Chapter 4: Shadows on the Ridge

The ridge rose sharp against the sky, a jagged scar of stone dusted with snow, its edge silhouetted by the faint glow of Veyrholt's moons. Kael climbed, his boots slipping on the icy shale, each step a battle against the wind that howled through the peaks like a mourning beast. Torvald followed, a silent shadow, his maul slung across his back, his breath steady despite the climb.

The canyon's echoes still lingered in Kael's ears—the crack of bone, the hiss of the shard's energy, the captain's dying scream. But the cloaked figure's presence weighed heavier, a splinter in his mind he couldn't dislodge. The shard's unease lingered, a cold tremor in his chest, as if it knew something he didn't. That hum, the one he'd felt in the canyon, had been too familiar, too close to the shard's own rhythm.

They're connected, Kael thought, the realization sharpening his paranoia. But how?

"They watch," the voice whispered, its tone a blade's edge, colder than the wind. "They always watch."

Kael's hand twitched, a reflex to claw at the scar on his chest, but he stopped himself, fingers curling into a fist. The shard's words were a riddle, a warning, and he hated how they burrowed into him, rooting deep where his own thoughts should be. His mind was shifting, growing sharper, more ruthless, and he didn't know how much of it was him anymore.

The shard's whispers had planted seeds of paranoia—every shadow felt like a threat, every ally a potential betrayer. He glanced at Torvald, his flint-gray eyes narrowing. What does he want? The thought was unbidden, a product of the shard's influence, but it felt real, a cold suspicion that wouldn't fade.

The shard's pulse surged, a reminder of its power, its cost. Kael didn't know what it wanted, but he was starting to suspect it had its own agenda—one he might not survive.

Torvald's voice broke the silence, low and rough. "You're brooding again, Draven." He didn't look at Kael, his eyes scanning the ridge's crest, but there was a weight in his tone, a question he didn't ask. "Keep that up, and the cold'll kill you before Valthor does."

Kael's lips twitched, a grim echo of a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Cold's the least of my problems," he said, voice low, each word a shard of ice.

He didn't elaborate—didn't need to. Torvald had seen the energy blast, the rage in Kael's eyes, the way his hands trembled with unbidden fury. The man wasn't a fool, but Kael wasn't ready to share the shard's whispers, the fear that gnawed at him with every pulse. Not yet.

He'd use it against me, Kael thought, the shard's paranoia sinking deeper. They all will.

They reached the crest, the wind biting harder now, carrying the faint tang of smoke from the canyon's abandoned torches. Below, the forest stretched endless, a sea of pines cloaked in snow, their branches swaying like the ghosts of Draven Keep's banners.

Kael's chest tightened, a pang of loss he couldn't shake, but he forced it down, his gaze shifting to the horizon. A faint glow flickered in the distance—more torches, more riders, their shouts carried on the wind like the cries of carrion birds.

"Valthor doesn't give up," Torvald said, his grin a faint shadow in the dark. He unslung his maul, resting it against the ground, its head crusted with blood and frost. "They'll have a warband out here by dawn—fifty men, maybe more. You've got their attention, runt."

Kael's eyes narrowed, flint-gray and unyielding. "Good," he said, voice low, a promise more than a word.

Let them come.

He'd bury them all, one by one, until Valthor's golden hawks were nothing but carrion for the crows.

But the shard's pulse quickened, a warning he couldn't ignore, and the memory of the cloaked figure lingered, a shadow on the edge of his thoughts. The hum, the ring—they were tied to the shard, to the old man who'd given it to him.

What do they want with me?

The thought was sharp, laced with the shard's paranoia, and Kael's grip on the stolen sword tightened, his knuckles white.

A rustle broke the silence, faint but deliberate, from the pines below the ridge.

Kael's hand snapped to the sword at his hip, its blade still slick with blood, while Torvald's grip tightened on his maul, his grin fading to a hard line. The shard thrummed, uneasy, a tremor that echoed in Kael's bones.

Not Valthor—their torches were still too far, their shouts too distant.

This was something else.

A figure emerged from the trees, cloaked in gray, the same as the one on the ravine's edge. The hood hid their face, but the rune-etched ring on their finger caught the moonlight, a glint of silver that matched the old man's from the clearing.

Kael's breath caught, the shard's pulse surging, a cold fire in his veins.

"They come," the voice hissed, a hunger in its tone that made Kael's skin crawl.

"Who are you?" Kael growled, stepping forward, the sword half-drawn.

The figure didn't move, but the air around them hummed, a faint echo of the shard's own rhythm, a sound that sank into Kael's bones.

Torvald shifted, maul raised, his eyes flicking between Kael and the stranger, a question in his stance.

The figure raised a hand, slow, deliberate, and the hum grew louder, a sound that made the shard flare in response.

Kael's rage surged, unbidden, a fire in his gut he couldn't control. The shard's heat erupted, wild and unstable, and a jagged blue arc shot forth—faster, wilder than before, crackling with a life of its own.

But the figure moved, a blur of motion, their speed unnatural, as if they'd anticipated the blast. The arc struck a pine, splintering it into smoking shards, the air thick with the scent of charred wood.

The figure paused, their hood shifting slightly, and a voice—low, almost a whisper—cut through the silence:

"The vessel wakes, but the forge waits."

Then they vanished into the trees, leaving only the echo of the hum and the faint glint of their ring in the dark.

Kael's chest heaved, the shard's pulse steadying, but the rage lingered, a fire in his gut he couldn't quench.

He'd lost control—the blast had been the shard's doing, not his, a power he couldn't harness, couldn't trust.

Torvald lowered his maul, his grin gone, his eyes sharp with something close to fear. "What in the hells was that?" he asked, voice low.

But Kael had no answer—only the shard's whisper, a promise in the dark:"They will return. Always."