Wraiths trailed Kaelen through the ashen hills like a procession of nightmares. Their hollow steps crunched against the gravel, their heads bowed as though in reverence. Ren clung tighter to Kaelen with each passing hour, his fear silent but sharp.
Kaelen hated their presence. He hated the way their eyeless gazes clung to him, the way they seemed to breathe with his heartbeat. But when he tried to drive them off, they did not leave. When he screamed at them, they only knelt deeper.
It was not loyalty. It was bondage.
And somehow, he knew—it was his fault.
They reached the edge of a ruined valley as dusk fell, the air heavy with the stench of rot. A campfire burned faintly in the hollow below, its light flickering against the remnants of shattered statues and broken altars.
Ren pointed. "Kaelen… someone's there."
The wraiths hissed, their whispers rustling like dead leaves. They did not like the fire. They did not like whoever tended it.
But Kaelen felt no fear. Only curiosity.
Together, he and Ren descended. The wraiths lingered at the ridge, unwilling to cross the invisible line of firelight.
There, beside the flame, sat an old man. His robes were tattered, his beard long and grey, his skin lined with age and ash. Yet his eyes burned with a sharpness that pierced Kaelen's soul.
"I have been waiting for you," the old man said.
Kaelen froze. "You know me?"
The old man chuckled, though there was no joy in it. "Not by name. But by the shadow that walks at your back."
He lifted a bony finger toward the ridge, where the wraiths stirred restlessly.
"They mark you. They brand you. The Black Blade has chosen its vessel."
Ren shifted uneasily. "Who are you?"
The man's gaze softened at the boy. "Once, I was a scholar of the gods. A keeper of forbidden words. They called me Malachor, though now… I am little more than a ghost who breathes."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "If you know the blade, then tell me—what am I becoming?"
Malachor stirred the fire with a cracked staff. Sparks leapt, dancing like dying stars.
"You are becoming what the gods fear most," he said gravely. "And what men will hate most. A bridge between shadow and flesh. A master of the forsaken. A harbinger."
Kaelen's stomach knotted. The shard pulsed at his chest, warm, hungry.
"I never asked for this," he growled.
"No one ever does," Malachor replied. "But the Black Blade does not ask. It takes."
Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of flame. The wraiths murmured at the ridge, their whispers rising like a chorus of insects.
Finally, Malachor leaned forward, his eyes locking on Kaelen's.
"Listen carefully, boy. The blade is older than the gods who now wage war. Older than the stars that burn above us. It was forged in the first silence—when nothing yet had form. Its hunger is endless, its voice deceitful. It does not grant strength. It drains it, twists it, remakes it into shadow."
Kaelen swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"If I fight it?"
"You will die," Malachor said.
"And if I accept it?"
The old man's gaze darkened. "Then you will become something worse than the gods. A throne of ash with no soul left to sit upon it."
Ren shivered at Kaelen's side, gripping his arm tighter. "Kaelen, don't… don't listen to it."
The boy's voice trembled with both fear and faith.
Kaelen stared into the fire, torn. The shard hummed louder, as if mocking Malachor's words.
"Do not heed him," it whispered. "He is afraid. Afraid of what you might become. Afraid you could unmake the gods themselves."
Kaelen's fists clenched.
Malachor's eyes softened, almost pitying. "I see the war in you. And I fear it is already lost. But hear me, Kaelen of Mezalith—should you embrace the blade fully, there will be no return. No boy at your side. No heart left to love. Only shadow."
The name struck Kaelen like a blow. He had not given it.
"How do you know me?" he demanded.
Malachor did not answer. He only looked at Ren, and in his eyes flickered sorrow.
"The gods are not your greatest enemy," he murmured. "The blade is."
The fire sputtered suddenly, dimming. The wraiths hissed violently, their whispers rising to a scream.
Malachor lifted his staff, his voice sharp. "They cannot linger. Send them away. If you keep them, you will never escape the blade's snare."
Kaelen's pulse thundered. The wraiths wailed at the ridge, their bodies twitching as though in pain at the command.
"Kaelen," Ren pleaded, eyes wet. "Let them go. Please."
The shard burned at his chest.
"Do not abandon them. They are yours. They are loyal. Unlike the living, they will never betray you."
Kaelen's breath came ragged, caught between firelight and shadow.
And in that fragile moment, he had to choose.
The night thickened, the stars veiled by drifting ash. The fire crackled low, its light barely holding back the chill of the wasteland. Kaelen stood at its edge, his chest burning where the shard pulsed, his hands trembling with indecision.
The wraiths writhed upon the ridge, shadows stretching unnaturally long, their hollow mouths gaping in silent protest.
Ren's small fingers dug into Kaelen's sleeve. "Please, Kaelen… don't keep them." His voice cracked, a child's plea wrapped in terror.
Malachor raised his staff higher. "Send them back to the dark. They are chains, not allies. Chains that grow heavier with every step."
The shard hissed in his heart.
"Do not listen. They are yours. They will kneel when others scorn you. They will obey when others betray you. You are forsaken no longer—if you claim them."
Kaelen's jaw clenched. He thought of the rebels, of their accusing eyes. He thought of Lyra, silent and distant. Of Ren's unwavering faith.
He thought of himself—alone in the void of night.
Finally, he lifted his hand.
The wraiths stilled, awaiting command.
"Leave," Kaelen whispered. His voice was hoarse but firm. "You will not follow me."
A chorus of screams ripped through the valley, hollow and agonized. The wraiths staggered, shadows unraveling into the air, their forms scattering like smoke in the wind. One by one, they faded, until the ridge was bare and silent.
Ren let out a sob of relief, clinging tighter to him. Malachor lowered his staff slowly, eyes narrowed with both approval and sorrow.
"You have chosen well—for now," the old sorcerer said. "But the blade will not forgive you for denying its will. It will come again, hungrier, crueler."
Kaelen pressed a hand against his chest. The shard burned like a brand beneath his skin, its whispers muted but seething.
"I don't care what it wants," he growled.
Malachor studied him, long and silent. At last, he sighed. "Perhaps you truly do not. But remember this, boy: the blade's hunger is not patient. Each time you resist, it will press harder. Until one day, it will break you—or remake you."
They sat in silence until the fire was embers. Ren drifted into uneasy sleep against Kaelen's side. Malachor did not sleep; his eyes wandered the horizon, scanning the shifting dark.
When the old man finally spoke, his words were softer, but heavier.
"There is a storm coming. Not of wind or rain—but of gods. They will not ignore you much longer. Already Aurelion has tasted your defiance. Others will follow. They will hunt you. Not for who you are—but for what sleeps within you."
Kaelen swallowed. "The shard."
Malachor nodded. "The Black Blade is not merely a weapon. It is a wound in creation. A scar the gods cannot heal. And you, boy, have placed your hand upon it."
Kaelen's chest ached at his words. "Then tell me—how do I end it?"
The old man's gaze dimmed. "End it? There is no end. Only paths. One leads to ruin for you, but salvation for others. The other… salvation for you, but ruin for all."
Kaelen gritted his teeth. "That's not a choice."
Malachor gave a bitter smile. "No. It is a curse."
Before Kaelen could speak again, a sound cut the night.
The beating of wings.
A gale swept the valley, scattering ash, snuffing what remained of the fire. Shadows lengthened, twisting. The ground trembled beneath their feet.
Ren jerked awake, clutching Kaelen's arm. "What is it?!"
Malachor's face turned grim. "Too late."
From the darkness above, a massive form descended—feathers black as void, eyes glowing crimson. Its talons struck the ridge, shattering stone. A divine beast, sentinels of the gods themselves, had found them.
The shard pulsed furiously against Kaelen's chest, eager, demanding.
"Take me. Wield me. Together, we will tear its wings asunder."
Kaelen's breath came fast. His sword hand trembled. Ren's terrified cry echoed in his ears. Malachor's staff flared faintly, but the old man's body sagged—too frail to battle such a monster.
The beast spread its wings, shadow and flame spilling across the valley.
Kaelen had only a heartbeat to decide.
To resist the shard—and risk death.Or to embrace it—and risk becoming death itself.