Blood Of FirstBorn

The fog thickened as they left the Vault behind.

Kael walked ahead, silent. The Mark of Ruin pulsed beneath his skin, invisible but ever-present—like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him. It throbbed with buried voices, ancient and unfamiliar.

He who bore the Ruin shall rise again.

The words echoed in his mind, twisting like smoke. He didn't know if the crown had chosen him, or if he had simply awakened something that had always been there. But either way, something inside him had shifted.

He could feel it.

"Still with us?" Sylen's voice snapped him back.

Kael glanced back. Lira was a few steps behind, hood pulled up, eyes wary. Her boots squelched in the mud, but she made no sound of complaint.

Kael nodded. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Sylen frowned. "That's what worries me."

The marsh was unusually quiet.

No insects. No wind. Only the wet squelch of their steps and the distant, hollow croak of toads. The further they moved from the Vault, the deeper the silence became.

Then Kael felt it.

Not a sound—a pressure.

The air thickened. The fog coiled like it was watching.

Lira stopped. "We're being followed."

Kael turned. "Where?"

Sylen raised his hand, muttering a soft incantation. His blade shimmered with heat magic, cutting a thin path through the mist.

And then they heard it.

Click… click… click.

Footsteps—not from boots, but something bare, wet, and too slow to be natural.

Figures emerged from the mist—tall, thin, cloaked in grey. Their faces were hidden behind masks carved from bone, each etched with a single blood-red rune. Their hands—long and skeletal—glowed faintly with decayed mana.

Sylen cursed. "The Pale Hand."

Kael's heart dropped. "Already?"

"They must've been watching the Vault. Waiting." Sylen drew his blade. "They only move in small cells—but each one's deadly."

Kael stepped in front of Lira. "What do they want?"

"You," one of the masked figures hissed.

Its voice was wrong—like a choir of whispers echoing from inside a tomb.

"The Relic has bound itself again. The cycle begins anew. We are the severance. You must not awaken."

Kael's hands clenched. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"Your desire is irrelevant."

And then they attacked.

Kael barely had time to react. The nearest figure surged forward, unnaturally fast. Sylen parried the blow, but another slipped past, launching a spike of shadow toward Lira.

Kael shouted, throwing himself in front of her.

The shadow struck him square in the chest.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Then the Mark of Ruin flared.

The air around Kael rippled. His body convulsed as the relic's energy burst outward, forming a radiant sigil of coiled serpents and fanged crowns.

The shadow spell shattered midair.

Kael stood—eyes glowing like silver flame.

He felt something awaken within him.

Not just magic—but memory.

His voice deepened, not his own. "You dare speak of severance. But you do not remember who forged the blade."

He raised his hand—and the ground beneath the Pale Hand twisted, turning swampwater to shards of stone and bone. One of the masked figures stumbled, and Kael lunged with impossible speed.

He didn't fight like a boy anymore.

He fought like a warlord.

Blades clashed. Magic burned the air. Sylen joined Kael in the melee, while Lira held off a masked sorcerer with her protective field, absorbing attacks and sending back bursts of defensive light.

Kael's body moved faster than his mind.

He felt every crack in their armor, every pattern in their stance. His spells weren't learned—they were remembered. Runes formed as if etched into his very bones.

But it came at a cost.

The longer he fought, the more the relic whispered.

Bleed them dry. Burn the world. Reclaim the throne.

He shook the thoughts off, channeling his focus into his final strike.

He drove a sigil-marked fist into the leader's chest—shattering both mask and ribs. The masked figure collapsed with a horrible sound, its body unraveling into ash.

The others faltered. Without their commander, they retreated into the mist, vanishing as quickly as they came.

Silence returned.

Sylen sheathed his blade. "That was… more than just power. That was something else."

Kael staggered, breathing hard. "I didn't… mean to go that far."

Lira touched his arm, gentle but firm. "You were protecting us. That's what matters."

Sylen knelt beside the remains of the Pale Hand's leader. "They'll be back. That was just a scout cell."

Kael nodded. "Let them come. I need answers."

Sylen stood. "Then we go north. There's someone who can help. A scholar. An exile from the old kingdoms. She knew the Firstborn legends before the churches banned them."

Lira looked up. "What's her name?"

Sylen's voice dropped. "Her name… is Nyssa. And if the rumors are true—she's not fully human anymore."

Kael looked down at his glowing arm, where the crown's mark pulsed just beneath the skin.

"Good," he whispered. "Maybe she'll understand what I'm becoming."

They set off again, deeper into the marsh—toward the ruins of the Shattered College, and the woman who lived among its bones.

But far behind them, in the vault of the Pale Hand's fortress, a figure watched from a pool of still black water. Its voice was soft, venomous.

"He has awakened."

From the shadows, a pale priest stepped forward. "Shall we dispatch the Echo-Binders?"

"No," the figure whispered. "Send the Ascendants. I wish to see how much of the Firstborn he truly is."