The woods to the east of Black Hollow were once a land of green and gentle birdsong.
Now, they were a forest of dead trees.
Kael walked through the fog-drenched woods, every step ringing out in silence. The sword on his back never ceased humming—not loudly, but always there. Like a second heartbeat. Or a breath drawn by something else.
The farther he strayed from the village, the more the ground distorted. Trees leaned towards him like beggars. Rocks creaked beneath foot in uncommon ways. Even the animals avoided him.
He was not alone.
Something accompanied him.
Not in the trees. Not behind.
Inside him.
---
On the third day, he discovered the ruins.
They were buried halfway in roots and moss—cyclopean rocks inscribed with spirals, runes, and symbols older than the kingdom's establishment. At the center of it was a shattered obelisk, its tip broken and lying on the ground, half-buried in the soil.
Shadowfire throbbed.
Kael walked, his instincts leading him. The instant his boot made contact with the fractured stone platform, the air changed.
A note sounded.
Low. Quivering.
Ancient.
The runes on the obelisk started to glow—the same markings as those on the sword's hilt and now seared into Kael's arm.
He fell to one knee as the mark on his skin seared like flame.
And a voice—not the one from the visions, but deeper, colder—arose from the stones:
"One hundred and one bearers. One hundred and one wars. One hundred and one worlds burned. You are the last."
Kael's fists were balled. "What are you talking about?"
The voice came as stone cracking through the centuries.
"The Blade does not belong to you. You belong to it. It seeks its destruction. You are the last to wield it. The Final War draws near."
He took a step back, chest heaving. "No. I didn't have a choice."
"The sword does not make choices."
Kael remained silent. The sword at his back seemed heavier now—not in weight, but in reality.
This wasn't a gift.
It was a burden.
A cycle.
And he was the next element of its design.
---
That evening, as he pitched camp under a half-fallen archway, he wasn't shocked when the stranger entered the light of the fire.
A woman. Hooded. Cloaked in a cloak of stars.
Her eyes shone silver. Not with magic—with memory.
"I watched the sky burn," she said. "I followed the trail."
Kael didn't draw his sword. Not yet. "Who are you?"
"I am Lysara. I was a Seer of the Ninth Flame."
"Ninth?" he said.
She sat opposite him, the flames making long shadows on her face. "There have been eight before you. Eight great bearers. Eight ages of blood. Each time, Shadowfire comes to destroy the world. Each time, it finds someone powerful enough to attempt to prevent it."
"Prevent it from what?"
"From becoming itself."
She indicated his arm. "The mark is the Gate. You are the Key. The blade is the Door. And something on the other side has waited longer than time to step through."
Kael looked at her. "And if I shatter it?"
Lysara's gaze narrowed.
"No one ever has."
---
Far to the east, at the base of the Black Tower, the sorcerer stood on a balcony of dark crystal.
Around him, the earth perished. Weeping trees drying up. Seething rivers churning. Animals older than humankind waking from their graves beneath the ground.
He gazed west, to the borderlands.
And grinned.
"Let the boy approach," he whispered. "The last carrier treks. And Shadowfire keeps pace with him."