Chapter Eleven: The Ghost in the Sand
The fire's glow flickered against Kael's face, shadows dancing over his features like spirits remembering old battles. Night had stretched long, but Andrew's stories didn't wane—they sharpened. Each word peeled back another layer of history Kael never knew he carried in his blood.
"There's one more Swordmaster," Andrew said at last, his voice low, eyes lost in the past. "One you need to find."
Kael looked up, weary but alert. "One of the six?"
Andrew nodded. "The Fourth. The only one still alive. And the only one who might still fight for something greater than himself."
He knelt near the fire and drew a rough shape in the ash—an arrowhead pointed south.
"His name is David. Your father's cousin. My friend. And for a long time, my rival."
Kael arched a brow. "Another relative? My family tree's starting to look like a battlefield."
Andrew gave a dry laugh. "That's not far off." He stared into the ashes.
"David and Andreas were close—closer than brothers. They fought together in nearly every war, led campaigns side by side. David was Andreas' blade in the south while I held the east."
"But I've never heard his name in any of the old tales," Kael said.
"Because David didn't fight for glory. He fought for loyalty. He was quieter. Less hungry for power. But his sword was no less deadly."
Kael tilted his head. "Stronger than the others?"
Andrew nodded. "Stronger than most. Of the six swordmasters, only Andreas and I ever surpassed him. But even the others—they all feared David when his blade was drawn."
Kael took that in. "Where is he now?"
Andrew's expression turned grave.
"South. Deep in the Desolation. Near the ruins of Ashendune."
Kael recognized the name—it was a place spoken of in curses. A battlefield so broken that time refused to heal it.
"That's where the last war was fought."
Andrew nodded slowly. "The blood never dried there. David stayed after the war. Built a stronghold in the bones of that battlefield. Said he'd seen too much of the world's ambition."
"Why didn't he return to the empire?"
"Because Andreas was gone. And David never fought for thrones—he fought for him. When that ended, so did his purpose."
Kael's voice was quiet. "And he's still alive?"
Andrew smiled faintly. "If anyone could survive that cursed land, it's David. But don't expect a warm welcome. He's not the type to trust easily. Not anymore."
He pulled a cloth from his coat—a red scrap, frayed and worn, wrapped around the tip of an old arrowhead.
"This is from Rivergate. Our last stand before the empire fell. Show it to him. He'll know it came from me."
Kael took the relic, feeling the quiet power that clung to it.
Andrew stepped closer, his gaze serious.
"David might not be stronger than your father. Or me. But what he is—what he's always been—is unshakable. He doesn't bend. Doesn't break. And when he stands beside someone, he stays until the end."
He laid a hand on Kael's shoulder.
"Find him. And earn his trust. Because with him at your side, you won't just be carrying Andreas' legacy—you'll be building it."
Kael looked toward the south, where deserts whispered to ghosts and legends waited to be found.
And he nodded.
"I'll bring him back."