The cold wind howled through the narrow mountain pass, its icy tendrils biting into Kael Solhart's exposed skin. Flakes of snow drifted lazily from the heavens, dusting his shoulders and hair as he pressed onward. The peaks of Eldergarde rose like petrified titans around him, their jagged forms crowned with white and shadow. Each step he took crunched against frost-bitten stone, and every breath escaped his lips in visible wisps. Yet Kael's stride remained steady.
He had seen too much to turn back.
The sword—the Whisperblade—rested at his side, humming in low pulses like a beast in slumber. Ever since the fight with the Voidspawn, the blade hadn't fallen silent. It resonated now, not in warning, but in anticipation. As though it knew where they were going. As though it remembered.
Kael hadn't told Elara about the cloaked figure in the forest or the visions. Something told him not to. The deeper he walked into this tale, the more he realized that not every truth was ready to be spoken. Some truths had weight. And some names carried more than history—they carried fate.
By midmorning, the mountain pass narrowed into a winding ravine. Jagged cliffs boxed him in on both sides, forcing him to move in single file, one cautious step after another. Silence pressed in from all directions, broken only by the distant cry of an unseen eagle.
Then a shadow passed overhead.
Kael halted, eyes lifting toward the swirling clouds. A massive silhouette, winged and swift, darted through the mist. Its form vanished in seconds.
"A wyvern?" he whispered.
He reached instinctively for his sword, fingers brushing the hilt. But the creature did not return. Still, the unease it left behind lingered like a bitter taste.
As the path twisted again, Kael spotted something—a crumpled form slumped against a jagged boulder. Crimson stained the snow beneath it.
Kael rushed forward.
It was a man, barely older than him, cloaked in tattered robes lined with faded arcane sigils. Blood coated the left side of his body, and his breaths came in shallow gasps.
Kael knelt beside him. "Hey. Hey, can you hear me?"
The man's eyes fluttered open, barely. "Too… late," he rasped.
"Who did this to you?"
"They're coming…" He coughed, blood flecking his lips. "The Duskbound… they found the shrine… broke the seals."
Kael's stomach clenched. "What shrine?"
"The Sealed Temple," the man whispered. "They know… about the blade… about you."
"How do they—who are you?"
The man's grip tightened weakly on Kael's wrist. "Name's lost. Doesn't matter. What matters is this—don't let them reach the Spire."
"Spire? What spire?!"
But the man's eyes had already glazed over. His hand slipped away, and his chest fell still. Kael stood slowly, heart pounding. Duskbound. Sealed Temple. The Spire. The blade. Threads of prophecy wrapped tighter around him, and the air seemed to grow colder.
A low growl broke the silence.
Kael turned sharply.
Two amber eyes blinked from the shadows. A direwolf, easily twice the size of a normal wolf, stepped forward from behind a snow-laden rock. Its fur was matted, its breath steaming in the cold, and its fangs glistened.
It lunged.
Kael drew the Whisperblade in a single, fluid motion. The blade erupted with light, its song sharper than ever. The wolf's claws met steel in a crackle of force. Sparks flew. Kael danced back, dodging, then swept forward again.
One strike to the shoulder. Another to the flank. The blade moved like a living thing in his grip, guiding his hand, reading his enemy.
With a final growl, the beast collapsed.
Kael stood over it, panting, the blade still glowing faintly in the fading daylight. He stared at it—this weapon that had now saved his life more times than he could count. It pulsed with hidden power, as if aware of its legacy.
"Just what are you?" he murmured.
That night, Kael camped by a frozen stream, its icy surface shimmering beneath the pale light of the twin moons. He built a small fire, using broken branches and flint from his pouch. As flames crackled to life, he placed the sword beside him on a flat rock.
His thoughts drifted.
He remembered his father's stories—tales of the ancient age, when the world was split by war and mended by light. He had thought them drunken ramblings, bedtime fables.
Now, those same tales echoed in his reality.
"You shouldn't have drawn it."
Kael jolted to his feet, blade in hand.
A woman stepped into the circle of firelight. She wore deep violet armor etched with sigils that shimmered like starlight. A cloak fluttered behind her in the wind. Her eyes—neither blue nor gray but a shifting hue like moonlight on water—fixed on him with calm intensity.
"Who are you?" Kael demanded.
"Someone who has been watching," she replied. "You drew the blade too soon."
"What is it with everyone saying that?"
She stepped closer. "Because the world is not ready. That blade—the Blade of Aether—is more than a weapon. It's a keystone to ancient power. To draw it is to awaken old balances."
Kael frowned. "So what? Am I cursed now?"
She studied him. "No. Worse. You've become a beacon. The moment the blade sang, those who slumbered stirred. The Duskbound. The Hollow Wraiths. Others yet unnamed."
"Then I'll face them," Kael said, voice steady.
She arched a brow. "Brave. Foolish. Perhaps both. But it doesn't matter. The wheel turns now. You are no longer just Kael Solhart. You are the center of an unraveling world."
Before he could speak again, she vanished into the dark, her presence like mist fading in morning light.
Kael sat slowly.
The fire cracked.
The blade gleamed.
And the weight of his name pressed down like a storm about to break.