The stars were extinguished.
When Kael stepped out of the sanctum, the night sky overhead was shrouded in a glowing red mist. No moon. No stars. Only a faint, raging light emanating from the west—where the sorcerer's fake sun had climbed.
"It's started," Lysara whispered at his side. "He's rending the Veil."
Kael gazed out across the ridgeline, teeth set. The hills below them were withering. Trees had withered to blackened husks. Rivers bled rust instead of water. Even the wind held a muddled heat, as if the sky itself was fevered.
He held Shadowfire close.
"I witnessed a hundred deaths within that sanctum," he stated, his voice low. "But none of them appeared this way. This is not like that."
Lysara looked at him. "It's because you're different."
He turned to her, eyes burning. "You said the sword chooses based on need. Then why me? Why a blacksmith in a forgotten village? Why not a warrior, or a mage?"
She smiled at him wearily. "Because a warrior would wish to conquer. A mage would wish to comprehend. But a blacksmith… a blacksmith can mold things. Can understand that fire is not merely devastation. That it is change."
Kael stared at his hands. They were marked, hardened, shaking under the burden of something older than memory.
Then he gazed west. Towards the blood-stained sky.
"Then I'll shape the end of this world into something new."
---
They marched west.
The days grew hotter. The sun—false or real—never set now. Animals had vanished. The sky dripped ash instead of rain. Occasionally, they would pass survivors—madmen with empty eyes, mumbling songs to gods long dead. Some reached toward Shadowfire with reverent hands. Others screamed and ran, terrified.
The blade pulsed more now, like a thing eager for war.
And Kael…
Kael started dreaming in other voices.
He woke in the middle of the night whispering unknown names. Names of cities that were lost to the ages. Names of individuals who had wielded the sword. Occasionally, his hands moved when he was sleeping—doing old combat moves he'd never learned. The sword was teaching him.
Or perhaps something within it was trying to escape.
One evening, after days of silence, Kael finally asked, "If this is a cycle… why hasn't it ended? Why hasn't anyone broken it?"
Lysara spoke slowly. "Because the blade's final purpose has never been fulfilled."
"What purpose?"
"To kill the one who made it."
Kael halted his walk.
Lysara spun around, looking into his eyes. "The sorcerer. The one in the Black Tower. He wasn't always so. He was the first forge-bearer of the flame. A creature of starfire and darkness. He infused the sword with his soul."
Kael's tone was barely audible. "He forged the blade… and now he desires it returned."
No," she replied. "He wishes to use it to complete what he started. Erasure of every world—so that he might create one of his own design."
"And I'm the only one who can stop him."
"You're not the only one," Lysara said, moving closer. "But you're the last. And the sword knows.
That evening, they rested in the ruins of a shattered citadel. Broken stone towers protruded like ribs from the ground. Silence and moss conquered the halls.
Kael was unable to sleep.
He sat on a ledge above a lifeless river, the blade cradled in his lap. Its beat was strong. Living. It didn't say a word, but he could sense its presence—warm, immense, watching.
"Why me?" he spoke out loud, his voice cracking.
The wind did not respond.
But the blade did.
For the first time, it whispered—not in words, but in memory.
He saw himself. Not here. Not now. But somewhere in a future not yet lived—standing before a gate of fire, Shadowfire raised high, and behind him… an army of light.
And ahead?
A god wearing his face.
Kael gasped, torn from the vision. His hands shook. The blade trembled.
He wasn't just chosen to end the war.
He was the war itself.
---
It stood in the distance, over blazing plains, the Black Tower.
And from its towers, the sorcerer looked into a lake of molten time.
He saw Kael.
And smiled.