Blood Of FirstBorn

The swamp was alive, not just with the hum of insects or the bubbling of thick green water, but with something older. Something watching.

Kael moved carefully through the knee-deep muck, his boots soaked, his eyes narrowed. The dying light of dusk filtered through gnarled trees draped in moss, casting twisted shadows on the decaying ground. Beside him, Lira stepped lightly, her dagger already drawn. She didn't speak much—not since the village burned.

Behind them, Sylen moved like a ghost, her pale eyes reflecting the dim glow of Kael's relic—the curved fragment of obsidian he'd recovered from the fallen vault two nights ago. It pulsed now with a soft purple light as if sensing something ahead.

"There," Sylen murmured. "The Vault lies beneath that mound. Do you feel it, Kael?"

He nodded slowly. "It's calling again. Like the other piece... but louder."

The mound she pointed to was barely visible—half-swallowed by vines and thick moss. Kael approached it, placing a hand on the stone arch hidden beneath layers of rot and time. As his fingers touched it, the relic flared. A circle of runes ignited around the arch, and the swamp shuddered.

Then, with a thunderous groan, the stone split open.

A stairway spiraled downward into blackness. Cold air swept upward, carrying a scent like old iron and forgotten magic.

They descended.

---

The Vault's air was different. It felt thick, like memory or sorrow. Torches lined the walls, lighting of their own accord as they passed, revealing vast murals carved into obsidian.

Kael paused at one.

It showed serpents coiled around a shattered crown. Beneath them, men knelt—some with eyes burned out, others bearing the mark now etched faintly on Kael's wrist. The same symbol that had appeared after he absorbed the first relic.

Lira touched the mural. "These… are human. But this writing's older than anything in the kingdom."

Sylen stepped forward. "The Serpent Kings. Firstborn tyrants who ruled the land before the split. Before the gods fell."

Kael turned to her. "You knew this was here. You knew what I'd find."

Sylen's face stayed unreadable. "I suspected. You're tied to them. The relic wouldn't have answered otherwise."

They reached a sealed door covered in moving serpentine script. Kael didn't wait. His hand, still holding the relic, pressed against the center.

It screamed.

A shockwave blasted outward. Lira stumbled back, shielding her face. The stone peeled apart like paper—revealing a chamber pulsing with violet flame.

At its center was an altar.

And resting on the altar… a weapon.

---

It was a glaive. Black metal, curved blade. It shimmered like oil and bled light at its edges.

Kael stepped forward, drawn as if by instinct. As he touched the haft, his breath caught.

A voice echoed in his mind.

> "The blood remembers. The oath is not broken. Rise, Heir of Wrath."

Power surged through him. His body tensed, eyes burning violet. The marks on his wrist blazed, etching down his arm like living tattoos.

The glaive responded. It pulsed once… then vanished into him in a burst of light.

Lira rushed forward. "Kael!"

He staggered, falling to one knee. His mind burned with images—cities on fire, serpents devouring the sun, voices chanting in a dead language. A war. A betrayal. A crown split in two.

Then—he heard a scream.

Not his.

Not human.

---

From the tunnel above, shadows slithered downward.

"Something's coming," Sylen hissed, drawing twin daggers.

Out of the dark emerged figures—tall, hooded, robed in cloth that looked like flayed skin. Their faces were hidden behind bone-white masks shaped like serpent skulls.

Lira's breath caught. "Who… what are they?"

Kael stood slowly, his voice sharper now. "They're not with the Order."

Sylen's tone darkened. "The Pale Hand."

The figures didn't speak. One raised its arm—and from its palm, shadow erupted, coiling like tendrils of smoke, forming blades and spears from pure darkness.

Kael didn't wait.

The glaive reformed in his grip with a crack of thunder.

He charged.

---

The fight was a blur of motion and madness.

Kael spun through the darkness, the glaive carving arcs of violet light through the chamber. The Pale Hand fought like shadows—silent, coordinated, relentless.

He met the first with a diagonal slash. The glaive carved through its mask, splitting bone and skull. It dissolved into smoke.

Another lunged at Lira—she ducked under its shadow-blade and buried her dagger in its side. It screeched, recoiling like it had never felt pain.

Sylen danced through them, a blur of silver and flame. Her blades left sparks in the air, cutting cleanly through twisted limbs and cloaks.

Kael roared. He wasn't just fighting—he was awakening. The power in him surged with every clash, every strike. The relics. The Vault. The glaive. They were all his. This wasn't random.

This was fate.

---

But then—they came.

Two larger figures stepped into the chamber. They weren't masked. Their skin was pale as bone, their eyes black voids. Tattoos of coiled serpents slithered along their arms.

One raised a hand. Shadows pooled at his feet—and a dozen spears shot toward Kael.

He threw up the glaive in defense. The impact sent him skidding back across the floor.

"Kael!" Lira screamed.

The other figure spoke. A whisper, but it echoed like thunder.

> "You should not exist."

Kael gritted his teeth. Blood dripped from his brow. The glaive pulsed again, and the symbols along his arm burned.

He stood.

"I'm not dying here."

He stepped forward.

And the Vault responded.

The walls glowed. Serpent runes flared to life. The chamber shook.

From the altar, a second relic emerged—this one shaped like a crown, broken and bloodstained.

Kael's eyes widened.

The second Pale Hand lunged.

Kael met him midair, glaive spinning, and for a moment—the swamp echoed with the song of war.

---