road stretched long and broken, carved through hills that once bore wheat and vineyards. Now, they were fields of ash, stalks blackened, vines dead where frost had bitten though it was not winter. Kaelen's boots crunched on gravel as he followed Malachor's steady, limping pace. Ren walked just behind, his eyes wide, taking in the silent devastation.
For two days they had marched away from the valley of the beast. The shard in Kaelen's chest had gone quiet, though he could feel it like a stone buried in his ribs. He welcomed the silence, even if it was only an illusion of peace.
On the third morning, as the mists lifted from the hills, they saw it.
The city of refugees.
It was no true city—no towers, no proud walls. Instead, it was a sprawl of tents, huts of scavenged wood, and crumbling ruins repurposed for shelter. Smoke rose from hundreds of fires, a haze that stung Kaelen's throat. The stench was stronger: sweat, sickness, unwashed bodies, boiled roots and scraps of meat.
Ren whispered, "Gods…"
Malachor said nothing. He only leaned heavier on his staff.
As they entered the outskirts, Kaelen felt the weight of a thousand eyes. The people here were not warriors or merchants. They were survivors—thin women clutching infants, children with hollow cheeks, old men wrapped in rags. Some carried scars, others bandages that leaked.
The moment Kaelen's sword hilt gleamed at his side, whispers began.
"Outsiders.""Look, armed…""Maybe they'll trade. Maybe they'll steal."
Ren drew closer to Kaelen. "I don't like this."
"Keep walking," Kaelen muttered.
They passed through rows of tents until they reached what had once been a marketplace. A cracked fountain stood at its heart, now dry and littered with bones. A man in a patched cloak stood atop its rim, shouting to a ragged crowd.
"They promised salvation! And what came? Fire from the skies, beasts of shadow! The gods are not saviors—they are butchers!"
The crowd murmured, some cheering, others shaking their heads.
Malachor leaned toward Kaelen. "Careful. In such places, hope is scarce, and anger feeds on anything."
Before Kaelen could reply, a voice called out sharply.
"You there! Travelers!"
The crowd parted as a group of guards approached—not soldiers, but men with scavenged armor and makeshift spears. Their leader, a broad-shouldered woman with cropped hair and scars across her jaw, eyed them warily.
"You're far from safe roads," she said. "State your names and business."
Kaelen hesitated. Ren looked ready to stammer something, but Malachor stepped forward first.
"We are passing through. Seeking shelter, nothing more."
The woman studied him, then Kaelen, her gaze lingering on the sword at his hip. Her eyes narrowed. "We don't like trouble here. Refugees come to survive, not to fight."
Kaelen met her gaze. "I don't want trouble. But if it comes, I'll finish it."
Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "Brave words." Then she jerked her chin. "Fine. You can stay. But you'll earn your keep. Everyone here does."
They were led through the camp, past rows of the desperate. Kaelen saw families huddled in rags, children coughing blood into cloth. Men bartered scraps of metal for half-rotten bread. A woman carved symbols onto wood, muttering prayers to gods Kaelen no longer trusted.
They were given space in a ruined tavern—four walls still standing, a roof half-collapsed. Inside, smoke from a central fire clung to the air.
Ren slumped onto a bench. "This place… it's worse than the ruins."
"It's survival," Malachor said grimly. He sat, rubbing his knees. "And survival breeds both strength and cruelty."
Kaelen paced, restless. His eyes drifted to the people outside, moving like ghosts in the smoke. "They've lost everything."
"As have you," Malachor said, his voice sharp. "Do not drown in pity, Kaelen. These people are not yours to save."
Kaelen stopped, glaring at him. "Then whose are they? The gods'? They abandoned us. Burned us. Don't tell me to turn away."
Malachor's eyes narrowed, but he did not reply.
That night, the city was restless. Fires glowed like stars across the sprawl, but voices carried—arguments, cries, coughs. Kaelen could not sleep. He stepped outside, the shard burning faintly as though stirred by the suffering around him.
At the fountain, the same man from earlier still stood, his voice hoarse but fervent. "They say the gods will return to finish their work! But I say—let them come! We are not cattle! We are the broken teeth that will bite back!"
Some cheered. Others wept.
Kaelen's chest tightened. He knew the fury in their voices, the bitterness. He felt it himself. But he also knew what Malachor had said—that anger, once unchained, could devour as easily as it could defend.
As he turned away, a hand tugged his cloak.
A child, no older than ten, with eyes too large for his thin face. "Mister," the boy whispered. "You… you fought one of the shadow beasts, didn't you?"
Kaelen froze. "…How do you know that?"
The boy's eyes glimmered. "I dream. Sometimes I see things. I saw you. With the blade."
The shard pulsed once, hard enough to steal Kaelen's breath.
"Run along," Kaelen muttered, though his voice shook.
But the boy only whispered: "The Black Sun is coming."
Then he vanished into the crowd, leaving Kaelen staring into the smoke, his heart pounding like war drums.
The next morning, the camp buzzed with tension. Voices rose from the central square, louder than the usual murmur of hunger and grief. Kaelen, Ren, and Malachor followed the noise to find a gathering around the dry fountain.
The scarred woman—the one who had allowed them entry—stood facing the ragged preacher from the night before.
"You'll tear this place apart with your poison," she spat.
The man raised his arms dramatically. "And you'll keep them meek, waiting for gods that only come to burn! These people deserve truth, not chains!"
The crowd split—half jeering, half cheering. Some raised fists, others wept, clutching their children.
Kaelen glanced at Malachor. "What's happening?"
"Power," Malachor murmured. "In a place with no walls, no food, power is the only coin. And now it is contested."
The woman jabbed a finger at the preacher. "You want to stir them into revolt? Against who? The beasts? The gods? You'll lead them into slaughter!"
The preacher's voice thundered. "Better to die with teeth bared than starve like rats!"
The crowd roared—some in approval, some in fear.
Ren whispered, "We should leave. This isn't our fight."
Kaelen's jaw clenched. But as he turned, a small hand tugged at his sleeve again.
The same boy from last night. His eyes gleamed, too old for his face. "You can't leave," he whispered. "It begins here."
Kaelen froze. "…What begins?"
But the boy only slipped back into the crowd, vanishing once more.
By evening, the city felt like tinder awaiting a spark. Fights broke out over bread. Guards patrolled restlessly. The scarred woman—whose name Kaelen learned was Captain Selira—summoned him to her tent.
"You've seen it," she said bluntly. "The camp's splitting in two. If it breaks, everyone dies. We'll tear each other apart before the beasts or gods even touch us."
Kaelen stood stiffly. "And what do you want from me?"
Selira studied him with sharp eyes. "Men listen to blades. You carry one. And you've got the look of someone who's fought the shadows. If you speak, they'll listen. Pick a side."
Kaelen's gut twisted. "And if I choose wrong?"
Selira leaned closer. "Then we burn. All of us."
That night, firelight flickered across faces drawn tight with hunger and fear. The crowd gathered again. On one side stood Selira, armor mismatched but posture unshaken. On the other, the preacher, his eyes wild with conviction.
Kaelen stood apart, Ren at his side, Malachor leaning on his staff.
"They'll force your hand," Malachor murmured. "This is the weight of leadership, Kaelen. Not thrones, not crowns. People, broken and desperate, asking which lie to follow."
Kaelen's chest tightened. "I'm no leader."
"Eclipsera disagrees."
Before Kaelen could respond, the preacher's voice rang out: "The gods are weak! Their beasts fall! I saw it—this very man slew one!" His hand stabbed toward Kaelen.
The crowd turned, whispers rippling.
Kaelen's blood chilled.
Ren hissed, "Kaelen, don't—"
But Selira seized the moment, shouting, "And if he did, it proves only this: that men and women can fight back! That we survive not with false prophets, but with order and steel!"
The crowd wavered, torn between zeal and discipline, rebellion and structure.
Kaelen felt the shard burn in his chest, hotter, insistent. He heard Eclipsera's whisper again, faint:
"Choose. One path leads to chains, the other to fire. Both bleed."
The preacher's eyes locked on him. "Speak, stranger! Tell them! Are we meant to bow—or to fight?"
The crowd shouted, demanding his answer. Faces pressed close, desperate, fearful, enraged.
Kaelen's throat went dry. He knew whatever he said would seal this city's fate.
Before he could speak, a scream cut through the night.
A woman staggered from the outskirts, her body slashed open, blood trailing behind her. "They're here!" she cried. "The hunters—servants of the gods!"
Panic surged. People shrieked, scattering.
Selira drew her blade instantly, barking orders. The preacher lifted his arms, shouting prayers that mixed with curses.
Kaelen's shard flared like fire in his ribs. He felt it before he saw them—shadows moving between tents, too swift, too sharp. Figures cloaked in divine light twisted into monstrous shapes.
Hunters.
Malachor's eyes hardened. "So soon."
Kaelen drew his sword. The crowd fled around him, their cries rising like storm winds. The hunters closed in, their faces masks of shifting light.
And in the chaos, Kaelen knew: this was the choice. Not between Selira and the preacher. Not yet.
But between protecting the fragile city or letting it burn.