The fire had long since burned to embers.
Kael didn't sleep that night.
Not because he couldn't, but because sleep felt like a trap—like the moment he closed his eyes, something would slip through the cracks of the night and take him. The blade lay across his lap, unmoving yet quietly humming like a storm being held at bay. He traced a finger along the etched runes on the flat of the steel. His name was among them. Solhart. His father's legacy. His burden now.
The woman from last night hadn't returned. She hadn't told him her name. But her warning echoed endlessly in his head.
"You've become a beacon."
When morning broke, it came with a pale, weak light. The sun barely pushed through the cloudy sky. Snow flurried down lightly, dancing along the edges of the stream as Kael packed up his things and continued north.
Every step forward was heavier now.
And not just from exhaustion.
The air felt different. Tense. Like the mountain itself was watching him.
He didn't notice the footprints at first.
But then he stopped, mid-step.
Snow doesn't lie.
There were prints ahead—fresh ones—human. Four, no, five pairs. Deep and narrow. Travelers? No. Their pattern was too wide, too organized.
Soldiers.
Or worse.
Kael knelt to inspect them closer. The snow around the edges of the prints had frozen in an unnatural pattern—lines of frost radiating outward like spiderwebs. Not normal.
"Magic," he whispered.
He stood and drew his blade again, holding it loosely in one hand as he began to follow the prints deeper into the woods that had crept up around the mountainside.
As he pressed on, the forest grew darker. The trees twisted the higher he climbed, their branches clawing toward the sky like desperate fingers. Even the wind seemed quieter here—held back by something ancient.
Then he heard it.
A voice.
Faint, whispering… yet everywhere.
"...return… return… return…"
Kael spun around.
No one.
He pressed onward, the sound of his own breath growing louder in his ears. The prints led to a clearing ringed with stones. At the center stood a monolithic slab carved with runes that glowed faintly blue beneath the snow. The footprints ended there.
And in front of the stone—shadows.
Five of them.
Humanoid, but not human.
Each wore a shroud of black mist, armor fused to skin, and faces that weren't faces—blank hollows with faint glimmers of light where eyes should have been.
Kael stepped back, blade ready.
The creatures moved in silence, except for the whisper.
"...Solhart…"
They knew his name.
Without warning, they lunged.
Kael ducked the first strike, spinning into a counter slash. His blade tore through one of them, but there was no blood. Just a ripple, like smoke parting.
They were Hollow Wraiths.
He had read of them in the ruined tomes at the village temple. Fragments of corrupted souls. Soldiers from another age, cursed to serve an eternal master.
The second one struck him across the chest.
His armor cracked—he flew backward into a tree, the breath torn from his lungs.
He rolled just in time to avoid a blade of blackened iron as it buried into the earth where his head had been. Snow burst around him. Kael leapt to his feet, blade glowing bright now, responding not to his will—but his need.
It moved faster. Smoother.
He became a whirlwind of strikes, the blade leaving trails of light with each motion. One wraith collapsed, then another.
But more kept coming.
From the trees. From the shadows. From the stone itself.
He was surrounded.
This would be his grave.
Until the air split with light.
A pillar of white flame erupted from the earth, consuming three of the Wraiths in an instant. They screamed—not with voices, but with soul-tearing shrieks that shook Kael's bones.
A figure descended from the treetops, cloak blazing behind them.
It was the woman again.
She landed beside him, twin blades of silver light forming in her hands.
"You were supposed to run," she said.
Kael coughed, blood on his lips. "Not really my style."
She didn't reply. Together, they fought.
The Wraiths moved like phantoms, but she was quicker. Her blades sang in harmony, carving through darkness like the edge of dawn itself. Kael followed her lead, striking down those who dared to approach her back.
Minutes passed like hours.
Until finally—
Silence.
No more whispers. No more movement.
Only the snow falling gently once more.
Kael collapsed onto one knee, breath ragged. "You're good at dramatic entrances."
She gave him a side glance. "You're lucky I was watching."
"Still not going to tell me your name?"
She paused. Then:
"Elira."
Kael blinked. "You're joking."
"No."
"My sister's name was Elara."
"Not me," she said. "Elira. Different woman. Different fate."
Kael grunted. "Right."
They turned back toward the monolith. Its glow had faded. But etched on the surface now was something new.
A symbol.
A winged sword buried in flame.
Kael didn't recognize it.
But Elira did.
"The Sealed Temple," she murmured. "It's already opened."
Kael looked at her. "Then we're late?"
"No," she said grimly. "We're right on time for the end."
He stood. "What now?"
"We head east," she said. "To the Spire."
"And what exactly is the Spire?"
She looked him dead in the eyes. "The place where your story began. And where the world starts to end."
Kael's grip tightened around the blade.
So be it.