Chapter 4: The Blacksmith's Rage
The whisper lingered in Kael's ears, curling like smoke and threading cold fire down his spine.
"Kael…"
The name was barely more than breath—yet it struck like thunder. The rift's violet glow pulsed brighter, its edges fracturing like brittle glass under pressure. The Shattered Crown groaned beneath their feet, its ancient stones echoing a deep, guttural tremor that rose from the vault below.
Kael's hand tightened around the shard, its glacial bite anchoring him to reality. Its runes flickered erratically, reacting to the presence of whatever stirred beneath them.
Toren turned sharply, shepherding Lirien and Jessa toward the forge with protective urgency.
"We need to move," he barked, voice low and edged with steel. His eyes, usually calm and measured, now shimmered with tension. "Whatever's down there, it's not waiting for an invitation."
Mara's gnarled hand clamped down on Kael's arm, her cane stabbing into the cracked earth beside them. She leaned on it as if to hold back the very weight of what approached. Her knuckles whitened.
"He's right," she said, her voice tight. "The vault is stirring. It knows you're cutting the tether. We can't afford hesitation."
Kael nodded grimly. His shoulder flared in pain—Jessa's dream had left its mark, a jagged cut beneath his tattered cloak. Warm blood wept from the wound, a reminder that the lines between mind and body were thinning.
"How do we even find it?" he asked, eyes scanning the fractured plaza.
"There's an old passage." Mara pointed, her finger trembling as she gestured toward the southern edge of the ruins, beyond the crumbling steps of the plaza. "Beneath the Weaver statue—or what remains of it. It's sealed, but the shard should unlock it. If it still remembers how."
Before Kael could respond, Toren grunted sharply and stumbled to his knees. His broad frame shook, both hands clutching his head as if trying to wrench something out of his skull. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"Toren?" Lirien cried, yanking at his arm. Her small voice cracked, sharp with fear. But he didn't respond.
His eyes rolled back—white, empty—and Kael's heart lurched.
"Not again," Kael muttered. He dropped beside his friend, pressing a hand against his shoulder. The shard in his other hand flared violently, its runes a panicked strobe. "Toren! Stay with me, damn it!"
Toren's lips moved, and what came out chilled Kael to his bones. The voice was not Toren's.
"Fire… blood… they're coming…"
It was deeper, distorted—like someone else speaking through him, hollow and cruel.
Mara's expression darkened as she knelt beside them, her cane forgotten.
"No," she whispered. "It's pulling him back again. But it's stronger now—whatever dream he's caught in, it's no longer just memory. It's feeding. Hunting."
Kael's fists clenched. "Then I'm going in again." His voice was steel.
He reached for Toren's chest with the shard, but Mara's hand shot out and caught his wrist.
"Wait," she hissed. Her eyes bored into his, intense and unyielding. "This isn't like the others. His dream—it's deeper, older. It's tied to something darker. You'll need more than courage this time."
Kael wrenched his hand free, jaw tight. "I don't have time for your riddles, Mara! He's dying!"
She hesitated—just a breath—then reached beneath her shawl and pulled forth a small vial. Inside, thick black liquid swirled slowly, flecked with shimmering gold. The glow it gave off was wrong—neither holy nor infernal, but something between.
"Drink this," she said. Her voice lowered, almost reverent. "It'll anchor you. Keep the dream from swallowing you whole. But know this—it comes from my past."
Kael froze, the vial heavy in his palm. "Your past?" he echoed, suspicion knitting his brow. "What aren't you telling me?"
"There's no time," she said again, more urgently. "Just trust me—or lose him forever."
Toren's trembling became violent. A roar burst from his chest, primal and pained. The shadows writhed beneath his skin.
Kael cursed under his breath, uncorked the vial, and threw it back. It burned like molten iron, a searing path down his throat. He gagged—but then the world cleared. His heartbeat steadied, his limbs no longer felt like they floated in fog. The shard's glow synced with his pulse, creating a strange rhythm—steady, measured, determined.
He pressed it to Toren's chest—and the world fell away.
Heat hit him like a battering ram.
Kael staggered as he landed on a battlefield scorched by flame. Ash swirled in the air, stinging his eyes. Sulfur choked his lungs, and rivers of lava cracked through the blackened stone. The sky above was no sky at all—just a churning mass of smoke and fire.
This was no dream.
This was war.
Weapons littered the ground—some snapped in half, others melted into slag. Skeletal remains clung to shattered shields, locked in death. The air shimmered with heat, but beneath it—Kael sensed the same malice that clung to the rift outside.
A figure stood atop a mound of rubble.
Toren.
But not the man Kael knew.
The blacksmith was clad in jagged armor that pulsed with red light. His hammer was enormous—twice its normal size—and molten cracks ran along its length. His eyes blazed with fury. Not fear. Not confusion. Rage. Pure, undiluted rage.
And he wasn't alone.
Shadows circled him, humanoid in form but faceless, their weapons dripping molten steel. Their movements were coordinated, synchronized like soldiers—yet utterly alien.
"Toren!" Kael called out, stepping forward. A shadow lunged. He ducked, but the blade grazed his arm—a searing, acidic pain flared across his skin. He twisted and retaliated, the shard flashing. A thread of white light lashed out, cleaving the creature into ash.
"It's me—Kael! Snap out of it!"
Toren's head turned slowly, eyes glowing brighter. His roar shook the ground.
"TRAITOR!" he thundered.
The hammer swung.
A blast of heat slammed into Kael's chest, flinging him backward. He crashed against the stone, breath ripped from his lungs. Pain flared across his ribs. The vial's power steadied his mind, but the fury radiating from Toren was a storm threatening to rip everything away.
Kael staggered up, narrowly dodging another hammer strike that left a crater in the ground. Lava bubbled up through it like blood from a wound.
"Ashen Ridge," Kael muttered to himself. "This is it, isn't it? This… this was the battle."
Toren charged.
"You left us!" he roared. "The ridge fell—and you ran! You ran, Kael!"
Kael dodged again, diving behind a half-buried anvil scorched black by flame. His mind raced.
It wasn't just a dream—it was a memory, twisted and corrupted by whatever had latched onto Toren's pain. That made it real. That made it vulnerable.
"I didn't leave you!" Kael shouted, vaulting over the anvil and slashing at another shadow. "This isn't real, Toren! You're not alone!"
He thrust the shard forward, light whipping out to ensnare Toren's arm. The strike slowed—hesitated. For a heartbeat, Kael saw hesitation in the blacksmith's eyes.
Then—another charge.
Kael ducked and rolled, the hammer barely missing his head. Stone exploded behind him.
"Lirien's waiting for you," Kael panted, dodging to the side. "She's here—alive. You think I'd be here if I'd left you behind?"
Toren hesitated. Just a fraction.
"Lirien…?"
The name rippled through the dream like a dropped stone in water. The shadows paused. Their movements stuttered.
Kael didn't waste the moment.
He sprinted back to the anvil and drove the shard into it.
The runes carved into the metal sparked—Weaver marks, old and powerful. Light burst forth, wrapping around Toren's limbs, his hammer, his chest. Threads of silver and white bound him in place, not with chains—but with memory.
"You're not in Ashen Ridge," Kael said through clenched teeth, pouring every ounce of will into the shard. "You're in the Shattered Crown. With us. With her."
Toren screamed. The dream cracked.
The shadows lunged one final time. Kael twisted the shard—and the anvil exploded in light. Fire washed over the battlefield, white and pure, dissolving the darkness.
Toren fell to his knees.
And the dream shattered.
Kael gasped awake, sweat dripping from his brow. The cold stone of the plaza greeted him. Toren lay beside him, coughing violently, chest heaving.
"Kael…" His voice was hoarse, cracked. "What the hells was that?"
Kael exhaled, relief soaking through him like rain. He grabbed Toren's shoulder, steadying him. "You're back."
Toren blinked, dazed. "Ashen Ridge. I saw it again… I felt it. The fire. The screams. I thought—" He swallowed. "I thought you left me."
"It wasn't me," Kael said softly, his eyes steady. "It's the curse. Twisting your memories."
Lirien rushed forward, tears streaming down her face. She flung her arms around Toren, sobbing into his chest.
"You were gone again…"
"I'm here, lass," he murmured, wrapping a massive arm around her. But his eyes locked onto Kael. "You pulled me back."
Kael stood, groaning as bruises flared across his body. The shard in his hand dimmed—heavier now, as if burdened by what it had witnessed.
Mara approached, face weary and grim. "He's right," she said. "The shadow—it's learning. It's feeding off old wounds. And Toren won't be the last it tries to consume."
Kael turned to her, voice hard. "That vial. What was it?"
She hesitated. Then, quietly, "A remnant of who I once was. Before the Sundering. I served something greater. Something I thought was sealed. Forgotten."
Kael stepped closer. "The shadow? The vault?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Toren's grip tightened around Lirien. "You knew this thing?"
"I didn't know it would wake," Mara snapped, raw emotion slipping through her calm. "The rift changed everything. It's bleeding through."
The ground trembled violently, silencing them. The rift pulsed again, darker than before.
And then—
"Kael…"
The voice returned. Silken. Ancient. A whisper from a mouth that had never breathed air. It wrapped around Kael like a shroud.
He froze.
The shard burned ice-cold in his palm.
Mara grabbed his arm. "The vault. Now. Before it finds you first."