The Gathering of Fractures
---
Two days later.
The city of Emberlain was a contradiction built of fire and whispers — a sovereign trade-hub nestled between three warring nations, ruled by coin, crime, and the neutrality of its founding myth: No flame burns long in chains.
Kael and Theron entered through the Eastern Gate cloaked in ash-stained cloaks, their faces shadowed by the hoods of silence.
They had a mission.
And they needed monsters to complete it.
---
Their first stop was The Cradle of Ash, a mercenary tavern carved into the bones of a fallen skybeast. Drunken fighters brawled on its ribs. Poisoned laughter danced on smoky lips.
Kael stepped through the scent of blood and burning leaf-root, then approached the center table.
A woman sat there — or rather lounged, like a queen on a throne she didn't need.
Black hair twisted into coils of ink and shadow. One eye replaced with a mirrored shard. Her fingers toyed with a tiny flame that sang in forgotten tongues.
Nyssra Vael. The Veilwitch of Sootspire.
Wanted by every throne. Cursed by three gods. Loyal to no one but her own madness.
"I heard you were dead," she said without looking up.
"I was," Kael replied. "Turns out I got better."
Nyssra smiled. "Then I assume you're here for the Gate. I saw it crack the horizon. I also saw five possible futures where you die trying to cross it."
"I only need one where I live."
She flicked the flame into her drink. It hissed. "You'll need more than me."
"I know."
---
Later that night, they found the second.
He was being thrown out of a noble house window.
Literally.
The man crashed onto a fruit stand, rolled, stood up with a dramatic bow, and winked at the angry guards above.
Dain Virellis. Exiled prince. Former heir to the Crystal Dominion. Swindler. Duellist. Professional betrayer of expectations.
He saw Kael and grinned. "If it isn't the boy with the borrowed god. Need a thief? A liar? A legend?"
Kael gestured to the bruises. "You're not a legend."
Dain flicked juice from his collar. "Then help me become one."
---
Their final ally was the hardest to find.
Because it wasn't alive.
Not in the traditional sense.
It was sealed in the catacombs beneath Emberlain, bound in salt-runes and shadowglass, humming with quiet hatred.
A talking sword.
Its name was Myrrh. Once wielded by the Veilbreaker Saint, now cursed to whisper truths that drive men mad.
It chose Kael the moment he touched it.
"Finally," the blade hissed, voice layered in hundreds of echoes. "A hand that remembers pain."
---
By dawn, they stood atop Emberlain's southern cliffside, the Gate now fully formed on the horizon — taller than mountains, veiled in spiraling light and ancient gravity.
Kael looked over his gathered misfits.
A cursed witch.
A fallen prince.
A maddened blade.
A warrior-brother.
And him.
The bearer of the Shard that could rewrite fate.
"We leave by nightfall," Kael said. "When we pass through that Gate, we don't come back the same."
Nyssra grinned. "Good. I hate staying the same."
---
Far away, in the marble halls of the Dynasty Citadel…
A cloaked figure stood before the High Sovereign.
"Kael Veyne has gathered a team," the voice rasped. "He intends to enter the Gate."
The Sovereign leaned forward, eyes shimmering with golden fury.
"Then give him a welcome."
The doors opened behind him. A woman stepped through — tall, lithe, robed in living shadows. Her left hand had been replaced with a claw forged from Shard-iron.
She bowed low.
"I live only to serve."
Her name was Eiryel Drae.
Kael's past, forged into his future's executioner.