The silence that followed the battle was suffocating. Reven stood in the chamber's centre, the ancient blade still humming in his grip. His breath was slow, measured, but the weight of what had just happened pressed against his chest.
The last Voidspawn had fled.
That meant others would come.
He turned his gaze to the ruins around him. The light that had surged through the carvings along the walls was fading, but a strange energy still lingered in the air—like the aftershock of something awakening.
The statue's face, once lost in shadow, now revealed faint details beneath the dust. Reven stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the inscription carved into the stone beneath its feet.
The letters were old, but not unfamiliar. His mind worked through the script, shaping the words as if he had always known them.
"The blade of the Forsaken King. To be wielded only by the last who walks his path."
Reven exhaled sharply. The Forsaken King.
It was a name that had drifted through the remnants of history, buried beneath the weight of war and time. A legend whispered in fragments, carried in the dying words of those who still remembered the world before it fell.
A ruler who had challenged the heavens. A warrior who had defied fate.
And now, Reven held his blade.
The weight of it felt heavier than before.
The truth lingered at the edges of his thoughts, but there was no time for it. The Voidspawn had left, and that meant the ruins were compromised.
He needed to move.
With one last glance at the inscription, Reven turned and strode toward the exit, the sword's hilt firm in his grasp.
The ruins gave way to the open expanse of the Ashen Wastes—a land of scorched stone and fractured earth, where the sky stretched wide and colourless above an endless horizon.
Reven pulled his cloak tighter, the dry wind biting at his skin. He needed to find shelter before nightfall. Out here, the dark belonged to things worse than the Voidspawn.
He followed the remnants of an ancient road, its path barely visible beneath centuries of decay. His boots pressed against the cracked ground, each step measured, each sound absorbed into the vast stillness of the wasteland.
And then, the wind shifted.
Footsteps.
Reven stilled. His fingers tightened around the sword's hilt as he turned his head slightly, listening.
A shape moved along the ridge to his left. Not Voidspawn. Something else.
Then, a voice—low, measured, edged with curiosity.
"You walk with the blade of a dead king. Either you're a fool, or you've stolen something you don't understand."
Reven exhaled, slow and steady. He turned fully now, his gaze settling on the figure standing above him.
A woman, wrapped in tattered leathers and a flowing cloak, her silver hair catching the dim light. A hunter's bow rested across her back, its shape sleek and reinforced with metal.
And her eyes—piercing, golden—marked with something not quite human.
Beast-Kin.
The realization settled in his mind before she moved, before she leapt from the ridge and landed gracefully on the cracked earth below.
Her posture remained loose, but her hands hovered near her weapons.
She was measuring him.
Testing his reaction.
Reven stayed still, watching.
"I didn't steal it," he said evenly.
Her eyes flickered to the sword at his side. A shift in her expression—recognition.
"You drew it from the ruins?" she asked, tone unreadable.
He nodded.
She studied him for a moment longer before tilting her head slightly. "Then you just painted a target on your back, stranger."
Reven exhaled through his nose. "Not the first time."
The woman gave a short, dry chuckle. "No, I imagine it isn't."
She took a step forward, her posture losing some of its tension.
"I'm Kaela," she said. "Fangborn."
Reven recognized the name. The Fangborn clans had long since scattered, but their warriors were still feared—mercenaries, hunters, survivors of the old world.
"You knew about the blade," he said, watching her carefully.
Kaela's expression darkened slightly. "Anyone who remembers the wars does."
A beat of silence stretched between them. The wind whispered through the barren expanse, carrying the distant echoes of a world long gone.
Reven weighed his next words carefully. He needed information.
"You said I painted a target on my back," he said. "Who's coming for me?"
Kaela's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Depends on who saw the light in those ruins," she said. "Could be the Scorchborn, could be the Warbands. Hell, could even be the Remnants—though they tend to let the dead stay buried."
Reven's grip tightened around the hilt of his blade. None of those options were ideal.
"Then I need to keep moving," he muttered.
Kaela tilted her head slightly. "You planning to wander the wastes alone?"
He met her gaze, unreadable. "I have so far."
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"That blade will draw more than just scavengers," she said. "If you don't know how to wield it, you're as good as dead."
Reven exhaled slowly. She wasn't wrong.
Kaela took another step closer, crossing her arms. "I've seen too many fools pick up relics they don't understand and get themselves killed. But you—" she paused, studying him again.
"You don't look like a fool."
Reven arched a brow. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
Kaela's smirk deepened. "A warning."
Another silence stretched between them.
Finally, she sighed, rolling her shoulders before stepping past him. "I'm heading east. There's a settlement along the edge of the wastes—low profile, off the warpaths. You might last a few days longer if you come with me."
Reven considered her words.
He had always travelled alone.
But now, with the Forsaken Blade at his side and half the wasteland watching for its glow, he needed to be smarter.
After a long moment, he nodded once.
Kaela glanced over her shoulder, then started walking.
"Try to keep up, stranger."
Reven followed, the weight of the sword pressing against his hip.
Somewhere behind them, in the depths of the ruins, the whispers of the past had stirred once more.
And in the distance, beyond the horizon, something else was watching.