Road out of the refugee city was carved with scars. Burnt wagons, broken weapons, and the bones of men who had tried to flee before them. The air smelled of smoke and salt—the remnants of fear lingering in the dust.
Kaelen walked at the front, his sword sheathed but his hand never far from the hilt. Ren padded silently beside him, eyes flicking across every shadow, every ridge. Selira marched with what was left of her soldiers, a dozen men and women broken, weary, but still standing. Malachor followed in the rear, leaning on his staff, muttering words Kaelen couldn't hear.
Behind them, hundreds of refugees trudged along the road—mothers carrying children, old men pulling carts, wounded hobbling on crude crutches. Every sound of boots on gravel was a reminder: they were alive, but barely.
Kaelen's chest still ached from the shard. At night, he could feel it pulsing, as if remembering the Harvester's smile. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear that gentle voice: "You will bloom beautifully."
It haunted him more than the screams.
The sun had barely begun to rise when the ambush came.
Arrows whistled out of the hills, burying themselves into the road with sharp cracks. One refugee fell instantly, a shaft through his throat. Screams erupted, children crying out, people scattering.
Selira shouted, "Shields! Cover the civilians!" Her soldiers scrambled, raising what battered shields they still carried, forming a wall.
Bandits poured down from the rocks—men in patchwork armor, women wielding crude blades, faces painted with ash. Desperation burned in their eyes.
Ren spat. "Raiders. Bottom-feeders who hunt the broken."
Kaelen stepped forward, drawing his blade. "They want blood? Then they'll choke on it."
The first raider came at him with a rusted axe. Kaelen parried, the shard in his chest burning, and drove his sword through the man's chest. He yanked it free just as another lunged.
All along the road, chaos erupted. Refugees screamed as raiders tried to snatch food, drag women away, rip valuables from the dying. Selira and her troops fought fiercely, cutting down every raider who dared come near the shield wall. Ren disappeared into the smoke, only to reappear behind an enemy, knives dripping red.
But there were too many.
Malachor raised his staff, summoning a ring of fire around the caravan. For a moment, it held them back—but his face was pale, sweat streaking down his brow. "I cannot hold it long!" he gasped.
Kaelen slashed another bandit across the throat, chest heaving. Not like this, he thought. Not after surviving gods themselves.
But the raiders were relentless, driven by hunger and despair.
One of them—a massive man with a scar across his face and a necklace of human teeth—stepped forward, grinning. He carried a blade too large for his frame, and when he spoke, his voice carried over the battlefield.
"Leave your carts, your gold, your women. Do that, and maybe I'll let some of you live!"
Selira snarled. "Over my corpse."
The raider chieftain laughed. "That can be arranged."
Kaelen's eyes burned. He stepped past the shield wall, pointing his blade at the scarred man.
"You want blood?" he said, voice low and sharp. "Take mine first."
The shard in his chest flared as if answering the challenge. The air grew heavy. Even the raiders seemed to hesitate.
The chieftain grinned wider. "Brave little lamb."
And then the two clashed, steel on steel, in the dust and fire of the roadside battlefield.
Steel screamed as Kaelen and the raider chieftain met in the dust. The man's cleaver crashed down like a falling hammer, each strike shattering stone and bone alike. Kaelen parried desperately, his arms trembling with each impact.
The shard inside him flared hot with every clash, whispering promises of strength, urging him to strike harder, faster, deadlier. But Kaelen gritted his teeth and resisted, knowing what it had cost him the last time he let it take control.
The chieftain laughed, spittle flying from his cracked lips. "You've got some fire in you, boy! But fire burns out quick!"
He shoved Kaelen back, sending him stumbling across the dirt.
Ren appeared like a shadow, knives flashing at the chieftain's exposed flank—but the man twisted, catching Ren by the wrist and hurling him into the dust with a sickening crack.
"Pathetic," the chieftain growled, raising his cleaver for the killing blow.
Kaelen's rage exploded. He surged forward, intercepting the blade mid-swing. Sparks flared as steel ground against steel, both fighters locked in a deadly contest of strength.
The shard pulsed.
Strike. End him. Drink his life.
Kaelen roared and shoved upward, twisting his blade free. In a blur of motion, he slashed across the chieftain's chest. Blood sprayed, the man staggering back with a furious bellow.
Selira charged in then, her sword cleaving into the raider's thigh. He howled, dropping to one knee.
Kaelen didn't hesitate. With a final cry, he drove his blade through the man's throat.
The chieftain's eyes widened. His cleaver fell from his grip, clattering uselessly to the dirt. He gurgled once, then collapsed face-first in the road, dust rising around his corpse.
The battlefield froze.
The raiders, seeing their leader slain, faltered. Some shouted in rage, others in fear. But when Selira raised her bloodied sword and roared, "Fall back or join him in the dirt!"—their courage broke.
They scattered, fleeing into the hills, leaving only the dead and dying behind.
Silence fell at last, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Kaelen stood trembling over the chieftain's corpse, his blade dripping red. The shard inside him throbbed with satisfaction, as though it had fed on the kill. He clenched his fist, forcing the whispers from his mind.
Ren limped over, clutching his bruised ribs. "Well… that was fun," he wheezed, managing a grin. "Next time, maybe we choose a safer road?"
Selira ignored him, kneeling beside one of her fallen soldiers, closing the woman's eyes with a heavy hand. "We can't keep losing people like this," she muttered.
Malachor approached, his staff dim in the smoky air. His old eyes locked onto Kaelen's blade, then to Kaelen himself. "Do you feel it, boy? Each fight pulls you deeper into the shard's grasp. Be careful… or one day, you may not return from its hunger."
Kaelen said nothing. His chest still burned with the shard's pulse.
Behind them, the refugees began to gather the wounded, children crying as bodies were carried to the roadside. Supplies had been stolen, carts overturned, food spoiled. They had survived, but at a cost.
As the caravan prepared to move again, Selira approached Kaelen. "You fought well. Without you, we'd be carrion in the dirt. But remember this…" She laid a hand on his shoulder, eyes hard. "…we are not only hunted by gods. Men can be monsters too."
Kaelen nodded, the words settling heavy in his chest. He looked at the blood-stained road stretching into the horizon.
The gods above, the raiders below, the shard within—every step forward only seemed to lead into deeper darkness.
But he kept walking.
Because if he stopped, all those behind him would fall.