The Shadowbound came with the dawn, black armor gleaming like beetles in the first light.
Kael watched from his position behind the rocks overlooking the narrow pass, his heart hammering so hard he thought the enemy might hear it from a hundred yards away. Six of them, just as Commander Theron had predicted. Six corrupted soldiers whose eyes burned with unholy fire, whose very presence made the air taste of ashes and despair.
Beside him, Lyra's hand moved in a series of quick signals. Ready. Wait. Let them enter the kill zone.
Kael's fingers tightened on his sword. The silver flames coiled beneath his skin, eager to burst free, but he held them in check. Timing. Everything depended on timing.
The Shadowbound entered the pass, moving with the mechanical precision of soldiers who'd traveled this route dozens of times before. They suspected nothing. Why would they? This was their territory, their domain. For twenty years they'd hunted survivors through these mountains with impunity.
That ended today.
Lyra's hand dropped, and Kael stood.
The moment he rose above the rocks, every Shadowbound head snapped toward him with inhuman synchronization. Their burning eyes fixed on the mark blazing through his sleeve, recognition and fury twisting their corrupted features.
"Aethermoor," one of them hissed, the word emerging like poison from a wound. "The bloodline lives."
Kael called his power. Silver flames erupted from his hands, wreathing his blade in otherworldly fire. The magic sang through his veins, glorious and terrible, making him feel simultaneously more and less than human.
"My grandmother sends her regards," Kael said, and charged.
The world exploded into violence.
Kael hit the first Shadowbound like a silver comet, his flaming blade cutting through corrupted armor as though it were parchment. The soldier's scream was almost human—almost—before the shadow within him erupted from the dying body, a writhing mass of darkness seeking a new host.
Kael's training kicked in. He spun, silver flames lashing out, and the shadow shrieked as his magic burned it from existence. One down.
Then the others were on him.
Steel rang against steel. Dark magic clashed with silver fire. Kael moved through the forms Lyra had drilled into him, his body operating on instinct while his mind struggled to process the chaos. A blade came for his throat—he parried, riposted, felt his sword bite flesh. Another attacker on his left—he ducked under a wild swing and drove his blade up under the Shadowbound's chin.
Two down. Four to go. And Kael was already tiring, the magic draining him faster than he'd anticipated.
Then Lyra and the strike team hit the Shadowbound from behind, and the battlefield became a swirling melee of steel and shadow and silver flame. Kael caught glimpses of the veterans moving with deadly efficiency, their decades of experience showing in every calculated strike.
But the Shadowbound were stronger than normal men, faster, driven by the dark magic that had replaced their souls. One of the veterans went down, screaming as shadow tendrils wrapped around him, burning through his armor like acid. Another took a sword through the shoulder and crumpled.
Kael roared, pouring more power into his flames. They blazed brighter, hot enough to leave scorch marks on the rock beneath his feet. He threw himself at the Shadowbound who'd wounded his allies, his burning blade moving in patterns of destruction.
The Shadowbound tried to block, but silver fire doesn't care about steel. Kael's blade sheared through the soldier's defense and cut him nearly in half. Shadow erupted, and Kael was ready, his flames consuming it before it could escape.
Three down. Three to go.
But he was burning up inside. The power was too much, too hot, threatening to consume him from within. Kael could feel his control slipping, the hungry thing inside him demanding more, always more.
"Kael!" Lyra's warning came too late.
A Shadowbound blade caught him across the ribs, slicing through leather and flesh. Pain exploded through him, white-hot and clarifying. Kael stumbled, his flames flickering.
The Shadowbound who'd wounded him raised his sword for the killing blow, corrupted features twisted into something like triumph.
Then Lyra was there, her blade taking the soldier's head off in one clean strike. She stood over Kael, protecting him as the last two Shadowbound advanced.
"Get up," she snarled. "You don't get to die in your first real battle. I forbid it."
Kael laughed, tasting blood. The sound was half-mad, edged with hysteria and adrenaline. He dragged himself to his feet, pressing one hand against his wounded side while the other raised his sword.
The last two Shadowbound hesitated, seeing something in Kael that gave even their corrupted souls pause. They saw the silver flames blazing in his eyes now, saw the power of ancient kings burning through mortal flesh.
They turned to run.
"No," Kael heard himself say, his voice resonating with power. "No more running. No more hunting in these mountains. This ends."
He thrust out his hand, and silver fire leaped from his palm like a living thing. It caught the fleeing Shadowbound, wrapped around them, burned through armor and flesh and shadow until nothing remained but ash and screaming wind.
Silence fell over the pass, broken only by the ragged breathing of survivors and the moans of the wounded.
Kael stood swaying, his sword hanging loose in his grip, silver flames still dancing across his skin. The wound in his side burned, but it was distant, unimportant compared to the terrible hunger still demanding more blood, more death, more power.
"Kael." Lyra's voice, sharp and commanding. "Look at me. Look at me right now."
He turned to her, and she flinched at whatever she saw in his eyes.
"Come back," she said softly. "The battle's over. You won. Now come back to yourself before the power takes you completely."
Kael blinked, the words penetrating the haze of magic and bloodlust. He looked down at his hands, at the flames still wreathing them, and felt horror break through the hunger.
What had he become? What had he almost done?
With a tremendous effort of will, Kael forced the power down, pushed it back into whatever dark well it emerged from. The silver flames guttered and died, leaving him suddenly cold and achingly aware of his wounds.
He collapsed to his knees, and Lyra caught him before he could fall face-first into the rocks.
"I've got you," she said, her voice gentler than he'd ever heard it. "You did well, farm boy. You did well."
Kael wanted to respond, wanted to ask about the others, wanted to know if the veterans who'd fallen were alive or dead. But darkness was creeping in at the edges of his vision, and the pain from his wound was becoming impossible to ignore.
The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was Lyra's face above his, concern and something almost like pride warring in her expression.
Kael woke to white-hot agony and Sera's calm voice saying, "Hold him down. This is going to hurt."
Hands pinned his shoulders and legs as something searingly painful pressed against his wounded side. Kael screamed, tried to thrash, but the hands held him firm. Through the haze of pain he heard Sera chanting in the old language, felt healing magic—different from his silver flames, cooler and more controlled—flowing into his torn flesh.
Eternity passed. Then the pain began to recede, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
"There," Sera said. "He'll live. Though he'll have a scar to remind him not to be quite so reckless next time."
The hands released him, and Kael opened his eyes to find himself back in his barracks, surrounded by Sera, Lyra, and Commander Theron. They all looked exhausted, their faces drawn with stress and lack of sleep.
"How long?" Kael croaked.
"Two days," Theron answered. "You've been in and out of consciousness since we brought you back. Sera says you nearly burned yourself out channeling that much power at once."
Memory returned—the battle, the blood, the terrible hunger for more violence. Kael closed his eyes, shame washing over him. "The others. The veterans who went down. Are they—"
"One dead. Two wounded but stable." Lyra's voice was flat, reciting facts. "Could have been worse. Would have been worse if you hadn't taken point like you did."
"But someone died because of me. Because I led them into battle when I barely knew what I was doing."
"Someone died fighting Shadowbound, which they've been doing for twenty years." Theron moved to stand where Kael could see him without turning his head. "Torin knew the risks. He accepted them willingly. His death is on Malkor, not on you."
"The Commander is right," Sera added. "And more importantly, you won. Six Shadowbound destroyed, their shadows burned to nothing by your flames. That patrol will never hunt refugees again."
Kael knew they were trying to make him feel better, but the weight of responsibility sat heavy on his chest. He'd led men into battle, and one of them had died. That was a burden that wouldn't fade with healing magic or kind words.
"I lost control," he said quietly. "At the end, when I killed the last two. I felt the power taking over, felt myself slipping away into it. If Lyra hadn't pulled me back..."
"But I did pull you back," Lyra said firmly. "And next time, you'll be better at recognizing the signs. That's how learning works—you make mistakes, survive them, and do better next time."
"Assuming the mistakes don't kill you first."
"Well, yes. That's always the risk." Lyra's expression softened slightly. "For what it's worth, you fought well. Better than I expected for your first real combat. You kept your head, used your training, and only nearly got yourself killed once. That's a passing grade in my book."
Coming from Lyra, that was practically a declaration of undying admiration. Despite everything, Kael felt a smile tug at his lips.
"Now rest," Sera commanded. "Your body needs time to finish healing, and you need time to process what happened. We'll talk more when you're stronger."
They filed out, leaving Kael alone with his thoughts and the phantom pain from his healing wound. He lay in the darkness, replaying the battle over and over, analyzing each decision, each mistake.
But beneath the analysis and the guilt, there was something else. A kernel of dark satisfaction. He'd faced the Shadowbound and won. He'd proven himself in blood and fire. And despite the cost, despite the loss, he'd taken a step toward becoming what he needed to be.
A king. A warrior. A weapon against the darkness.
The mark on his wrist pulsed softly, as though approving his thoughts. Kael stared at it in the darkness, wondering how much of what he was becoming was truly him, and how much was the ancient power in his blood, shaping him into the instrument it needed.
In the end, he supposed it didn't matter. Whether he was choosing this path or being chosen by it, the destination was the same.
War. Blood. And eventually, an accounting with Lord Malkor himself.
Kael closed his eyes and let exhaustion drag him back into sleep. But this time, his dreams were filled not with nightmares but with silver flames and the faces of enemies yet to come.
He was ready for them.
Or at least, he would be.