Chapter 9: The Forge’s Call

The ravine was a jagged scar in Veyrholt's frozen heart, its walls looming like the jaws of a beast, their shadows swallowing the pale midday light. The shrine's runes pulsed with a cold blue glow, a rhythm that matched the shard in Kael's chest, their hum a sound that sank into his bones. The voice from the shrine—"The forge hungers"—echoed in his mind, a promise, a threat, and Kael felt the shard's pulse quicken in response, a cold fire in his veins. The rune stone in his cloak burned against his skin, its glow flaring in time with the shrine, a connection he couldn't ignore.

But there was no time to unravel its meaning—not with Valthor's warband closing in, their horn blaring sharp and angry through the mountains, a call that promised more steel, more blood.

Kael stood on the narrow ledge, his stolen sword gripped tight in a hand that wouldn't stop trembling, the blade still crusted with the blood of the scouting party. The shard's whispers were a storm now, a relentless hiss that sank into his bones.

"They come," the voice urged, its tone a blade's edge, hungry and unyielding. "Let them break."

Kael's jaw clenched, his breath misting in the frigid air, a ragged cloud that vanished as quickly as it formed. The shard's influence was a fire in his gut, sharpening his rage into something he didn't recognize, 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.

I'm losing myself, he thought, the realization a blade in his chest, sharp and unyielding. The boy he'd been—the one who'd watched Draven Keep burn—was gone, replaced by something colder, something the shard wanted him to be.

Torvald stood beside him, a hulking shadow in battered steel, his maul planted in the snow, his shoulder stiff with pain. The wound from the shard's errant blast had reopened in the fight on the trail, blood seeping dark through his armor, a grim reminder of Kael's loss of control. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a hiss of effort, but his eyes were sharp, flicking between Kael and the ravine's far edge, where the cloaked figure stood, their rune-etched ring glinting in the light, their presence a weight in the dark.

"We've got company," Torvald muttered, voice low, his good hand tightening on his maul. "And not just Valthor's dogs. That one's trouble—I can feel it."

Kael's gaze snapped to the cloaked figure, the shard's pulse surging, a cold tremor that echoed in his bones. The figure hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, but the air around them seemed to hum, a faint echo of the shard's own rhythm, a sound that made Kael's skin crawl.

They're tied to this, he thought, his thoughts sharper, colder than they'd been days ago. The shard, the shrine, the forge—they're all part of it.

But before he could speak, the warband burst into view—thirty strong, black-and-gold armor glinting in the light, their shouts a raw, guttural roar that echoed through the ravine. Their captain, a towering figure in dented plate, raised a longsword, its edge catching the light as he bellowed,

"Draven filth! Your head's mine!"

Kael's lips curled into a snarl, a promise of blood in the frozen air. The shard's pulse thundered, a cold fire in his veins, and he felt the rage surge, unbidden, a beast he couldn't cage.

"Kill," the voice hissed, its hunger a weight in his chest, and Kael didn't fight it this time.

He charged, a shadow in motion, his movements a blur of shard-fueled speed, the sword slashing upward in a brutal arc that caught the first 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 roared, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the ravine, 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 ravine 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 soldier 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 the captain, burning through his armor like parchment, his scream cut short as he collapsed, smoke curling from the ruin of his chest.

The blast veered, erratic, a streak of blue fire that slammed into the ravine's wall, splintering stone and sending shards of rock raining down. Kael's chest heaved, the shard's pulse steadying, the rage ebbing—but leaving a cold knot in his gut, heavier than before.

He'd lost control again, and the cost was written in the chaos around him. The remaining Valthor men faltered, their shouts turning to cries of fear, but before they could flee, a new sound cut through the air—a low, resonant hum that sank into Kael's bones, a sound that matched the shard's own rhythm.

The cloaked figure moved, a blur of motion, their hand raised, and the air around them crackled with energy, a blue glow that mirrored the shard's own.

A wave of force swept through the ravine, a silent explosion that sent the Valthor men flying, their bodies slamming into the stone with wet thuds, blood spraying in crimson arcs that steamed in the cold. The figure stepped forward, their hood shifting slightly, revealing a glimpse of a scarred jaw, a glint of cold, unyielding eyes.

"The vessel fights," they said, their voice low, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that made Kael's skin crawl. "But the forge calls."

Kael's breath caught, the shard's pulse surging, a cold fire in his veins. The figure's words were a riddle, a warning, and Kael felt the rune stone in his cloak flare, its glow pulsing in time with the shrine.

"What forge?" he growled, stepping forward, the sword still in his hand, blood dripping from its edge into the snow. "What do you want with me?"

The figure tilted their head, a faint smile curling their lips, a smile that held no warmth.

"The Aetherion Core," they said, their voice a blade's edge, cold and precise. "Forged in the Iron Crucible to fight the Voidborn—ancient enemies of the Starborn Covenant. You are its vessel, Kael Draven, but you are not its master."

They raised their hand, the rune-etched ring glinting in the light, and the shrine's runes flared, a cold light that made Kael's skin crawl.

"The forge hungers for its purpose. Will you answer its call—or be consumed by it?"

Kael's chest tightened, a pang of fear he couldn't shake.

The forge's call was growing louder, and Kael feared what it would demand.