The Silver Heir
Chapter Nine: Ashes of the Familiar
The village smelled of ash and blood. The wind carried smoke through the gutted streets, whispering over broken doors and splintered beams, whispering over the silence of the dead. Pearl stood at the edge of what had once been home, her silver aura guttering faintly, flickering like a candle on the verge of collapse.
Her mother's body was heavy in her arms. Too heavy. As if death had doubled its weight to punish Pearl for not being fast enough, not strong enough. The hunters' general had vanished into the woods with its shadowed hounds, leaving only ruin in its wake.
Pearl lowered her mother onto the earth beneath the old tree that had stood in their yard since before she was born. Its branches were scorched, leaves turned black, but it still stood—defiant, scarred. A fitting place for a grave.
With trembling hands, Pearl dug into the soil. Each handful tore her nails, dirt mixing with her blood. She did not care. She would carve a place for her mother in the ground with her own flesh if she had to.
When the pit was deep enough, she laid her mother inside. The night was silent, but Pearl swore she heard the faint echo of her mother's voice, warning her once more that darkness lived in her blood.
She whispered a promise as she covered the body with earth.
"I will not bow to him. I will not become his heir. I swear it."
The last clump of soil fell. Pearl pressed her palms to the ground, her silver energy spilling into it. The soil hardened like stone, sealing the grave in a soft glow of moonlight. Only then did she let herself fall to her knees, shoulders shaking.
No tears came. Only rage.
The survivors of the village gathered at a distance, torches clutched tight, faces pale and hollow. Pearl felt their eyes on her. Not gratitude—fear.
"She burned them," one whispered. "She burned the hunters like they were nothing."
"Her wounds," another muttered. "I saw her bleed black. She's not human."
"She's cursed."
The words struck her harder than claws. Pearl rose, her fists clenched, her aura pulsing faintly. She wanted to scream at them, to remind them she had fought, she had bled, while they had hidden. But what good would it do? To them, she wasn't savior or kin. She was something else—something dangerous.
Her gaze swept over them. Mothers clutching children, men too weary to hold weapons, old ones too frail to run. They had lost so much, and still their fear had room to fix upon her.
Her father stood among them, face lined with grief. His eyes met hers, and though sorrow lived in them, there was no accusation. Only understanding.
"You can't stay here, Pearl," he said quietly. "Your presence brings Kaelith's wrath upon us. The hunters will return. Next time, we won't survive."
The words tore her apart, but she knew he was right.
"I'll leave at dawn," she said.
Her father nodded once. His lips trembled as if to form more words, but none came. He turned away, shoulders bowed, the weight of loss bending him like the burnt tree.
That night, Pearl did not sleep. She sat by her mother's grave, the moon rising pale and fractured through drifting smoke. Her silver aura pulsed against the soil, and in the rhythm of its glow she felt a presence.
Not comfort. Not peace.
A whisper.
You bury her in light, but she died because of you.
The voice slid into her mind, soft as silk, cold as knives.
You could have saved her. You had the strength. But you held back. You feared what you are.
Pearl clutched her head, grinding her teeth. "No…"
Yes. You bleed black, daughter of the moon. You felt it burn in your veins when the hunter clawed you. That is no accident. It is inheritance. You are not just Pearl. You are shadow and light. You are mine.
"Kaelith," she spat, venom in her voice.
His laugh curled through the night, low and hungry. You can deny me, but every battle brings you closer. I do not chase you, child. You chase me. And when you find me, you will kneel—not because I command it, but because the shadow inside you will demand it.
Pearl's aura blazed. "I will never kneel."
The whisper faded, leaving silence heavier than stone.
Pearl trembled, her body aching, her mind raw. She stared at her hands—one glowing faintly silver, the other darkened at the veins as if ink pulsed beneath the skin.
Her mother's warning. Her father's sorrow. The villagers' fear. Kaelith's laughter.
It was too much.
When dawn finally broke, Pearl rose, her resolve iron despite the storm inside her. She kissed the soil above her mother's grave once, softly, then turned away.
The villagers did not stop her as she walked through the ruins. Some lowered their eyes, others spat in the dirt. None offered blessing. None offered thanks.
Pearl did not need them. She did not belong here. Not anymore.
As she stepped onto the road leading into the wilderness, a single figure remained watching—the same masked general, standing at the tree line, patient as stone.
Pearl's silver aura flared. She met its gaze, her voice low, steady.
"Tell your master this," she said. "The Silver Heir comes for him. And she carries not just his shadow… but his end."
The general tilted its head. Then, like smoke in wind, it vanished.
Pearl walked into the rising sun, every step echoing with grief, every breath poisoned with rage. The war had begun.