The fire was gone, reduced to a cradle of ash and dying embers.
Kael hadn't slept.
Not even for a second.
It wasn't just exhaustion clawing at his body, nor the cold that whispered through the trees. It was the feeling—that unbearable tension pressing against his ribs. Like if he dared to blink, something in the dark would reach out, crawl across the edge of reality, and tear him away.
The Whisperblade lay flat across his lap, humming softly in the quiet. It wasn't singing—no, it was something more restrained. Like thunder wrapped in silk. Kael slowly traced his fingers across the ancient runes carved into the steel. And there it was… his name. Solhart. Etched alongside forgotten symbols, nestled in myth, and now—woven into fate.
His father's legacy.
His burden.
That woman hadn't returned.
He still didn't know who she was, or why she had saved him. All she left behind was a voice, echoing somewhere between his heartbeat and the night wind.
"You've become a beacon."
That phrase didn't leave him. Not even as the morning crept in, painting the snow with that dull, washed-out light. Like the sun itself was reluctant to rise.
Kael stood, packed his things, and moved north again. His footsteps left deep imprints in the snow, and every step forward carried the weight of a name that wasn't just his anymore.
It was something more.
It was something watched.
He didn't notice the footprints until his boot nearly crushed one.
They weren't his.
There were several—at least five different sets. Human. But something felt wrong about them. Too wide in spacing. Too uniform. Not like travelers. Not even like scouts.
Kael crouched beside one, brushing aside the thin crust of ice.
The snow around the print had fractured outward. Thin lines stretched in a perfect pattern—like frost spiderwebbing from a single point.
"…Magic," he murmured.
He unsheathed his sword, holding it lazily at his side like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. The tracks led deeper, into a patch of forest that clung to the mountainside like it had grown teeth. And as Kael stepped between the gnarled trees, something shifted.
The world changed.
The branches above looked clawed, their bark curled like they were screaming. Light barely trickled through the canopy. The snow here felt heavier. Every sound was muffled.
Even the wind.
And then, he heard it.
A whisper.
"…return… return… return…"
Kael stopped. Whipped around.
Nothing. Just shadows stacked on shadows.
His grip tightened. He followed the tracks to a clearing—a circle of ancient stones blanketed in thin snow. In the center stood a monolith, jet-black, etched with faint glowing runes. The footprints ended here.
So did the silence.
From the edge of the clearing, they emerged.
Five.
Shadow-things shaped like men, but wrong. Armor fused to flesh. Smoke clinging to bone. Where their eyes should've been, there was only light—pale, flickering, haunted light.
Kael froze. His heartbeat slowed.
"…Solhart…"
They knew his name.
No time to question. They moved.
One lunged. He twisted left, ducked, and slashed across the waist. The blade went through—but there was no blood. Just… vapor. As if he'd cut through memory.
Hollow Wraiths.
He'd read about them. Once. In the old temple archives, beneath layers of dust. Fragments of corrupted warriors, twisted by ancient magic. Bound to forgotten kings.
One hit him full force in the chest.
His body folded backward, slammed into a tree, bark shattering against his shoulder. Pain stabbed down his spine. Breath gone. Snow flew around him. He barely rolled aside in time to dodge a spear of blackened iron that would've skewered his skull.
The moment he stood, the Whisperblade moved.
Not guided by thought—but instinct.
It pulsed with his need. Responded to his fear. And then... it led him.
Kael became a blur of steel and motion. One wraith shattered. Then another. But every shadow he cut down, more rose to take its place. They poured out of the monolith like echoes refusing to be forgotten.
He was drowning in them.
And then—light.
A column of white flame tore down from the sky, devouring three Wraiths instantly. Their screams weren't voices. They were deeper. They scratched something behind his eyes.
From the trees… someone descended.
Cloak ablaze.
Twin blades in hand.
"You were supposed to run," she said.
Kael wiped blood from his lip. "Yeah, well… not really my thing."
Elira. It was her again. Her armor glowed silver-blue, brighter than the runes. She danced into the fight, blades carving light paths through the air, every strike more precise than the last.
Kael followed.
Where she struck, he parried. Where he faltered, she caught him.
The Hollow Wraiths didn't stand a chance.
One by one, they burned.
And then, silence again.
The snow fell gently. The clearing emptied. And Kael collapsed to one knee, panting.
"You always show up at the last second?" he muttered.
Elira didn't smile. But her tone lightened. "You always almost die?"
"Touché."
His eyes drifted toward the monolith. The runes had faded—but something new was there.
A symbol. Carved into its surface like it had always been there.
A winged sword engulfed in flame.
He didn't recognize it. But the way Elira's expression darkened… she did.
"The Sealed Temple," she whispered. "It's already open."
Kael pushed himself upright. "Then we're late?"
She shook her head. "No. We're right on time… for the end."
The words settled like frost in his chest.
Kael glanced at her. "So what now?"
She turned toward the east, where the trees grew thinner and the mountains dipped into mist.
"We head for the Spire."
He raised a brow. "And what exactly is the Spire?"
She looked him in the eye, and for once—she didn't speak in riddles.
"It's where your story began… and where the world starts to end."
Kael didn't reply.
He just held the Whisperblade tighter.
And moved forward.