Blood of the Betrayer

The corrupted villagers closed in, their stitched mouths twitching as muffled laughter bubbled beneath the thread. Mrs. Harlow led them, her hollow eyes fixed on Kael, her scythe dragging grooves into the dirt. Elara tightened her grip on the First Weaver's dagger, its rusted edge humming with latent power.

"Kael," she whispered, "we need to run."

But Kael stood frozen, staring at the blade in her hand. The dagger's hilt bore a smudged emblem—a serpent coiled around a thorn. His family's crest. He'd seen it a thousand times engraved on his father's anvil, on the cellar door, on the old sword buried beneath their barn. A relic of the past, his father had called it. A warning.

Mrs. Harlow lunged.

Elara parried the scythe with the dagger, the clash ringing like a funeral bell. The corrupted villagers swarmed, their needle-teeth glinting. Kael snapped into motion, tackling a gray-skinned man to the ground. His hands closed around the man's throat, but the face beneath him was familiar—Thom, the baker, who'd given Kael honey cakes every winter.

"Don't!" Elara shouted, slashing at a child clawing at her leg. "They're still in there!"

Thom's stitched lips peeled back in a snarl. Black sludge oozed from his gums as he spat, "Traitor's blood."

Kael recoiled. The words slithered into his ears, cold and knowing.

Mrs. Harlow swung again. Elara ducked, but the scythe grazed her shoulder, drawing a line of black blood. The Thorn Pendant flared, its light driving the mob back—but not far.

"The well!" Elara grabbed Kael's arm, dragging him toward the stone wall. "Jump!"

They leapt into the darkness.

"..."

The well's water was ice and knives. Kael surfaced, gasping, the dagger's hilt digging into his palm. Elara treaded water beside him, her veins glowing faintly through her sodden tunic.

"Why do they keep calling me that?" Kael demanded. "Traitor's blood."

Elara hesitated. "The vision I had… the First Weaver's husband. He looked like you."

"You think he's my ancestor?"

"I know he is." She nodded at the dagger. "This was his. He tried to force her to sacrifice their child to the Veil."

Kael's chest tightened. "My family's always been here. Smiths, farmers, butchers. No one special."

"Liar," Elara said softly. "You knew about the Veil before I did. Your grandfather's stories—"

"Fairy tales!"

"Then why does this dagger sing when you hold it?"

Kael stilled. The blade was humming, a low, resonant vibration that matched the rhythm of his pulse. Shadows shifted on the well's walls, forming shapes—a man with Kael's face, a weeping woman, a child's hand slipping into the dark.

"Blood calls to blood," the Veil whispered, its voice echoing through the water. "Look deeper, little betrayer."

The vision took him.

"..."

Kael stood in a forge, heat blistering his skin. A man hammered at a sword, his back broad and familiar. The smith turned, and Kael's breath caught—it was his father, but older, harder, his eyes devoid of warmth.

"It's done," the smith said. "The dagger will bind her."

Across the room, a woman knelt, her wrists chained. The First Weaver. Her face was bruised, her hair matted with blood, but her voice was steel. "You cannot make me choose. I will never offer my child."

The smith lifted the freshly forged dagger—the same one in Kael's hand. "Then you choose death."

"I choose life," she spat. "For her. For all of them."

She lunged, chains snapping, and seized the dagger. Before the smith could react, she plunged it into her own heart. Blood sprayed, sizzling against the hot metal. The smith roared, but the Veil's golden light erupted, swallowing the forge. When it faded, the woman was gone. Only the dagger remained, lodged in the anvil.

The smith wrenched it free, his hands blistering. "You will not escape, Liora. I will find your line. I will make them pay."

The scene shifted. Generations of smiths—Kael's ancestors—passing down the dagger. Whispering its purpose: to track the Weaver's bloodline, to ensure the Veil's demands were met. To sacrifice, if necessary.

Kael's grandfather's voice echoed: "The Veil's balance depends on the pact. We are the keepers. The enforcers. Never forget."

"..."

kael resurfaced, choking on well water. Elara held him afloat, her eyes wide. "What did you see?"

"My family," he rasped. "They've been hunting yours. For centuries."

Her grip tightened. "What?"

"The dagger—it's not a tool. It's a weapon. Meant to control the Weavers. To force them to… to…"

"Sacrifice," Elara finished. Her gaze dropped to the blade. "And you?"

"I didn't know." The words tasted like ash. "My father, my grandfather—they never told me. But they knew."

Above, Mrs. Harlow's distorted face appeared over the well's edge. Her stitches split as she hissed, "Come out, traitor. The Unseen have such plans for you."

Elara's pendant pulsed. "We can't stay here."

"Where, then?" Kael snapped. "Your temple? My house? Everywhere is a trap!"

"The forge." Elara's voice was steady. "If your family made the dagger, they might have left something else. A way to break the pact."

Kael stared at her. "You trust me? After what I just—"

"I don't." She plunged underwater, resurfacing at the well's hidden tunnel. "But I trust this."

She held up the dagger, its edge glowing faintly blue.

"..."

The forge was cold, the embers long dead. Kael's father hadn't worked here in years, not since the village blamed him for the drought. Or was that another lie?

Elara barred the door while Kael pried up the floorboard beneath the anvil—the one his father had forbidden him to touch. Inside lay a iron box, its surface etched with thorns and serpents.

"Open it," Elara said.

The lock yielded to the dagger's edge. Inside, a journal, brittle with age, and a coiled silver chain. Kael flipped through the pages, his stomach churning.

"14th of Frostfall: Liora's descendant has been found. The girl shows signs of the Weaving Gift. We must prepare the dagger."

"3rd of Emberrain: The Veil weakens. The smiths must enforce the pact. If she refuses, the child will suffice."

"9th of Duskdeep: Failed. She took her own life. The Veil rages. The Unseen whisper promises."

Elara peered over his shoulder. "They were documenting us. Hunting us."

Kael's hands shook. "This chain—it's like your pendant."

She touched it, jerking back as a spark flew. "It's a cage. For Weavers."

Footsteps thudded outside. Mrs. Harlow's voice, warped and guttural: "We smell you, little liars."

Kael pocketed the chain. "We need to go."

"Not yet." Elara pressed her palm to the anvil. "Your family's magic is here. In the iron. I can feel it."

She slammed the dagger into the anvil.

The forge erupted in light.

Kael's ancestors appeared, spectral smiths hammering at ghostly metal. Their voices overlapped, a chorus of duty and regret.

"The pact must hold."

"The Weavers are stubborn."

"The child, take the child—"

Elara gripped the dagger, her blood dripping onto the anvil. "Show me the truth!"

The vision sharpened. Kael's father stood at the forge, a younger Kael playing in the corner.

"Why do we keep the dagger, Papa?"

"To protect us, boy. From the ones who'd let the world burn to save a single soul."

"But what if the soul is worth saving?"

His father backhanded him. "Sentiment is weakness. Remember that, or you'll end up like your mother."

Kael stumbled. His mother. She'd vanished when he was six. The village called it a fever.

Elara's voice cut through the memory. "Kael—look."

In the vision, his father opened a hidden cellar. Inside, a woman chained to the wall—Kael's mother, her veins blackened, her eyes full of tears.

"Please," she begged. "Let me see my son."

"You're no mother," his father spat. "You're a Weaver. And you'll serve the pact."

Kael's legs gave out. "No. No, no, no—"

The forge door splintered. Mrs. Harlow burst in, her scythe raised. "Traitor."

Elara yanked the dagger from the anvil. "Kael, move!"

He didn't. He stared at his mother's ghostly face, her mouth forming his name.

Mrs. Harlow swung.

Elara leapt between them, the dagger meeting the scythe in a shower of sparks. The collision unleashed a shockwave, throwing Kael into the wall. His head struck stone, and the world went black.

...

Kael woke to the smell of burning herbs. Elara crouched beside him, the silver chain from the box now fused around her wrist.

"You're alive," she said flatly.

"Where's Mrs. Harlow?"

"Gone. For now." She nodded to the door, barred with the anvil. "The chain—it suppresses the Veil's voice. Bought us time."

Kael touched his temple, his fingers coming away bloody. "My mother… she was like you."

Elara's silence was answer enough.

"All this time," he whispered. "My family hunted hers. Hunted yours."

"And mine hid. Ran. Died." She stood, her voice hardening. "The Unseen are coming, Kael. The Veil can't hold much longer."

"Then let it fall."

She turned, incredulous.

"If the price is more blood—more children —let it burn."

Elara knelt, gripping his collar. "Your mother didn't let it burn. My mother didn't. And I won't."

The chain on her wrist glowed, its light reflecting in her eyes—not gold anymore, but black, full of stars and teeth.

"You're changing," Kael said.

"We both are." She released him. "Now get up. We're ending this."

END OF CHAPTER 5

Next: Elara and Kael confront the Unseen's avatar in the Whispering Woods, but the key to victory lies in a choice Kael isn't ready to make—forgive his bloodline, or become the betrayer he was born to be.