The bodies were still warm when Kael stumbled back to the village.
His hands wouldn't stop trembling, his mind replaying the screams of the men he had cut down.
But in the halls of Blackthorn Keep, word of the slaughter had already reached the ears of the one who commanded them.
Lord Veynor Drask sat upon his throne, draped in crimson and gold. His eyes were cold, his jaw sharp as steel. He listened silently as the surviving soldier knelt before him, still trembling from what he had seen.
"My lord… the boy—he wields it. The cursed blade. He killed them all as if he were possessed."
Veynor leaned forward, his lips curling into a cruel smile.
"So… the weapon has awakened at last."
The hall grew colder. Shadows seemed to gather behind his throne, as if answering his presence.
"Bring me the boy alive," Veynor ordered, his voice like iron. "The sword belongs to me."
"Yes, my lord!"
The soldier scrambled away.
But as the heavy doors shut, a different voice filled the chamber.
A whisper, not human.
"You are impatient, Veynor," it hissed, echoing like a serpent.
From the darkness, a figure emerged—cloaked, faceless, its presence suffocating.
Veynor bowed his head ever so slightly.
"The Ancients stir. The bloodline awakens. If I claim the boy's power, no king, no god, will stand in my way."
The shadow chuckled.
"Be careful, Drask. The blade does not serve men. It devours them."
Veynor's eyes glinted.
"Then let it devour me… until nothing is left but power."
That night, Kael sat alone by the river, staring at his reflection.
The cursed sword rested beside him, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
He dipped his hands into the water, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, the blood wouldn't wash away. His face twisted with fear—and something else.
A voice whispered inside his mind again.
"More blood. More power. You cannot run from me, Kael Adryn."
Kael clenched his fists, his teeth gritted.
"I am not your puppet."
But deep down, he wasn't sure if he was telling the truth.
⚡️ End of Chapter 4.