The swamp air hung thick and cold, still damp from the earlier rainfall. Kael knelt by the edge of the shallow stream that ran near their makeshift camp, his fingers brushing through the water as if sifting for clarity in his tangled thoughts. Lira slept nearby beneath a thick blanket of furs, her breaths soft and steady. Even in sleep, she gripped the bone dagger he'd given her.
The Vault had changed everything.
The pale glow of the relic pulsed beneath his skin even when hidden beneath his tunic. The brand-like mark on his chest shimmered faintly every time he drew mana. He could feel it now—coiling inside him like a storm just waiting to break.
Across from him sat Eryndor, the masked wanderer who had saved them from the Serpent Wraith. The man's eyes glimmered like stars behind his obsidian mask, unreadable yet not entirely cold. He leaned against a twisted root, sharpening a curved blade.
"You're not afraid of it," Kael said without looking up.
Eryndor glanced toward the Vault's direction. "Fear has its place, boy. But so does purpose. What you carry… it's not just power. It's memory. History. And history is often bloodier than we like to believe."
Kael clenched his jaw. "I don't care about history. I just want to protect my sister. And find my mother."
Eryndor paused. "Then you'd better start caring. Because the world does. And they won't wait until you're ready."
A sudden rustle in the trees snapped their heads upward. Kael was on his feet instantly, sword drawn. The runes on its blade flickered as it hummed with new energy—resonating with his relic mark.
From the mist emerged a tall figure clad in a robe of shifting colors—deep violet and murky grey. A birdlike mask covered the intruder's face, and skeletal fingers curled around a staff etched with sigils.
Eryndor rose slowly. "Pale Hand."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "You know them?"
"Too well," the masked wanderer replied grimly.
The newcomer's voice was as dry as windblown ash. "You walk with forbidden blood, child of the Firstborn. Your awakening marks the end of stillness. The Pale Hand cannot allow you to live."
Kael stepped forward. His blade burned brighter. "Then try to stop me."
Before another word could be spoken, the forest exploded into chaos.
Two more figures emerged from the mist—both robed, both masked, flanking their leader like wraiths. Arrows rained from above, but Eryndor spun with unnatural speed, his twin blades slicing the air and deflecting the shafts. Kael surged forward with a roar.
Mana coursed through him—sharp, cold, powerful. He ducked beneath a staff strike and retaliated with a slash that cracked the air with raw energy. His blade met the masked figure's staff, and sparks exploded like fireworks.
The ground trembled.
Kael twisted mid-air and kicked the enemy back. One of the flanking figures raised a palm, chanting in a dead tongue. Shadows surged toward Kael like vines, but he raised his relic-marked hand and shouted a single word that echoed from memory:
"Eltherion!"
A shockwave of light erupted from his body, shattering the spell and flinging the robed attacker backward.
"Where did that come from?!" he gasped.
"The Vault whispered to you," Eryndor shouted from across the clearing. "Let it speak. Listen deeper!"
Kael didn't have time to ask. The lead Pale Hand agent snarled and lunged forward again, staff cracking with dark energy. They fought like two forces of nature—fire and void. Kael's attacks grew faster, sharper, as if his body were remembering movements he'd never learned.
He pivoted, feinted, and then drove his sword into the enemy's side. A scream of pure rage pierced the air as black mist burst from the wound.
But it wasn't over.
The remaining two masked attackers fused their powers, chanting in harmony. The shadows coalesced into a towering figure—twisted, insectile, and utterly monstrous. Kael stumbled back.
"That's not just a summoning," Eryndor said, now at his side. "That's a memory of death given form. A soul echo."
Kael tightened his grip.
"Can we beat it?"
Eryndor's eyes flicked to him. "You can. You have to."
The creature charged.
Kael threw himself at it, eyes burning with resolve. The blade glowed like a star in his hands. The fight was no longer just about survival—it was a battle to shape destiny. Each swing carved away at the illusion of weakness he once carried. Each wound reminded him why he couldn't afford to lose.
And from deep within, the Vault's voice whispered once more:
Unseal the truth.
Kael let out a roar, the runes along his blade igniting. With a final slash, he cut through the beast's heart, unleashing a shockwave that rattled the entire glade.
The Pale Hand was gone.
Only mist remained.
Breathing heavily, Kael dropped to one knee. Eryndor approached, his blades dripping shadow ichor.
"You've just taken your first step toward becoming what the world fears," he said quietly.
Kael looked toward the stars above, eyes flickering with reluctant fire. "Then let it fear me. I'm not stopping. Not until I find her. Not until they all pay."
End of Chapter 17