The storm came without warning.
Thunder cracked overhead as dark clouds swallowed the pale sun, turning noon to dusk in a matter of minutes. Drex stood at the edge of a ruined watchtower, his cloak whipping in the wind like torn wings. Behind him, the shattered corpses of the Ashbound stained the ground—proof that the Crown was already hunting him.
He felt no victory. Only inevitability.
Each death fed the curse slumbering inside him. The sword at his hip—the bloodwrought blade, as he had begun to call it—hungered. Not for justice. Not even vengeance.
For violence.
For blood.
And with every life it consumed, Drex felt the lines of his humanity blur.
He hadn't eaten in days. No thirst, no fatigue. His body moved because something beneath the skin compelled it forward. His heart beat only when the blade pulsed. His breath came not from lungs, but from the will of the magic crawling through his bones.
He was no longer merely a man.
But he wasn't a monster either.
Not yet.
---
The tower had once been a border post, built during the final years of the War of Thorns. Drex remembered marching past it as a young knight, the banners of Haldrim flying high, the men around him still laughing, unbroken. He remembered a name—Sir Tarlon, the watchmaster who gave them wine and spoke of retirement.
Now, the tower was just rubble and ghosts.
He stepped inside. The stone interior was damp, covered in soot and moss. The staircase had collapsed, but a trapdoor beneath the floorboards remained. He pried it open with the tip of his blade.
Below, a cellar. Shelves full of dust-covered supplies. Dried roots. Rusted spears. And in the far corner, a skeleton curled around a smaller one.
He paused.
A child.
Had they hidden? Had they starved? Or worse, had something hunted them here?
Drex stared at the bones for a long time. Then knelt.
"I won't let them forget you," he whispered. His voice was rough, unfamiliar even to himself.
He buried them outside beneath a cairn of stone, carving no name. He didn't know theirs. Only their silence.
When he rose, the wind shifted.
Someone was watching.
---
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
On the ridge above the tower stood a figure in a hooded cloak, hair silver as frost, eyes like cut glass. A woman—tall, lean, dressed in travel-worn armor with a long, curved staff strapped across her back. She didn't flinch as Drex met her gaze.
She didn't draw a weapon.
"You're late," she said.
Drex's voice was low. "I don't know you."
"But I know you," she replied, descending the ridge with smooth precision. "Drex Malven. Knight Commander. Seventh Legion. Betrayed by your king. Marked by a bloodseal older than the empire itself. Killer of Ashbound."
She came to stand just outside his reach, eyes sharp but unreadable.
"I saw the fight from the hollow," she said. "You move like someone cursed. Or blessed. Depends who's watching."
Drex gripped his sword but did not draw. "Speak your name."
"Kaelith Vorn. Former Arcanist of the Fifth Circle. Exiled for treason. Now an enemy of the Crown—like you."
He studied her carefully. Her hands bore old burns—magic burns. Her eyes didn't flicker to the blade at his hip. She wasn't afraid of him.
She was used to monsters.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"To find you," she said simply. "The empire's collapse begins in silence. In shadows. Before the walls fall, the lies must burn."
"And what makes you think I'm part of that?"
"Because the gods marked you." Her tone darkened. "Because the king fears you more than any rebel general or godling cult."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"I know what was buried beneath Valebend, Drex. I know what they tried to awaken. And I know what crawled into your bones when the wardstone shattered."
He stiffened.
Kaelith nodded slowly.
"It wasn't just magic. It was memory. An ancient thing... bloodborn and bound in chains. Now it breathes through you."
"You speak like a priest," he said flatly.
"No." Her mouth twisted. "I kill priests."
She turned and began walking toward the horizon. "Come with me. Or stay here and wait for the next pack of assassins. Your call."
He didn't move.
But something within him shifted.
The sword was quiet for the first time in days.
She hadn't flinched when she spoke its name.
Drex stared at the cairn one last time.
Then followed.
---
Elsewhere – The Royal Crypts of Cindralis
The crypts beneath the imperial palace were older than the empire itself. Each stone whispered with the weight of history—kings, queens, traitors, and seers entombed in silence, guarded by magic and shadow.
At the heart of the deepest vault, King Tellen Vire stood before a sealed door engraved with thirteen symbols.
A single candle flickered behind him. A figure emerged from the darkness—hooded, robed in midnight blue, his face hidden beneath a veil of woven silver.
"Your Majesty," the figure rasped.
"Is the seal weakening?"
"It stirs, yes. The sword has awakened. The bearer walks the land again."
"Then our time is short."
"Yes," the figure hissed. "And the price... will be blood."
Tellen stared at the door.
And for the first time in twenty years, he felt fear.