Chapter Seven: The Sixth Blade
Kael followed Ylsa through a landscape reborn in strangeness.
The forest had changed again—no longer the decaying ruin of Hollowthorn's borders, but something older, untouched. The trees here were taller than towers, their bark carved with stories in a forgotten script. Flowers bloomed that shimmered like starlight. The wind carried voices, not quite words, but near enough to feel.
They walked in silence for hours, Ylsa leading with unnatural grace, Kael trailing behind with Veilrend strapped across his back.
Eventually, the forest thinned, and the earth sloped upward into a high ridge. At the crest, Kael saw it: the land beyond Hollowthorn.
The Continent of Itharion.
A vast sprawl of warring kingdoms, endless wilds, and ruins of gods. From this high vantage, the world stretched in all directions—a cracked mosaic of fire and frost, steel and stone. Storms raged to the west where the sea carved into the coast of Kaelthar. Lightning danced endlessly over the black plains of Veymark, and far to the south, red desert winds clawed at the peaks of Dun Avalen.
But it was the mountains to the east that held Kael's eye.
A ring of jagged spires surrounded a single, flat plateau carved with seven monoliths.
Ylsa's voice broke the silence.
"The Sable Circle. Where the Six Swordmasters last stood."
Kael frowned. "Swordmasters?"
Ylsa turned, one brow raised. "The old songs really are dead in your village, aren't they?"
She waved her hand, and the air shimmered. Images appeared—half smoke, half memory.
Six figures stood in a broken circle, weapons drawn. Each was surrounded by a storm of magic, elemental and wild. One stood within flame. Another, cloaked in wind. One bled shadows, another light.
"They were not kings. Not chosen by blood, but by skill. The Six Swordmasters were the last to ever touch the full weave of Itharion's magic through steel. They trained under no banner. Answered to no throne. And each one carved their name into legend."
The images faded, and her eyes hardened.
"But now, only one remains."
Kael's pulse quickened. "Andrew."
Ylsa nodded. "Andrew Blackthorn. He is the Sixth. The only one who refused to kneel to the Pale Eye when she rose. He vanished ten years ago—after shattering the gate to the Weeping Vale with a single strike."
"Where is he now?"
Ylsa pointed beyond the eastern ridge, where thunder echoed without clouds.
"He waits in the Vale of Echoes. Testing those who would reach him. He does not waste time on the weak."
Kael tightened his grip on Veilrend.
"I'm going," he said.
Ylsa tilted her head. "You're not ready."
"I wasn't ready for Hollowthorn either," he said, already stepping forward. "But I survived."
She smiled again—this time, something proud in it. "Then perhaps the sword didn't choose poorly after all.
Two days later, Kael reached the edge of the Vale.
It was nothing like he imagined.
The ground was made of shattered glass and whispering sand. Voices echoed from nowhere. Shapes moved in the mist, mimicking his footsteps, his breath. The Vale itself was a test—an ancient battlefield cursed by the remnants of magic left behind.
Kael pressed forward, Veilrend glowing softly at his hip. The further he walked, the more the air sharpened, like steel drawn across skin.
Then, he saw him.
A man sat on a flat stone surrounded by a ring of scorched earth. He wore a long, tattered coat of gray leather, hair black streaked with silver, sword planted point-first into the ground before him. His back was to Kael, but he spoke before Kael could announce himself.
"You walk like someone carrying a blade too old for his bones."
Kael stopped. "You're Andrew."
The man didn't look up. "And you're the dead boy with the living name."
Kael swallowed. "I came to learn."
Andrew stood slowly. Even without drawing his blade, the pressure of his presence bent the air around him. The mist recoiled. The wind hushed.
"You came to survive. Learning is a side effect."
He turned at last, and Kael felt it like a blow—power, raw and unmasked. His eyes were dark, but not empty. They held every war he'd fought and every death he hadn't had time to regret.
"Draw your sword, Ashren. Let's see if Hollowthorn has teeth."