Chapter Ten: The Blade Between Worlds

The skies above Valemire had turned the color of blood. Thick storm clouds roiled overhead, blotting out what little light remained. Ash drifted on the wind like dying snow, carrying the bitter scent of burned earth and old blood. Across the ruined hills, broken banners fluttered, ghosts of kingdoms long since buried beneath betrayal and war.

Dren Veyne rode at the head of a battered company, his warhorse's hooves striking dead branches with hollow snaps. The elder wood around them loomed, a forest of bone-white trees, their limbs twisted as if in agony. Beside him, Seris kept pace, her hair dark as storm-touched night, eyes narrowed against the wind.

"We're running out of time," she said, her voice sharp, cracking the brittle silence like a whip.

"I know," Dren replied, jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the reins until his knuckles went white. "But if we move blind, we'll lose more than time."

Seris shot him a sideways glance. "We've already lost too much."

Neither of them spoke Kaelen's name. Not here, not with what waited ahead. The wounds of his absence still bled too fresh.

They crested a rise where ancient Watcher Stones stood, half-buried by time and war. The runes etched into their faces were older than memory itself, their meanings long since lost, though every soldier who passed them felt a prickle of dread. Below the hill lay a clearing where firelight flickered and figures moved.

A gathering.

Not an army.Not soldiers loyal to any one banner.

But exiled lords, oathbreakers, forsaken god-born and witches with eyes like mirrors. Dren's stomach knotted as he counted them. Not enough to win a war, but enough to burn a kingdom to ash.

Seris dismounted first, her fingers never straying far from the hilt of her blade. Dren swung down after her, the ache of old wounds protesting. They moved together, shoulder to shoulder, down into the circle of firelight.

Avelar stood at the heart of the gathering.

Alive.

Wearing a cloak of dusk-hued wool, the left side of his face marked by a deep scar and a ghost-glass shard where an eye should have been. The flickering light painted his features with sharp shadows, lending him a cruel elegance that made Dren's blood boil.

"You made it," Avelar called out, as though greeting them to a feast.

Dren scowled. "I should've left you to rot in Veilgrave."

Avelar's crooked smile barely shifted. "And yet, you didn't. Because even you understand, we can't win this alone."

Dren's hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt, but Seris's voice cut through the tension.

"Enough," she snapped. "The world's ending while you two piss around like alley hounds."

Avelar's smirk faded.

"The others are coming," he said. "Voren rides from the Bleeding Coast with fifty blades. The Hollow Prophetess sent her shadows. Even Maerith's broken sons are marching." "Into slaughter," Dren muttered.

"No," said a voice from the darkness. Quiet. Calm.And known.

Kaelen.

The sound of it turned the clearing still.

He stepped into the fire's glow, his armor scarred and streaked with blood. A gash split his cheekbone, and his eyes, gods, those eyes, burned with a terrible, beautiful light. The ghostfire of Lyric's blade had marked him, and it shone in the hollows of his face.

Seris's breath hitched. "You..."

"I survived Veilgrave," Kaelen said, his voice gravel and grief. "But it cost us dearly. The Nameless King stirs. And Aeris… he has taken flesh."

Murmurs rippled through the gathering, old soldiers cursing beneath their breath. Some made warding signs.

"What form?" Avelar asked, his voice tight.

Kaelen didn't hesitate. "Yours."

The blood drained from Avelar's face. His lips parted, but no words came.

Seris stepped forward, her face like a thundercloud. "Explain."

Kaelen's hand rested on the pommel of his sword. "Aeris moves through his false bloodlines. Through traitors. Through those who sold their loyalty for whispers in the dark." His gaze locked on Avelar. "Your hand guided the fall of the Dreadhold. Your whispers opened the Grave."

"I did what was necessary!" Avelar barked, shoulders squaring.

"Liar," Seris snarled.

The gathered warriors shifted, blades loosening in their scabbards. The air grew heavy, thick with the taste of steel and death.

Kaelen's blade flashed free, the runes along its length burning like molten silver.

"I should strike you down," he growled.

"Do it," Avelar spat, lifting his chin.

And then, before either could move, another stepped between them.

Anethra.

The pale seeress, hair like moonlit snow, eyes fathoms deep. She moved like mist, her presence quiet but undeniable.

"Not yet," she murmured, voice the hush of falling ash. "The threads tangle still. Blood will fall, but not this night."

Kaelen's hand trembled on his sword. His gaze never left Avelar's.

"I should....."

"You will," Anethra said softly. "But not before the skies burn."

Dren's shoulders sagged with the weight of old wars. "This isn't over."

"It never is," Seris muttered.

Kaelen's sword slid back into its sheath.

Anethra turned to the circle of warriors. "Night falls. The council reconvenes at dawn. At Veilgrave's edge. And then… the final war begins."

No one argued.

The gathering began to break apart, warriors and witches fading into the night, their shadows swallowed by the bone forest.

Dren looked to the sky, where ash fell like cursed snow.

Somewhere beyond, Aeris laughed.And the stars began to die.

The next dawn was a sickly thing. No true sun, only a dim wash of pale light across the horizon, as though the sky itself hesitated to witness what was coming. Kaelen rode at the head of his tattered army, Vharion strapped to his back, Seris at his side, her face set in grim determination.

Behind them, the gathered outcasts, warriors, god-marked exiles, and storm-blooded made no boasts, no songs. They knew this was no battle of valor. It was an ending.

And none expected to see another dawn.

The path to Veilgrave lay through the Shattered Vale a stretch of earth where the bones of titans jutted from the ground like the ribs of long-dead beasts. The wind howled through their hollowed remains, carrying voices of those who had died in this cursed war.

"I remember when this place was alive," Seris murmured, voice thick with memory. "When the rivers shimmered silver, and flowers bled blue under starlight."

Kaelen's eyes never left the road ahead. "The world remembers nothing but the taste of ash now."

A sound broke the hush the low, mournful call of the death horns.Ahead, beyond the Vale, shadows moved.

A host.

Black-armored figures, their eyes like burning cinders, emerged from the mists. The God-Eater's legion. Once men, now twisted things, half-flesh and star-rot.

At their front, a figure clad in robes of dusk and bone.

Darren Veyne.

Kaelen's brother.

"Did you truly think," Darren called out, voice like shattered glass, "that you could defy gods and blood without consequence?"

Kaelen's hand found the hilt of his sword. "I stopped fearing you the day I buried our father."

"And yet," Darren sneered, "you come running at my call. Like a faithful dog."

Seris stepped forward, lightning sparking at her fingertips. "Speak again, and I'll carve your tongue from your throat."

But Darren only smiled and beside him, another figure materialized from shadow.

Lyra.

Pale, thin, bound in chains of light, her face bruised but unbroken. Her eyes found Kaelen's, and even from across the field, he felt the shudder in his soul.

"She lives," Seris whispered, fury lacing her voice.

Kaelen raised his sword.The army behind him answered with a cry.

And the storm broke.

The two hosts collided in a cacophony of steel and shadow. Blades sang. Magic screamed. The earth itself split as old powers clashed in a battle that would be etched into the bones of the world.

Kaelen fought like a man possessed, Vharion cleaving through men and monsters alike. Seris moved beside him, a storm made flesh, lightning searing through the enemy ranks.

But every step, every strike, brought Kaelen closer to Darren.

And to Lyra.

A wall of cursed steel rose between them, but Kaelen tore through it, his blade an extension of his grief and fury.

At last, he faced his brother.

"End of the line, Darren."

But Darren's grin widened. "It always was."

And as Kaelen lunged, Darren drove his own blade, a weapon of god-bone and ancient sin deep into Kaelen's side.

Pain, sharp and searing, but Kaelen did not fall.

He roared, breaking Darren's grip, driving Vharion through his brother's heart.

Darren's last breath was a ragged laugh. "Too late, brother. The Pale God comes."

The world shifted.

Above them, the sky cracked.

A figure descended vast, pale as death, eyes like dying suns. Aeris.

Even gods fled before him.

Kaelen staggered, blood pouring from his side, but still he moved, breaking Lyra's chains, pulling her close.

"I told you," she whispered, tears in her voice. "I would find you again."

"And I you," Kaelen answered.

But there was no time for tenderness.

Aeris reached down, the weight of eternity in his grasp.

And Kaelen, Lyra, and Seris stood together.

One last stand.

Three broken hearts against a god.

The blade between worlds in Kaelen's grasp burned bright.

And the end began.