The Silver Heir
Chapter Five: Ash and Blood
The scratching at the door grew louder.
Pearl's breath caught as Mareth eased forward, axe raised. The villagers had gathered in the square outside, their lanterns casting long, trembling shadows across the ground. They all waited, silent, as though the night itself was holding its breath.
And then the door creaked open.
The boy stood there. The same boy who had vanished two nights before. His hair hung in ragged strands, his skin pale like a candle guttering at its end. His lips moved soundlessly before a broken word slipped free.
"Mother…"
The woman who had birthed him sobbed, stumbling forward. Mareth shoved her back. "Stay where you are."
Pearl's stomach knotted. Something was wrong—horribly wrong. The boy's eyes weren't his own. They glowed faintly gold, like two dying embers, and his smile was stretched too wide, a mockery of innocence.
"Mother," he said again, and this time his voice wasn't a child's. It was layered, older, darker.
The shadows behind him thickened, curling up his arms like chains. His body spasmed, bones snapping audibly as they bent and realigned. His limbs elongated. His back arched until his spine cracked. And from his mouth came a sound that wasn't human—half scream, half laughter.
The villagers recoiled. Some screamed. Some prayed. One man shouted Pearl's name like a curse.
The boy—no, the thing—lurched forward. Its body was smoke and bone and hunger. Its mouth gaped, jagged teeth forming where none had been before.
Pearl froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She could feel the silver stirring inside her veins, begging to be unleashed. But her mother's warning burned just as fierce: Every spark costs you.
The creature pounced.
Mareth met it first, his axe cleaving through its side. But instead of flesh, the blade cut through shadow, scattering it like ash. The pieces swirled and reformed, the monster twisting back into shape with a shriek that rattled Pearl's skull.
"Pearl!" her father roared. "Now!"
Her hands trembled. Silver light crackled at her fingertips. She hesitated—just a moment—but in that moment, the creature's head snapped toward her.
And she saw the boy's face.
For a heartbeat, his real eyes broke through the haze, wide and terrified. His mouth moved soundlessly.
Help me.
Pearl's chest tightened. If she burned him, she wouldn't just kill the monster—she'd kill the boy.
The villagers screamed again. The monster lunged toward a woman clutching her child.
Pearl didn't think. She moved.
Her body blurred, faster than the wind, faster than thought. Silver trailed from her skin as she slammed into the creature, driving it back. Her hands burned with light as she gripped its shoulders. The smell of scorched shadow filled her nose. The boy screamed.
Two voices fought inside that scream: one human, pleading, the other dark and mocking.
Kaelith's voice.
"You can't save him," it hissed through the child's throat. "You can't save any of them."
Pearl's vision blurred. The light in her hands seared deeper, burning the monster apart. But the boy's human cry clawed at her ears.
And then—between screams—he whispered, clear and small:
"Kill me."
Her heart broke.
"Forgive me," she whispered, her tears sizzling against the silver glow.
Then she let the power go.
The world vanished in light.
It wasn't a strike—it was a flood. Moonfire erupted from her body, searing everything in reach. The creature convulsed, its shadows shrieking, writhing, burning away like smoke in a furnace. The boy's body arched, his voice split between agony and release.
When the storm ended, the night was silent.
Pearl collapsed to her knees, gasping. Her body felt shredded, hollowed out. Her arms shook, her skin blistered with faint silver cracks. Every pulse of her heart hurt.
The boy lay motionless in the dirt.
He was small again. Human again. His chest rose once. Twice. Then it stilled.
The silence of the villagers was worse than screams.
"She killed him," someone whispered.
"She saved us," another muttered.
"She brought this curse here!"
Pearl pressed trembling hands to her face. Their voices blurred together, indistinguishable. None of it mattered. The only sound that mattered was the echo of the boy's plea.
Kill me.
And she had obeyed.
Later that night, they buried him. No songs. No prayers. Just earth falling heavy on a too-small grave.
Pearl stood apart, bandages wrapped tight around her arms. She had no tears left, only emptiness. The villagers avoided her gaze. Even the ones who had begged her for salvation would not look at her now.
When it was done, Mareth laid a hand on her shoulder. "You did what you had to."
But his eyes were hollow, his jaw tight. He didn't believe his own words.
Liora lingered behind, her face streaked with tears. "This is only the beginning," she whispered.
Pearl didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because deep inside her, the silver still pulsed. It whispered promises of more strength if she would only give more of herself. And beneath it all, Kaelith's voice coiled like smoke around her heart.
Yes. Burn for me, little heir. Burn until nothing of you remains.
She dreamed again.
This time she was standing in a hall of bone, shadows dripping from the walls like blood. At the far end sat Kaelith, his throne carved from the skulls of giants. His golden eyes locked onto hers, bright with hunger.
In his hand, he held the boy's lifeless body like a toy. He stroked the child's hair as though soothing him.
"You did well," Kaelith said, his voice smooth as silk. "One life for one spark of your soul. You see now, don't you? Every battle costs you. Every victory bleeds you."
Pearl tried to speak, but her throat was raw, her voice gone.
Kaelith rose, stepping closer. His cloak dragged shadows across the floor, swallowing the light. "But there is another way. Join me, little heir. Give yourself freely, and I will unchain you from the cost. You will burn without limit. You will never have to lose again."
He reached for her, his hand cold and endless. His touch grazed her cheek.
Pearl screamed—
And woke, drenched in sweat.
The village bell was ringing again.
Another child was gone.