He had to know. He had to look into the eyes of one of them, one of the architects of this lie, and see the truth reflected back. He would seek out Borin. The stern, unyielding warrior had been a man of blunt, brutal honor. He would not have been part of this… this obscenity for mere power or wealth. There had to be another reason. He would have the answers, or at the very least, he would look upon Arden with something other than fear and hatred. Perhaps there would be shame. Perhaps there would be regret.
Tracking the old warrior was easy. Borin had been granted a lordship over the northern marchlands, a rocky, harsh territory that suited the man's temperament. His estate, "Stonehold," was a fortress of grim, grey granite, a practical, unadorned place that spoke of defense, not luxury. Arden approached the main gate as the sun began to set, casting long, deep shadows. He no longer bothered to hide. He threw back his hood, his heterochromatic aura—a storm of gold and violet—plain for all to see, a challenge and a question.
Borin was in the main courtyard, drilling a handful of young, eager men-at-arms with a series of brutal, efficient axe forms. He had aged—his hair and beard were iron-grey, his face a road map of old scars and deeper lines—but his eyes were the same flinty chips of granite, and his shoulders were still as broad as a barn door. He saw Arden and froze mid-swing. The recruits, sensing the sudden shift in the air, fell silent, their practice weapons lowering.
The look on Borin's face was not confusion. It was not wonder or joy. It was pure, unadulterated revulsion, mixed with a flicker of… fear.
"You," Borin snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble of hatred. He gestured for the recruits to fall back, hefting his legendary great axe, Stone-Splitter. The weapon seemed to drink the fading light. "I've heard the whispers from the south. A specter. A thing wearing a dead man's face, spewing corruption. You will not defile his memory here, creature of the Abyss! This is a place of light!"
"Borin," Arden pleaded, the desperation a live wire in his chest. He took a step forward, his hands open and empty at his sides. "It's me. Arden. Look at me! Look into my eyes! You were there! You saw me step into the circle! You saw what I did for all of you!"
"Arden died a hero's death!" Borin roared, his own aura—a dull, earthy brown—flaring around him like a sudden dust storm. "He gave his life so we could build this world! A world of order! Of strength! You are a lie, a poison from the past sent to unravel it all!"
The charge was not a blind rush. Borin, even in his rage, was a master of war. He came in low, his center of gravity a coiled spring, Stone-Splitter held in a guard that could seamlessly shift from a decapitating sweep to a brutal upward thrust. The air hummed with the axe's passage, a sound Arden knew well—the song of a weapon that had ended countless demons and, now, intended to end him.
The old Arden would have met it head-on. Dawnbringer would have risen, a pillar of light to parry the darkness. But Dawnbringer was dust, and the old Arden was a ghost.
Instead, Arden moved with the unnatural grace his new existence granted him. He didn't retreat; he flowed inside the arc of the swing, his body a hair's breadth from the whistling edge. As he moved, his hand fell to the simple, unadorned longsword at his hip—a soldier's blade, nothing more. It cleared its scabbard with a soft, metallic whisper.
Borin was already correcting, his immense strength halting the axe's momentum and reversing it into a short, vicious chop aimed at Arden's collarbone. It was a move that had shattered shield walls.
Clang!
The sound was not the mighty ring of two legendary weapons colliding, but a sharper, higher note. Arden's plain blade met the haft of Stone-Splitter, just below the head. He hadn't tried to block the axe's edge, an impossible task for the lesser steel. He had struck the shaft, deflecting the blow just enough so the axe-head slammed into the cobblestones beside him, sending sparks and stone chips flying.
Borin grunted in surprise, not at the skill, but at the sheer, audacious precision. He wrenched the axe back, using the momentum to spin, bringing the heavy pommel around in a bone-crushing backhand swing.
Arden ducked under it, the air ruffling his hair. He was inside Borin's guard now, the distance too close for the great axe. He thrust his sword point at Borin's exposed armpit, a killing blow.
With a roar, Borin released one hand from his axe and his forearm, sheathed in reinforced vambrace, smashed down on Arden's blade, deflecting it with a shower of sparks. The impact jarred up Arden's arm. Borin followed by driving his helmeted forehead forward in a brutal headbutt.
Arden jerked his head back, but not fast enough. The steel rim of Borin's helmet grazed his brow, splitting the skin. Blood, warm and red, trickled into his eye. The world swam for a second.
It was all the opening Borin needed. He shoved Arden back with the bulk of his body, creating space, and Stone-Splitter came alive again—a relentless series of chops, sweeps, and feints, a storm of steel designed to overwhelm and dismantle. The earth-and-stone aura around Borin thickened, making the air heavy, trying to slow Arden down, to grind him into the dust.
Arden gave ground, his plain sword a blur of desperate parries and deflections. He didn't have the strength to meet Borin power-for-power. Each block sent numbing shocks through his wrists. The difference in their weapons was telling; his sword's edge was notching, a hairline crack appearing near the hilt. He was a fencer against a demolition crew.
"You see?!" Borin bellowed, his breath fogging in the cold air. "You have his face, but you fight like a shadow of him! Arden Valen would never retreat! He would stand and break me!"
The words were meant to enrage, to provoke a mistake. But they only crystallized the cold certainty in Arden's heart. He wasn't that man anymore. He couldn't be.
He stopped retreating.
As Stone-Splitter descended in a final, overhead chop meant to cleave him from skull to navel, Arden didn't try to parry. He sidestepped at the last possible microsecond, the wind of the blow tearing at his clothes. The axe head buried itself deep in the cobblestones where he had stood.
For a split second, Borin was exposed, his arms extended, his weight committed.
Arden's left hand, which had been free, shot out. He didn't form a fist. His fingers, wreathed not in gold, but in a calm, deep violet light, touched the back of Borin's gauntleted hand where it gripped the axe.
There was no explosion. No dramatic flash. Just a silent, swift unraveling.
The steel of the gauntlet turned a dull, rusty brown, then flaked away like ancient parchment. The process raced up his arm, the chainmail beneath dissolving into dust, the flesh and bone beneath turning grey, then black, crumbling into fine, lifeless powder. It was utterly silent.
Borin's eyes widened, not in pain, but in sheer, uncomprehending horror. He tried to pull back, but the disintegration was already past his elbow, reaching his shoulder. He opened his mouth to scream, but his jaw, his throat, his lungs were already ash.
The process took less than three seconds.
Stone-Splitter, now unsupported, clattered to the ground. The rest of Borin—the mighty Stone Fist, the unyielding warrior—collapsed inward, his armor and body dissolving into a single, pathetic pile of grey dust that settled over his legendary axe.
Silence.
Arden stood, his hand still outstretched, the violet light receding under his skin, sated and warm. He looked at the pile of dust, then at his own trembling fingers. The line was not just crossed; it had been erased, as completely as Borin had been. He turned and walked away from Stonehold, the sound of the wind now the only mourner. The ghost was gone. In its place walked a killer.