Chapter 1: Blood on the Snow

The wind screamed through Veyrholt's peaks, a mournful howl that carried the stench of ash and death. Draven Keep burned, its ancient stone crumbling into the night, embers falling like dying stars onto the snow below. Kael Draven staggered through the ruin, a shadow among shadows, his breath a ragged mist in the cold. Blood seeped from the gash in his side, warm against his skin, but he didn't feel it. Not really. The pain was nothing compared to the weight in his chest—the screams of his kin, the laughter of their killers. His mother's voice, pleading. His half-brother's, silent. House Draven was gone, erased by noble steel in a single, bloody night.

Kael was sixteen, a bastard with nothing but scars and a name no one wanted. House Valthor had led the slaughter—golden hawks on black banners, their blades carving through his family like a scythe through wheat. They'd whispered of Draven's secrets, old and dangerous, a threat to Veyrholt's iron rivers and noble thrones. Kael hadn't understood then. He did now. His boots sank into the snow, each step heavier, until he reached a clearing ringed by skeletal pines. The keep's glow painted the frost red, a cruel mirror of the blood he'd failed to spill.

He should have died with them. Maybe he still would. The cold gnawed at his bones, whispering promises of rest, but Kael's rage burned hotter. He'd make them pay. All of them.

A shadow moved. Kael's hand twitched to the notched sword at his hip—useless, its edge dulled from a desperate swing at a Valthor shield. An old man stood there, cloaked in tattered furs, his face a map of creases beneath a hood. A ring on his finger caught the light, etched with runes Kael didn't recognize. In his hands, a jagged shard of metal gleamed—not steel, something older, its surface carved with alien lines that pulsed a faint, electric blue. The air around it hummed, a sound that sank into Kael's bones.

"Draven's last," the man said, voice like gravel underfoot. His eyes held Kael's, unblinking. "Blood calls. Will you answer?"

Kael's lip curled, a snarl born of pain and fury. "I've had enough of riddles." He stepped forward, fist clenched, but the man didn't move.

"A choice," the stranger said, holding the shard out. "Take what's owed—or let the snow take you."

Kael lunged, aiming to shove him aside, but the man was faster. His hand snapped out, seizing Kael's wrist, and the shard plunged into his chest.

Pain erupted, a white-hot storm that tore a scream from his throat. Kael fell to his knees, clawing at his skin as the metal burrowed deeper, flesh parting like water. It sank, fusing with bone, and a pulse flared—alien, steady, where his heart should have been. His vision darkened, the world tilting, but the gash on his side sealed, skin knitting shut in moments. Fear clawed at him, raw and sharp. What is this? He wanted to rip it out, to scream, but the pain was shifting—replaced by a strength he didn't understand, a heat that burned away the cold.

A voice spoke in his mind, low and cold, like a blade on stone: "Rise, vessel. Their blood is owed… for now."

Kael's breath hitched, panic surging. "Get out!" he rasped, hands trembling, but the voice didn't answer. The pulse thrummed, unyielding, and the clearing came back into focus—sharper, clearer, as if the night itself had stepped back.

Hooves thundered from the ridge. Three riders burst through the pines—black-and-gold of House Valthor, swords drawn, their eyes glinting with the promise of an easy kill. Scavengers, come to finish the job.

"There," the lead knight barked, helm crested with a hawk. "The whelp lives."

Kael stood, slow, the shard's pulse a drumbeat in his chest. He should run. He should die. But the heat in his veins whispered otherwise. The riders charged, snow spraying, the knight's blade arcing for his throat.

Kael moved—faster than he should have, faster than he ever had. He ducked the swing, the blade whistling past, and drove his fist into the knight's helm. Metal crumpled, bone snapped, and blood sprayed, warm against his skin. The knight fell, neck twisted, horse bolting into the dark.

The second rider hesitated, eyes wide. Kael didn't. He seized the man's leg, yanking him down with a crunch of armor on ice. His boot came down—once, twice—until the helm caved, the scream dying in a gurgle. Blood steamed in the frost, a fleeting warmth.

The third turned to flee, shouting, "Demon!" Kael's chest heaved, the shard's pulse quickening, but he held back. Something told him to wait. The voice purred: "More will come. Always."

The ridge stirred—more hooves, more steel, a horn's wail cutting the night. A dozen riders now, torches blazing, their captain in gold at the lead. Kael backed toward the trees, but a lance grazed his arm, pinning his sleeve to a pine. He snarled, trapped, as the captain drew a longsword, his grin a promise of death.

"Nowhere left, Draven," the captain said, blade raised.

The shard's heat surged, unbidden, a fire in Kael's palm. He thrust his hand out, desperate, and a jagged blue arc tore through the air—crackling, alive. It struck the captain's chest, burning through steel, his scream cut short as he fell, smoke curling from the ruin. The others froze, terror in their eyes, as Kael ripped free, the shard's hum a dark promise. Let them come. He'd bury them all.