Chapter 3: The First Blade Falls

The canyon's walls loomed like the jaws of a beast, jagged and unyielding, their shadows swallowing the faint moonlight that dared to pierce Veyrholt's clouds. A frozen stream snaked through the ravine's belly, its surface cracked and dusted with snow, reflecting the torchlight of the riders above in fractured, flickering shards.

Kael pressed against the stone, its cold biting through his tattered cloak, his breath misting in the dark. Torvald crouched beside him, a hulking shadow, his maul resting against the ground, its head crusted with old blood. The horn's wail echoed from the ridge, a predator's cry, and the shouts of Valthor's riders followed—sharp, hungry, closing the gap.

"They hunt, vessel," the shard's voice whispered, its tone a blade's edge, cold and eager. "Let them break."

Kael's jaw tightened, the words sinking into him like frost into bone. He hated the voice—hated the way it spoke as if he were a tool, a thing to be wielded. It wasn't just urging him to kill; it was changing him, sharpening his thoughts into something colder, more ruthless. He could feel it, a growing edge to his anger, a paranoia that made him glance at Torvald more than the riders above. Is he with me, or against me? The thought wasn't his own—not entirely—but the shard's whispers made it feel real.

The gash on his shoulder, where the rider's lance had grazed him hours ago, was gone, sealed by the shard's heat, leaving only a faint scar. He should be grateful, but all he felt was a growing unease, a cold knot in his gut that tightened with every word the shard spoke.

What do you want from me? he thought, not expecting an answer. The hum was his only reply, a rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart, but it felt stronger now, more insistent, as if testing its limits.

Arrows hissed overhead, splintering against the canyon wall with a crack that echoed like a whip. Kael's eyes flicked to Torvald, searching for a sign of fear, but the man's scarred face was unreadable, his grin a faint shadow in the dark.

"They've got us flanked," Torvald muttered, voice low, his grip tightening on the maul. "Canyon's a death trap if we stay."

Kael nodded, his own hand curling into a fist, the shard's heat coiling in his palm. He didn't trust Torvald—not yet—but the man was right. The riders were dismounting at the ravine's edge, their captain's voice barking orders: "Fan out! Cut them off!"

Kael's lips twitched, a grim echo of a smile. Let them come. He'd bury them in this frozen hell.

But the shard's pulse quickened, a warning he couldn't ignore, and the memory of those faint footprints in the forest lingered, a splinter in his mind. Someone else is out there, he thought, the shard's paranoia sinking deeper. Watching. Waiting.

Three riders rounded the bend, their boots splashing through the stream, swords drawn, armor glinting in the torchlight.

Kael moved first, a shadow in motion, closing the gap before the lead man could swing. His fist drove into the knight's gut, steel buckling under the blow, the man doubling over with a wheeze that turned to a scream. Kael grabbed his helm, slamming it against the canyon wall—once, twice, three times—until the metal crumpled and blood sprayed, a warm splatter against the cold stone. The body slumped, lifeless, the stream carrying a thin ribbon of red downstream.

Torvald charged the second, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His maul arced through the air, a brutal sweep that smashed the rider's shield to splinters, the man's arm snapping under the blow with a wet crack. The rider staggered, his scream cut short as Torvald's second swing crushed his chest, sending him sprawling into the stream. The ice cracked beneath him, red blooming in the fractures, a fleeting warmth in the frozen dark.

The third rider lunged at Kael, sword thrusting for his heart. Kael sidestepped, the blade grazing his ribs, a sharp sting that faded as the shard's heat surged, sealing the cut. He seized the man's wrist, twisting until bone snapped, the sword clattering to the ground with a hollow ring. The rider's scream was desperate, high-pitched, but Kael silenced it with a knee to the stomach, then a fist to the jaw, dropping him cold into the stream. The body floated for a moment, then sank, the current dragging it beneath the ice.

More shouts echoed—six more riders charging down the ravine, their captain at the head, his longsword gleaming with the promise of death. Kael's vision blurred, a sudden rage boiling in his gut, raw and alien, not his own. The shard's pulse thundered, its voice a hiss: "Kill." His hands trembled, the heat in his palm flaring unbidden, a fire that threatened to consume him.

He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady himself, but the rage clawed at his mind, a beast he couldn't cage. The shard's energy felt different this time—stronger, but erratic, like a flame flickering in the wind. It's growing, Kael thought, a cold realization that only fueled his paranoia. But so is its hold on me.

"Easy," Torvald muttered, his voice cutting through the haze. He was watching Kael, eyes sharp, wary, the maul still in his grip. "You're shaking like a rabid dog."

Kael snarled, the sound more animal than man, but he forced the rage down, breath ragged in the cold.

The captain raised his sword, sneering through the slit of his helm. "Draven filth! I'll mount your head on my banner!"

His voice was a taunt, a promise, but Kael barely heard it over the shard's hum, the rage surging again, hotter, sharper.

The shard's heat erupted, a fire he couldn't contain. Kael thrust his hand out, desperate, and a jagged blue arc tore through the air—faster, stronger than before, crackling with a life of its own. It struck the captain's chest, burning through steel like parchment, his scream cut short as he collapsed, smoke curling from the ruin of his armor.

The other riders faltered, terror in their eyes, their torches trembling in their hands.

Torvald was already moving—maul swinging, a brutal arc that crushed another rider's skull in a spray of bone and blood, the body crumpling into the stream.

The last four broke, fleeing back up the ravine, their shouts fading into the night like the cries of wounded beasts.

Kael stood, chest heaving, the shard's hum steadying, the rage ebbing—but leaving a cold knot in his gut, heavier than before.

Torvald wiped blood from his maul, his grin faint, almost approving. "You'll do, Draven," he said, voice low, but there was a question in his eyes, a flicker of doubt that mirrored Kael's own.

The shard's voice whispered, softer now, a warning: "Stronger now. But the cost grows."

Kael's gaze flicked to the captain's body, the smoking hole in his chest a testament to the shard's power—and its price.

A shadow moved at the ravine's edge, a cloaked figure watching from the ridge, its presence a weight in the dark. Not Valthor—no hawk banners, no armor.

The air around them seemed to hum, a faint echo of the shard's own rhythm, a sound that made Kael's skin crawl. The shard pulsed, uneasy, a tremor that echoed in his bones.

The figure vanished into the night, leaving only the wind's howl and the faint crackle of the riders' abandoned torches.