The sky over the Black Marshes never turned blue.
It was a churning gray, smeared like ash across the heavens. Thunder murmured constantly, like a god grumbling in its sleep. The land itself was wrong—half swamp, half graveyard, pulsing with a sickness that breathed.
Kael stepped into the mud, his boots sinking deep. The water was black. Not murky—black. It didn't reflect the sky. It swallowed light.
Sera walked beside him, pale and silent, her cloak pulled tight against the wet air.
"This place reeks of old death," she murmured.
"No," Kael said, eyes scanning the fog. "It reeks of the Ascended."
---
A Day Earlier…
A dying merchant in the last village had whispered his name with his final breath:
> "Solren the Hollow. He's become part of the swamp now. Wears a crown of vines. Kills with words."
An oathkeeper once—like Kael and Eryndor. Before the Severing.
Now, he was one of the Ascended—beings reshaped by Eryndor's will. Men who had torn out their own names in exchange for power that should never have been given.
Kael wanted his head.
---
They pressed deeper into the swamp. Strange lights flickered between the trees—too slow to be fireflies, too wrong to be natural.
Then the voices began.
At first, whispers.
Then laughter.
Then screams.
None of it real.
Sera collapsed to her knees, clutching her ears. "They're inside—inside my thoughts—"
Kael grabbed her, dragging her into a dry patch of stone. The whispers faded as he pressed his palm to the Mark, forcing it to flare. It hurt—deeply—but the curse responded to curses.
And drove the other one back.
Sera gasped, then looked up at him.
"That thing," she said. "It's watching us. It sees everything in this place."
Kael nodded. "Good. Let it see me coming."
---
Nightfall.
They reached the ruins—an old temple drowned in marshwater, twisted by time and taint. Vines coiled like veins across stone and bone. Corpses hung from trees, eyes stitched open.
And on the throne of roots, waiting, sat Solren the Hollow.
He looked like a man made of bark and shadow. His face was wooden—literally—mask-like, with only his eyes showing: glowing blue, empty of soul.
"You came to kill me," Solren said, voice like wind through dead leaves.
Kael didn't answer.
Solren stood.
"You think you are vengeance, Kael Veyne. But you're just an echo of an oath already broken."
"I don't care what I am," Kael growled, drawing Whisperfang. "As long as you're dead by dawn."
Solren spread his arms. "Then bleed for your brother."
---
The battle was chaos.
Solren didn't fight like a man. He fought like a forest that hated you.
Vines lashed out, tearing the ground apart. Illusions crawled into Kael's vision—Eryndor's face, smiling, taunting. His past lovers. His dead comrades. All whispering his name, begging him to turn back.
Sera summoned a warding flame, holding the illusions at bay. Kael roared and broke through—drove Whisperfang straight through Solren's chest.
Solren didn't die.
He laughed.
And whispered one word:
> "Ascend."
The Mark screamed. Kael dropped to his knees as fire erupted in his spine, his bones cracking, his blood boiling.
Solren leaned close.
"Eryndor has chosen you," he hissed. "You're not his enemy. You're his successor."
Kael looked up, eyes blazing.
"Then tell him—"
He yanked Whisperfang free and severed Solren's head.
"—I decline."
---
Dawn broke red.
The swamp fell silent. The illusions were gone. The dead hung quiet.
Kael stood over Solren's corpse, the Mark still burning, but quieter now. Like it had eaten something and was digesting.
Sera approached, her voice shaken.
"You're changing."
Kael didn't look at her.
"I know."