**Chapter 9: The Whisper That Cuts**
The chamber pulsed with the Starvein's green glow, its hum a knife in Vaelreth's skull, whispering his name like a lover or a curse. He stood, hand still on the stone slab, its veins throbbing under his palm. The Veiled Order mage hovered, a shadow with golden eyes, frozen by Vaelreth's will—or the Starvein's. Kaelith's dagger gleamed, her breath sharp, while Jorath cowered, his warnings drowned by the hum. Vaelreth's grin was a spark, wild and unsteady. He didn't own the game anymore, but he'd be damned if he let it own him.
"Talk, shadow," he said to the mage, voice low, mocking. "Or do you just stare for fun?"
The mage's eyes flickered, but its voice was the Starvein's echo, cold and vast. "You've touched what's forbidden, Smiling Shadow. The Starvein claims its own."
Vaelreth laughed, sharp as glass. "Claims? I don't do chains. I break them."
Kaelith's glare burned hotter than the runes. "Vaelreth, stop poking it. We need out."
He ignored her, his fingers tracing the slab's veins. The hum surged, and another vision hit: a sky of ash, a throne of bones, his own hands tearing the world apart. His smile faltered, just a heartbeat, but the mage saw it, its golden eyes narrowing. The Starvein wasn't just alive—it was watching, weighing him. He hated being weighed.
Jorath's voice cracked the silence. "It's testing you, Shadow. The keepers said you'd come, but not if you'd bend."
Vaelreth spun, his grin a blade. "Bend? I'm the one who breaks the board, heretic."
But the hum said otherwise, pulling harder, like a tide dragging him under. He pushed back, whispering a word that tasted like rust. The slab's veins dimmed, and the mage staggered, its shadow-form fraying. Vaelreth's rune was winning, but the chamber shook, dust falling like rain. He'd pushed too hard, and the mountain noticed.
Kaelith grabbed Jorath, shoving him toward the path. "Move, or we're buried!"
Vaelreth didn't budge, his eyes locked on the mage. "Who's pulling your strings? Lyssa? The Starvein? Or something older?"
The mage's form flickered, voice fading. "You'll know when you're broken."
It dissolved, leaving only the hum, fainter now but still in Vaelreth's blood. The chamber groaned, cracks splitting the walls. He cursed, his smile tight. He'd wanted chaos, not a coffin. He ran, catching up to Kaelith and Jorath as the path trembled beneath them.
The tunnel spat them onto a ledge, the night air cold and sharp. Below, torchlight flickered—Varn's men, or worse, Lyssa's. Vaelreth's mind raced, the Starvein's visions lingering: ash, bones, him at the center. He didn't fear the images, but their weight—the idea that something knew him better than he knew himself.
Kaelith rounded on him, her dagger pointed. "What was that, Vaelreth? You're playing with something that plays back."
He met her gaze, his grin unsteady but alive. "Good. I'd hate a one-sided game."
Jorath clutched the cliff, his voice low. "The Starvein's not a game. It's a will. It chose you, but it doesn't trust you."
Vaelreth's laugh was wild, cutting the wind. "Trust? I don't trust me either."
But the hum lingered, a whisper that felt like a warning. He scanned the ledge, spotting a faint rune etched in the rock, glowing green. Another piece of the Starvein's puzzle. He could wake it, risk another collapse, or leave it and run. The choice was a spark, and sparks were his lifeblood.
"Vaelreth," Kaelith snapped, nodding to the torches below. "They're coming."
"Let them," he said, his fingers brushing the rune. "The game's just getting interesting."
As the hum pulsed again, Vaelreth felt the Starvein's eyes on him, and for the first time, he wondered if he was the player—or the piece.
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