips thinned. She stood, eyes hardening. "Then don't ask me to defend you when the others turn."
Morning came with blood.
A scout was found dead at dawn, his body blackened as though drained of life. Panic spread through the camp. Some swore they had seen shadows moving near Kaelen's tent, curling like smoke from his breath.
By midday, the whispers had sharpened into accusations.
"He killed Jorrel.""It's the blade. It feeds on us.""He's cursed—we'll all die if he stays."
Ren shouted at them, voice breaking with fury. "He saved you! Without him, Aurelion would have burned you all!"
But their eyes would not meet Kaelen's. Fear was stronger than gratitude.
Finally, one of the captains—a scarred veteran named Daran—stepped forward, sword drawn.
"We can't risk you, Kaelen," he said. His voice was heavy, but unyielding. "If you stay, we all fall. Leave the shard. Leave the boy. Walk away. Or we cut you down."
Kaelen rose slowly, Ren gripping his arm.
The shard's voice purred. "Kill them. Feed. They will never forgive you. I will."
Kaelen's blood roared in his ears. He saw the rebels tense, saw hands tighten on sword hilts, saw fear burning in their eyes.
Lyra stood behind them, silent, her gaze locked on Kaelen. She did not raise her weapon. But she did not step forward either.
For the first time, Kaelen felt truly alone.
He drew a breath, then another, fighting the shard's pull. "I won't fight you," he said at last. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"You're right. I am cursed. And I won't drag you down with me."
He turned, pulling Ren close. The boy's protests echoed, desperate, but Kaelen forced his steps away from the camp.
The rebels did not stop him. They did not thank him. They only watched in silence as he walked into exile.
Forsaken.
The hills stretched empty before him, ash drifting in the wind. Ren followed, clinging stubbornly to his side.
Kaelen's heart ached, but he did not look back.
Behind him, he left comrades, a cause, a fragile hope.
Ahead of him, only shadows—and the whisper of the shard, soft and hungry in his mind.
**"Now, at last," it murmured, almost lovingly. "You are mine."
Kaelen closed his eyes. For the first time since the war began, he felt the weight of true solitude.
And he feared it more than death.
The hills stretched endlessly, a wasteland of broken stone and scorched earth. No birds stirred. No rivers sang. Only the whisper of ash across the wind.
Kaelen walked with his head bowed, Ren keeping pace at his side, small feet stumbling to match his stride. The boy was silent, though his eyes glistened with unspoken questions.
Kaelen wanted to tell him everything would be fine. But the words would not come.
By the third night, the fires of the rebel camp were only a memory on the horizon. The two of them camped beneath a shattered arch of stone, their only shelter from the cold winds.
Ren curled close for warmth. Kaelen stared into the small flame he had managed to coax from brittle wood, the light flickering against his gaunt face.
The shard pulsed beneath his tunic.
"Alone," it whispered. "At last. No lies. No betrayal. Only us."
Kaelen pressed his palm against his chest, fighting the urge to tear it free. But the thought of leaving it behind filled him with a deeper terror.
Because without it, he was nothing.
Sleep brought no rest.
That night, the dream returned: the plain of shadows, the Black Blade rising from the earth like a fang of the world itself.
He reached for it, desperate, trembling. And when his fingers brushed its hilt, he saw himself reflected in the blade's sheen. Not Kaelen, the fisherman's son. Not the rebel who had fought for Mezalith.
But a hollow thing, eyes black, skin veined with shadow. A weapon wearing flesh.
He woke with a cry, drenched in sweat.
Ren stirred, clutching his arm. "Kaelen…?"
"It's nothing," Kaelen whispered. But his voice shook.
The next day, hunger drove them farther. Game was scarce; even the earth seemed barren. Kaelen gave what little he found to Ren, pretending not to feel the hollowness gnawing his own belly.
It was then that they found the corpse.
A soldier of Mezalith, broken and half-buried in the dust. His armor was scorched, his sword snapped in two.
Ren recoiled, but Kaelen knelt beside the body. Something was wrong. The flesh was not torn or burned—it was shriveled, as if every drop of life had been drained.
The shard pulsed.
"Mine," it whispered. "One of mine."
Kaelen staggered back, bile rising in his throat. Had the shard done this? Had it reached beyond him, drinking souls without his hand?
Ren's small fingers gripped his sleeve. "Kaelen… are we cursed?"
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Night fell again. The boy slept at his side, but Kaelen sat awake, staring into the fireless dark. His mind was a storm.
He remembered Lyra's eyes—cold, distant. The rebels' fear. The way they had not even tried to stop him when he walked away.
He remembered the whispers in the camp, calling him cursed.
And now, the shard's voice was the only one that remained.
"Forsaken by them," it cooed. "But not by me. I am your truth. I am your strength. Together, we will never be weak again."
Kaelen buried his face in his hands. He wanted to cast it into the dust, to shatter it against stone, to be free.
But when he imagined the gods descending, fire and storm tearing the world apart, he saw only one chance.
The shard. The blade.
Himself.
On the fifth day of exile, shadows moved on the horizon. Figures in broken armor, eyes glowing faintly with sickly light.
Wraiths. The remnants of those the shard had claimed.
They walked with the slowness of hunger, their bodies half-rotted, but their steps inexorable.
Ren screamed when he saw them. Kaelen shoved the boy behind him, drawing the rusted sword he still carried.
But the wraiths did not attack.
They bowed.
Their voices rose in unison, hollow and dreadful:"Master."
Kaelen's blood turned to ice.
"No," he whispered.
Ren clutched his arm, eyes wide with terror. "Kaelen… why are they calling you that?"
The shard pulsed with a feverish glow.
"Because it is true," it said. "You are theirs. They are yours. The first of many."
Kaelen stared at the wraiths, trembling. He had begged for comrades, for allies who would not betray him. And now, here they were—creatures bound not by loyalty, but by his curse.
Forsaken by the living. Followed by the dead.
The boy tugged at him desperately. "Kaelen, we have to run—please!"
Kaelen gripped his sword tighter. His heart screamed to flee, to deny, to cast it all away.
But the shard whispered louder, drowning out everything else.
"Do not run. Claim them. Lead them. With them, no god can stand against you."
The wraiths knelt, their hollow eyes locked on him.
And in that moment, Kaelen felt the weight of his fate more than ever.
Was he still a man fighting for freedom?Or the first shadow of something darker, a king of the forsaken?
The hills waited, silent. The dead bowed, patient.
Kaelen closed his eyes.
And took one step forward.