Chapter 2: Steel and Ash

The forest swallowed Kael whole, its pines clawing at the sky like the bones of some ancient beast. Snow clung to the branches, heavy and wet, muffling the world into a suffocating silence—broken only by the ragged rasp of his breath and the shard's relentless pulse in his chest. Each beat was a reminder, a cold rhythm that drowned out the ache in his legs, the sting of frost on his skin.

He ran, boots sinking into the drifts, the weight of Draven Keep's ashes still clinging to his tattered cloak. The horn's wail followed, sharp as a blade, cutting through the night. Valthor's riders were close—too close—their torches flickering through the trees like the eyes of a hunting pack.

"Run, vessel," the voice hissed in his skull, its tone a blade's edge, cold and unyielding. "Or rend them. Their blood feeds us."

Kael's teeth clenched, a snarl caught in his throat. He didn't answer—couldn't. The shard's words were a chain, wrapping tighter with every step, binding him to a purpose he didn't understand. What was it? A weapon? A curse?

He knew nothing of its origins, only that it had come from the old man, with his cryptic riddles and rune-etched ring. It healed him, made him stronger, but the voice… it wanted something, hungered for something, and Kael feared what that might be.

His hand brushed the notched sword at his hip, its edge dulled from a desperate swing at a Valthor shield hours ago. Useless now, but the weight of it grounded him, a tether to the boy he'd been before the fire, before the shard.

That boy was dead, burned with his kin, but Kael clung to the memory like a drowning man to driftwood. He didn't know what he was becoming—only that he couldn't stop.

A root snagged his boot, and he stumbled, knee slamming into the snow with a dull crunch. Pain flared, sharp and fleeting, but the shard's heat surged in response, knitting the bruise before it could settle. Kael's breath hitched, a mix of fear and fury.

What are you? he thought, not for the first time, his fingers brushing the scar on his chest where the shard had burrowed. The hum answered, steady, unyielding, a promise he didn't want to hear.

His eyes caught something in the snow—faint footprints, too light for a rider's boots, leading into the trees. Not Valthor's men. Someone else was out here, watching.

The shard pulsed, a tremor of unease, and Kael's paranoia stirred, a cold whisper in his mind: Who else hunts me?

Hooves thundered closer, snow spraying in their wake. Kael's head snapped up, flint-gray eyes narrowing as five riders burst through the pines—black-and-gold of House Valthor, their armor glinting in the torchlight. The lead rider, a hulking figure in dented plate, raised a mace, its spiked head catching the fire's glow.

"End of the line, Draven!" he bellowed, his horse snorting steam into the frigid air as he charged.

Kael rolled to the side, the mace smashing the ground where he'd knelt, splintering bark and sending snow into the air. The shard flared—time slowed, the world sharpening into cruel clarity.

He could see the rider's sneer through the slit of his helm, the flecks of ice on his horse's flank, the way the torchlight danced on the mace's spikes. Kael lunged, fist driving into the horse's side with a force that wasn't his own.

Bone cracked, a sickening snap that echoed through the trees, and the beast shrieked, buckling under the blow. The rider flew from the saddle, crashing into a pine with a wet thud. His helm split, blood seeping dark against the frost, a crimson stain that steamed in the cold.

Kael stood, chest heaving, the shard's pulse quickening. He hadn't meant to hit that hard. The strength was alien, a gift he hadn't asked for, and it terrified him as much as it thrilled him.

Two more riders charged, lances leveled, their horses' hooves tearing through the snow. Kael's lips twitched, a grim shadow of a smile. He should be dead—should have been dead hours ago—but the shard wouldn't let him fall. Not yet.

He sidestepped the first lance, the tip whistling past his ear, and grabbed the shaft mid-thrust. With a snarl, he yanked, pulling the rider down with a crunch of armor on ice. The man hit the ground hard, his helm rolling free, and Kael's boot found his skull—once, hard, a crack like breaking ice. Blood sprayed, warm against the cold, and the rider went still, eyes wide and unseeing.

The second lance grazed Kael's shoulder, tearing cloth and drawing a thin line of red. Pain flared, but the shard's heat surged again, sealing the wound before blood could fall.

Kael spun, seizing the rider's arm, twisting until bone snapped with a wet pop. The man screamed, a high, desperate sound, and Kael silenced him with a fist to the throat, dropping him limp into the snow.

The body twitched once, then stilled, steam rising from the blood pooling beneath.

The remaining three riders faltered, reins jerking as their horses danced in the torchlight.

An archer in the rear nocked an arrow, his hands trembling, while two swordsmen hesitated, their blades half-raised.

"He's no mortal!" the archer shouted, voice cracking with fear.

Kael's laugh was a low, broken thing, more snarl than mirth, as he stepped over the bodies, the shard's hum a cold fire in his veins.

The archer loosed his arrow, a desperate shot that cut through the dark. Kael's arm snapped up, instinct over thought, and the shard's heat flared in his palm. The arrow shattered mid-flight, splinters raining down like ash, harmless against the snow.

A rustle broke the stillness, heavy and deliberate. A figure emerged from the pines—broad, armored, a two-handed maul resting on his shoulder.

No Valthor colors—just battered steel and a weight in his eyes Kael recognized. A killer's eyes.

"Messy work," the man said, voice like stone grinding on stone. "Name's Torvald. Been tracking these dogs—seems you beat me to it."

Kael's eyes narrowed. The shard thrummed, silent for once.

"Walk away," Kael said.

Torvald's grin widened. "Maybe not. But more'll come—Valthor's got a pack sniffing for Draven bones."

The horn blared again—closer.

Kael spat into the snow. "Move."

Torvald followed. The night swallowed them, the pines closing in like a cage, as the riders' shouts grew louder, their torches a promise of fire in the dark.