The shadow-spawn moved like nightmares given form.
Kael's shadows met them in a clash of darkness against darkness, but these things were different from the obedient shadows that had knelt to him in the forge. They fought back, twisting and writhing, trying to corrupt his power even as he tried to destroy them.
One of the spawn lunged at him with too many arms. Kael sidestepped, slashing with his sword. The blade passed through the creature's form without resistance—it was like cutting smoke. But when his shadows wrapped around it, the spawn shrieked, a sound that had no right to exist in the physical world.
"Use the mark!" the Gray Witch's voice cut through the chaos. She stood on her porch, arms crossed, watching with the detachment of a teacher observing a lesson. "Your shadows alone won't be enough. Channel them through the sigil!"
Kael didn't know how to do that, but desperation had a way of teaching fast. He focused on the burning sensation in his arm, on the pulsing pattern etched into his flesh. The mark flared with cold light, and suddenly he could feel the difference.
Before, the shadows had been wild, responding to his emotions but not truly under his control. Now, flowing through the mark, they became something else—focused, precise, deadly.
He thrust his arm toward the nearest spawn, and a spear of solid shadow erupted from the mark, piercing the creature's center mass. The spawn convulsed, its form collapsing in on itself with a wet, tearing sound before dissolving into black mist.
One down. Four more to go.
Kael spun as another spawn attacked from behind, its malformed limbs reaching for his throat. He ducked, feeling claws of pure darkness whistle past his head. His shadows responded instinctively now, forming a shield that deflected the next strike.
This was nothing like the fight in the alley. These creatures were born of shadow magic gone wrong—they knew how to fight against their own kind.
A spawn crashed into his shield, and Kael felt the impact in his bones. The thing's mouth—gods, it had three of them—opened wide, screaming words that sounded like his name spoken backward. Black ichor dripped from its teeth.
Kael gritted his teeth and pushed back, channeling more power through the mark. The spawn resisted, its corruption trying to seep into his shadows, trying to poison them.
For a terrifying moment, Kael felt it working. His shadows began to writhe with the same sickening wrongness as the spawn. He could feel the madness at the edges of his mind, whispering that it would be so easy to let go, to embrace the chaos, to become—
"No!" Kael roared, and slammed his will down on the corruption like a hammer on an anvil.
His shadows blazed with clean, pure darkness—not evil, not good, just power in its rawest form. The corruption burned away, and the spawn shrieked as Kael's power tore through it.
Two down. Three to go.
But the remaining spawn had learned. They circled him warily, their movements becoming coordinated. One feinted left while another struck from the right. The third rose up, growing taller, its form stretching into something that resembled a giant spider made of living shadow.
Kael's heart pounded. His arm throbbed where the mark burned. He could feel his power reserves draining—using the shadows through the mark was far more exhausting than letting them run wild.
He needed to end this quickly.
The spider-spawn struck, its multiple limbs stabbing down like spears. Kael rolled, narrowly avoiding impalement, and came up slashing with his sword. The blade still couldn't cut the spawn directly, but when he channeled shadow-energy along the edge—
The sword bit deep.
The spawn recoiled, a chunk of its form severed and dissolving. Kael pressed his advantage, coating his blade in a sheath of controlled shadow. Now when he struck, the attacks landed. Each cut sent portions of the spawn dissipating into harmless mist.
But the other two were closing in.
Kael didn't have time for finesse. He planted his feet, raised his marked arm, and pulled.
Every shadow in the clearing responded—shadows from the trees, from the cottage, from the witch herself. They flowed toward him like rivers of liquid night, merging with his own power, amplifying it.
The mark on his arm blazed like a dark star.
"NOW!" Kael thrust both hands forward, sword in one, marked arm extended in the other.
The shadows erupted in a wave of pure destructive force. The spawn never had a chance. They were caught in the torrent, their corrupted forms shredded, dissolved, obliterated in seconds.
When the shadows cleared, the clearing was empty except for Kael and the witch. Even the cracks in the ground had sealed themselves.
Kael dropped to his knees, gasping. Every muscle in his body screamed. The mark had stopped glowing, but it still burned like a brand. He felt hollow, drained in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
"Well," the Gray Witch said, descending from her porch with measured steps. "You're not dead, and you're not corrupted. That's better than most."
Kael looked up at her, too tired to be angry at her casual tone. "Was that really necessary?"
"Yes." She knelt beside him, her ancient eyes studying his face. "I needed to see three things. First, whether you could control the mark. Second, whether you could resist corruption. And third..."
She reached out and touched his marked arm. Kael flinched, but her touch was gentle, almost reverent.
"Third, I needed to see if you had the strength to survive what comes next. Because what you just faced? Those spawn? They're nothing compared to what's waiting beyond the Rift."
She stood and offered him her hand.
"Come inside, boy. We have much to discuss, and you need to understand exactly what you've inherited."
Kael took her hand, and she hauled him to his feet with surprising strength for someone so old. As they walked toward the cottage, Kael glanced back at the clearing where he'd just fought for his life.
Already, the forest was reclaiming it. Grass sprouted from the sealed cracks. Leaves rustled in a wind he couldn't feel. It was as if the battle had never happened.
"The Veilwood forgets nothing," the witch said, following his gaze. "But it forgives much. Come."
The cottage interior was larger than it had any right to be—a single room that somehow contained what looked like an alchemist's laboratory, a library that stretched up three stories, and a cozy living area with a fireplace that burned with blue flames.
Impossible architecture, Kael thought, but after everything he'd seen, impossibility was becoming relative.
The witch gestured to a chair near the fireplace. Kael sank into it gratefully, while she busied herself at a table cluttered with herbs and vials.
"Drink this," she said, handing him a cup filled with steaming liquid that smelled of mint and something sharper. "It'll help with the exhaustion. Using the mark drains more than just physical energy—it draws on your very life force. You need to replenish."
Kael sipped cautiously. The drink was bitter but left a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest. Almost immediately, he felt some of his strength returning.
"Thank you," he said. "I don't even know what to call you. 'Gray Witch' seems..."
"Impersonal?" She smiled, a genuine expression that softened her weathered features. "My name is Elara Greymantle. I was the Royal Arcanist before the Purge. Before the Church decided magic was heresy and burned half the kingdom's scholars."
She settled into a chair across from him.
"And you are Kael. No family name, because you never knew your family. Found as an infant in the ruins of a burned village, raised by a kind blacksmith who asked no questions."
Kael stared. "How do you know all that?"
"I've been watching you for years, boy. Ever since I sensed the dormant mark awakening. I couldn't intervene directly—the Veilwood binds me as much as it protects me. But I could observe. I could wait."
Elara leaned forward, her expression intense.
"That village where you were found? It wasn't random. It was a Shadowborn settlement, one of the last. The Church found it and..."
She didn't need to finish. Kael could imagine.
"Your parents died protecting you," Elara continued. "They hid you in a shadowspace—a pocket dimension between worlds—and sealed the entrance with their own lives. The mark was dormant until now because it was meant to be. Shadowborn power manifests in times of great need."
"The Rift," Kael said quietly. "You said it's breaking open."
"Yes." Elara stood and moved to a shelf, pulling down an ancient tome. She opened it to a page covered in illustrations that made Kael's eyes water—images of tears in reality, of things crawling through from the other side.
"Three hundred years ago, there were hundreds of Shadowborn. They acted as wardens, maintaining the barriers between dimensions. Yes, they could walk between worlds, but they also kept the wrong things from crossing over. When the Church killed them all—or thought they had—those barriers began to fail."
She traced a finger across one of the disturbing illustrations.
"The Church tried to seal the Rift with divine magic, but it was like using string to hold together a dam. It worked, for a while. But now the string is fraying. Already, small breaches are appearing. Minor incursions. Things seeping through that don't belong in our world."
"And I'm supposed to stop it?" Kael's voice was hollow. "I'm one person. I barely survived fighting five corrupted shadows. How am I supposed to seal tears in reality?"
"You're not," Elara said simply. "Not yet. Not alone. And not without training."
She closed the book and sat back down.
"The mark you carry is the First Mark—the original sigil worn by the first Shadowborn, a man named Kaelith the Veilwalker. Legend says he was the one who discovered how to walk between worlds, and he created the marks to allow others to follow. Your mark is his mark, passed down through bloodlines until it reached you."
Kael looked at his arm, at the intricate patterns that seemed to shift even now.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you have potential far beyond what I showed you today. The First Mark doesn't just control shadows—it can open doorways, bend space, even manipulate time itself under the right conditions. But it also means you're a target."
Elara's expression darkened.
"The entities beyond the Rift know the mark. They've been waiting three centuries for it to reappear. And the moment you used it to fight those spawn, you sent out a signal like a beacon. Every creature with eyes on our world now knows you exist."
Kael felt cold despite the fire's warmth. "So what do I do?"
"You learn. You train. You grow strong enough to face what's coming." Elara stood again, this time with purpose. "I'll teach you to control the mark, to use your power without being consumed by it. But I'll warn you now—the path ahead is dangerous. Many will try to kill you. Some will try to use you. And the hardest battles will be the ones you fight within yourself."
She extended her hand.
"So I ask you, Kael of Thornhaven, last of the Shadowborn: Will you accept the burden of your blood? Will you learn what you need to learn, even if it costs you everything you once were?"
Kael looked at her hand, then at his own marked arm.
He thought of Torven, who might be dead because of him. Of the city he could never return to. Of the life that was already gone, no matter what he chose now.
He thought of the child in the alley, thanking him with tears in her eyes.
And he thought of the Rift, tearing open, unleashing horrors on a world that had no Shadowborn left to defend it.
No Shadowborn except him.
Kael reached out and clasped Elara's hand.
"Teach me," he said. "Whatever it takes."