Chapter Five: The Pale Eye
Far to the north, beyond the dead rivers and the ice-choked cliffs of Grell's Reach, a tower stood that wasn't there yesterday.
It rose from the bones of the land like a spear made of shadow and iron, and the sky above it swirled in an unnatural spiral—as though the world was looking away from it on purpose.
Inside the tower, she watched.
Wrapped in robes darker than night, with silver veins pulsing beneath her skin, the Pale Eye sat upon a throne made from petrified trees and frozen screams. Her face was hidden behind a mask of polished bone, carved with runes that flickered when she breathed.
And now, she was breathing fast.
A servant of ash knelt before her, head bowed so low the heat of her presence was blistering its back.
"It has begun, my Lady."
The Pale Eye raised her gaze. Her true eyes, beneath the mask, could see farther than any mortal's. They pierced time. They pierced bloodlines.
And now they were locked on Kael.
"The Heir has awakened."
Her voice was soft, like snow falling on a grave.
The servant trembled. "Shall we send the Hollowed Ones?"
"No," she whispered. "Not yet. Let him walk further. Let him remember."
She leaned forward, her bony fingers curling like spider legs around the arms of her throne.
"He must reclaim more before I unmake him. The prophecy will hold until the third gate breaks. We still have time."
Her eyes burned through the walls of the world, through forests and rivers, over ruin and silence, until they found Kael once more—standing alone in the shattered hall of Hollowthorn.
And for just a moment, Kael felt it.
A cold, prying sensation behind his eyes. Like a hand brushing across his thoughts. Like something terrible… watching.
Back in the ruins, Kael dropped to one knee, clutching his temple.
The air was sharp, thin. The Thornpath's glow had faded. The dead were gone—but something darker had touched him. Just for a second. Just enough to know: there was someone else in this game. Someone who had been waiting far longer than he had.
He stood slowly, breathing hard.
The wind whispered again—not in words, but in intention. Go deeper.
Beneath the hall, hidden in its rootstone, was the crypt.
Kael moved without question.
Stairs spiraled down into blackness, carved not by hands but by something older, older even than Hollowthorn. His steps echoed like drumbeats. The torch he carried caught fire without flint—silver-blue, dancing strangely.
At the bottom of the stairs was a door. Not stone. Not wood. But something in between—living, breathing, pulsing with quiet light.
It opened to his touch.
Inside, laid atop a bed of woven light and preserved branches, was a sword. No dust, no rust. It hummed softly, a low, sorrowful note, like it had been waiting to be picked up again.
Its name burned into Kael's mind without a word.
"Veilrend."
He reached out, fingers trembling, and lifted it.
The moment he did, the torch went out.
And the sword sang.