No word had come from the Ashen Plains since her exile.He had wrestled with the idea of traveling to the plains and finding her.But deep down, he had known it would be an impossible task.Looking for one person in such a barren expanse would be worse than searching for a needle in a haystack.Plus, he knew that that was the last thing Gwendolyn would have wanted.She would have commanded that he turn all of his attention to her people and to the Ring, instead of embarking on a fool’s errand in an attempt to save but one person.
Night fell, and an uneasy silence fell over the town.Guards manned to walls and towers, eyes searching the horizon for any sign of Vargul's army.But thankfully, they were nowhere to be seen.Some even allowed a flicker of hope to spark within their breasts.That they had turned their attentions elsewhere.
But most knew that that was merely false hope, and that soon, whether the following day or the one after that, the horizon would turn black with the masses of the oncoming army.
Dawn broke, painting the sky in shades of blood and soot.Then came the first reports—not of barbarians, but of phenomena defying reason.A scout galloped into the square, horse frothing, eyes frantic.“Sir Kellan!From the northern hills—sights beyond belief!”
Kellan looked up from his maps.“Speak, man.What news?"
The scout panted, voice shaking.“Mountains...breaking apart.Far north, past the tundra.Outpost riders swear the peaks split like kindling.Green flames burst from the earth, tombs rising from below.And...creatures.Not breach-beasts, but ancient things—giants of stone and shadow, eyes like molten fire.The ground quakes even here—feel it?”
Kellan paused, and there it was: a faint tremor underfoot, not the march of armies but a deeper shudder, as if the earth itself wept.He met his lieutenants’ eyes.“Madness?Or barbarian sorcery?”
“No, sir,” the scout said.“Other reports confirm.Underground—caves collapsing, swarms of...horrors crawling up.Scaled things with wings like smoke, erupting through mines and pastures.In the east, near the marches, rivers run backward, skies rain ash without cause.Storms whisper names, driving folk to madness.”
A chill gripped Kellan.He was a general, used to fighting battles against men.Not waging war against the earth itself.
Whatever the reports, it didn't change the fact that Vargul's army was poised to attack.He couldn't allow himself to be distracted by elements beyond his control.Elements beyond any man's control.He also knew, however, that it was impossible to keep such reports out of the ears of his men, and talk of mountains splitting and of rampant beasts would only serve to weaken the resolve of the strongest warrior, and could easily break the spirit of some, especially those recruited from the fields and builders' yards.
More messengers arrived through the morning, each report graver.A tanner from the northern vales described the Shadowed Ridge splitting open, a colossal figure striding the tundra, its steps shattering ice like thunder.Miners spoke of tunnels caving in, revealing chambers where eyeless creatures slithered, their touch turning stone to ooze.Near the Whispering River, auroras twisted into screaming faces, chanting doom.Magic ran rampant: fields blackened in moments, wells bled red, winds carried voices of the dead.
Kellan organized as best he could, his mind a storm.He sent riders to summon loyal garrisons—holdouts in the highlands, remnants along the coast.“Tell them the barbarians are only the start,” he ordered.“Greater threats awaken.We unite against the unraveling.”Evacuation quickened: wagons rolled south, toward uncertain refuge.He armed scouts with wards from Riverhold’s small temple, sending them to probe the disturbances.“Record all,” he said.“If the world falls, let it be known we stood.”
Then, at noon, the barbarian vanguard appeared on the horizon—a dark wave of fur-clad warriors, banners whipping in the wind, wolves snarling at their sides.Kellan stood on Riverhold’s walls, the Silver and Shield Guard beside him.Bows readied, pitch barrels stacked.Outnumbered tenfold, their unity was their strength—no scheming nobles, just warriors defending their home.
But as war cries rose, another tremor shook the earth, stronger now.Dust fell from the wooden walls, and northward, a green glow lit the clouds like a cursed dawn.Kellan gripped his sword, dread settling like frost.The barbarians were a mere shadow of the true peril.The foundations of their world were crumbling, ancient forces stirring.
But he would fight, until the end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Guwayne's consciousness returned in fragments, like shards of a shattered mirror reflecting disjointed horrors.His head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, as if a blacksmith's hammer pounded relentlessly against his skull.The metallic tang of blood lingered on his tongue, mingled with the bitter residue of whatever alchemical concoction had been forced upon him.He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, bound not just by physical restraints but by something deeper, more insidious—a veil that muffled the vibrant pulse of power he had come to know during his time with Calista.
His eyes fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the dim, flickering light.He lay on a hard wooden plank that served as a bunk, his wrists and ankles secured by chains etched with glowing shapes that pulsed faintly, like dying embers.There was the overwhelming smell of salt and decay, undercut by a strange, acrid bitterness that clawed at his throat.A gentle rocking motion told him he was at sea, but this was no ordinary voyage.The sounds were wrong—muted, as if the world outside had been swallowed by an unnatural silence.No crash of waves against the hull, no creak of sails straining in the wind, no cries of seabirds wheeling overhead.Just a low, ominous hum that seemed to emanate from the ship itself.
He struggled to sit up, the chains rattling softly, sending jolts of icy numbness through his veins.The cabin was small and spartan, its walls crafted from a glossy black wood that devoured the light from a single lantern swinging lazily from a hook.No porthole offered a view of the outside world; instead, the room felt sealed, oppressive, like a coffin adrift on forgotten currents.Panic flickered in his chest as memories flooded back: the cave in Nymbrax, the fierce battle against Seryth and her assassins, Calista's final, desperate cry as the blade pierced her chest.And then...the illusion.His mother's face, so achingly real, dissolving into the cruel smirk of a stranger.The cloth pressed to his face, the darkness claiming him.
"Calista," he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken.Grief twisted like a knife in his gut.She had been more than a teacher—a guide, a protector, unlocking the Confluence within him, melding the ancient streams of magic that now lay dormant under these cursed bonds.Had her sacrifice been in vain?He reached inward, seeking that familiar surge of earth and storm, shadow and light, but it was as if a thick fog shrouded his soul.The ring on his finger felt cold, inert, its usual warmth extinguished.
The door to the cabin creaked open, admitting a figure cloaked in shadows.Guwayne tensed, his eyes narrowing as the man stepped into the lantern's glow.Gone was the deceptive form of the mercenary from the cave—the broad-shouldered brute with a dagger's edge smile.In its place stood an ancient-looking man, his skin weathered and scarred like parchment stretched over ancient bones.Deep lines etched his face, crisscrossing like the roots of some gnarled, eternal tree.His hair, sparse and white as fresh snow, hung in thin strands over a forehead marked by a faded tattoo—a swirling glyph that seemed to shift subtly in the light.His eyes were the most unsettling: pale gray, almost colorless, holding a depth that spoke of centuries, not years.He wore a simple robe of dark fabric that blended seamlessly with the ship's black wood, as if he were an extension of the vessel itself.
"Ah, the young heir awakens," the man said, his voice a low rasp, like wind whispering through a crypt.There was no mockery in his tone, only a detached curiosity, as if Guwayne were a specimen under examination.He closed the door behind him with a soft click, then approached, pulling up a stool to sit at the bunk's edge."I trust the slumber was restful?The elixir can be...disorienting, but it ensures compliance without unnecessary damage."
Guwayne glared, pulling against his chains despite the numbing pain."Who are you?Where am I?What have you done with Calista—did she...?"
The man raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture that carried an effortless authority."Calista is gone, boy.Her meddling ended in that cave, as it was meant to.A pity, in a way—she was a formidable conduit for the old ways.But her role concluded when yours began in earnest."He leaned forward, his scarred face inches from Guwayne's."As for me, I am Corvus.No titles, no lineages to boast.I have worn many faces over the ages, served many purposes.The mercenary you saw was but one mask, discarded now that the deception is complete."
Guwayne's mind raced, piecing together the fragments.The shapeshifter—the illusion of his mother—had been a trap, tailored to exploit his deepest vulnerabilities."You killed her.For what?The nobles?Aldrich?You're one of their assassins?"
Corvus chuckled, a dry, rattling sound devoid of humor."The nobles?Oh, child, you think too small.Aldrich and his ilk are fleas on the hide of a greater beast—useful distractions, nothing more.Their coup, the breaches in your precious Shield, even the barbarian hordes ravaging your lands...all threads in a tapestry woven long before your birth."He stood, gesturing vaguely at the cabin walls."We are aboard theDrowned Star, a vessel unbound by mortal seas.Look, if you must."
With a wave of his hand, a section of the wall shimmered, becoming translucent like darkened glass.Guwayne's breath caught as he beheld the outside world.The waters were unnaturally dark, a viscous black, still as a mirror save for faint ripples that seemed to pulse with an inner rhythm.No horizon broke the expanse; instead, a perpetual twilight hung over everything, stars flickering weakly in a sky devoid of sun or moon.No land in sight—no islands, no distant shores, nothing but endless, oppressive void.Whispers emanated from the water, faint and indecipherable, like echoes from drowned souls.
"This...this isn't the northern seas," Guwayne murmured, horror creeping into his voice."Where are we sailing?Back to the Ring?Or south, to some hidden port?"
Corvus's eyes gleamed with faint amusement."Neither, young one.We sail beyond the veils of your world to a nexus where the boundaries thin.Our destination serves masters far older and more powerful than any earthly kingdom—entities that predate your druids, your rings, your petty squabbles over thrones.They are the architects of epochs, the weavers of fate's loom.And you, Guwayne, son of Thorgrin, are a key they have long awaited."
Guwayne strained against his bonds, the shapes—which he now assumed were part of some ancient script—flaring brighter, sending waves of suppression through his body.He could feel the Confluence stirring faintly within him, but it was muffled, trapped behind an invisible barrier."What do you mean, a key?I'm no pawn in your games.Release me, and I'll show you the power Calista taught me—power that ended Seryth and her lackeys."
