Chapter 6: Blood in the Pass

The pass was a throat of stone and snow, its walls narrowing until the pines pressed close, their branches heavy with frost, clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. The air was thick with the scent of resin and iron, the wind carrying the distant shouts of Valthor's warband—a low, guttural chant that grew louder with every heartbeat.

Kael crouched behind a fallen log, its bark slick with ice, his stolen sword gripped tight in a hand that wouldn't stop trembling. The shard pulsed in his chest, a cold rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart, but its whispers were a storm now, a relentless hiss that sank into his bones.

"Kill," the voice urged, its tone a blade's edge, hungry and unyielding. "Their blood feeds us."

Kael's jaw clenched, his breath misting in the frigid air, a ragged cloud that vanished as quickly as it formed. He hated the shard—hated the way it twisted his thoughts, sharpening his rage into something he didn't recognize. The urge to kill was overwhelming, a fire in his gut that wasn't his own, and it took every ounce of will to keep it caged.

His hands shook, not from the cold, but from the effort of holding himself together. The shard's influence was growing, its whispers planting seeds of paranoia and aggression that rooted deep. What am I becoming? he thought, the question a splinter in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He didn't know the answer—only that the boy he'd been, the one who'd watched Draven Keep burn, was slipping away, replaced by something colder, something the shard wanted him to be.

Torvald crouched beside him, a hulking shadow in battered steel, his maul resting against the log, its head crusted with blood and frost. His scarred face was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, flicking between Kael and the pass's entrance, where the first of Valthor's men were already spilling through—black-and-gold armor glinting in the pale dawn, their banners snapping in the wind.

"They're here," Torvald muttered, voice low, his breath steady despite the odds. "Fifty, like I said. We'll need to move fast—hit hard, then fall back. Keep them bleeding."

Kael nodded, his gaze fixed on the warband, but the shard's paranoia stirred, a cold whisper in his mind: Can I trust him?

The thought was unbidden, a product of the shard's influence, but it felt real, a suspicion that wouldn't fade. Torvald had sworn the Iron Pact, a bond forged in blood and steel, but Kael couldn't shake the feeling that the man was hiding something—some secret that could turn him into another blade in the dark.

He pushed the thought down, his grip on the sword tightening, his knuckles white. "We hold the pass," he said, voice low, each word a promise. "They don't get through."

Torvald's grin was a faint shadow in the dark, but there was a hardness in his eyes, a wariness that hadn't been there before. "You're a stubborn bastard, Draven," he said, hefting his maul. "I like that. But don't lose your head—or I'll have to save your sorry ass."

His tone was light, but his gaze lingered on Kael's trembling hands, a question he didn't ask.

The first wave of Valthor's men charged, ten strong, their boots crunching through the snow, swords and axes raised, their shouts a raw, guttural roar.

Kael moved first, a shadow in motion, vaulting over the log with a speed that wasn't entirely his own. The shard flared, time slowing, the world sharpening into cruel clarity—he could see the sweat on the lead man's brow, the flecks of ice on his blade, the fear in his eyes as Kael closed the gap.

His sword slashed upward, a brutal arc that caught the man under the chin, steel biting through flesh and bone with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed, warm against the cold, a crimson arc that steamed in the frost as the body fell, lifeless, into the snow.

Torvald was a heartbeat behind, his maul swinging in a wide, brutal arc that smashed through a shield like it was kindling, the man behind it crumpling with a scream, his chest caved in a spray of blood and bone.

The pass erupted into chaos—steel clashing, men shouting, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood and the sharp bite of frost.

Kael fought like a beast, his movements a blur, the shard's power surging through him with every strike. He parried a sword thrust, the blade screeching against his own, and drove his fist into the man's gut, steel buckling under the blow. The rider doubled over, gasping, and Kael's sword found his throat, a quick, clean cut that sent blood gushing into the snow.

But the shard's influence was a double-edged blade. With every kill, the rage grew, a fire in his gut that threatened to consume him.

His vision blurred, the shard's pulse thundering in his ears, its voice a relentless hiss: "More."

Kael's hands trembled, the sword shaking in his grip, and he felt the heat in his palm flare unbidden, a fire he couldn't control. He thrust his hand out, desperate, and a jagged blue arc tore through the air—wild, unstable, crackling with a life of its own.

It struck a Valthor axeman, burning through his armor like parchment, his scream cut short as he collapsed, smoke curling from the ruin of his chest.

The blast didn't stop there. It veered, erratic, a streak of blue fire that slammed into the pass's wall, splintering stone and sending shards of rock raining down. One caught Torvald in the shoulder, a jagged piece that tore through his armor with a wet thud, blood welling dark against the steel.

Torvald staggered, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, his maul dropping to the snow as he clutched the wound. "Damn it, Draven!" he roared, his voice raw, his eyes sharp with something close to betrayal.

Kael froze, the shard's pulse steadying, the rage ebbing—but leaving a cold knot in his gut, heavier than before. He hadn't meant to—hadn't wanted to—but the shard had taken control, its power a beast he couldn't cage.

I'm losing myself, he thought, the realization a blade in his chest, sharp and unyielding.

He stepped toward Torvald, his voice low, urgent. "I didn't—Torvald, I—"

"Save it," Torvald snapped, his grin gone, his eyes hard as flint.

He tore the shard of rock from his shoulder, blood dripping into the snow, a crimson stain that steamed in the cold. "You're a liability, runt. Get that thing under control, or I'll bury you myself."

He retrieved his maul, his movements stiff, pain etched into every line of his face, but he didn't back down, didn't run. The Iron Pact held—for now.

The second wave of Valthor's men charged, twenty strong, their shouts a raw, guttural roar that echoed through the pass.

Kael's grip on the sword tightened, his hands still trembling, the shard's pulse a warning he couldn't ignore.

The pass was a slaughterhouse now, the snow churned red with blood, bodies strewn like broken dolls, their armor glinting dully in the dawn.

A horn blared, sharp and angry, and the remaining Valthor men fell back, their shouts fading into the trees as they retreated.

Kael stood, chest heaving, the sword heavy in his hand, blood dripping from its edge into the snow.

Torvald leaned on his maul, his shoulder a mess of blood and torn steel, his breath ragged but steady. "We held," he said, voice low, but there was no triumph in his tone, only a grim resolve. "For now."

Kael nodded, his gaze flicking to the horizon, where the warband's banners still fluttered, a promise of more blood to come.

But his thoughts were elsewhere—on the cloaked figure, on the shard's whispers, on the cold suspicion that lingered in his mind.

They will return, the shard had said, and Kael knew it wasn't Valthor it meant.

The pass was silent now, the wind howling through the pines, but Kael felt the weight of unseen eyes, a presence in the shadows that made the shard pulse with unease.