Chapter 15: The Devil's Smile
The full moon hung low over the horizon, its pale light washing the frozen earth in shades of bone-white and silver. Snow had begun to fall again, silently blanketing the remains of the battlefield outside Myrcath's shattered gates. A solemn stillness blanketed the air, disturbed only by the occasional creak of settling timbers or the flutter of ash still drifting from the smoldering ruins of the southern wall.
The silence was unnerving to Caelen.
He stood at the parapet of the keep, draped in a black cloak that whipped at the edges in the wind. Below, the city groaned beneath its wounds. Fires had been extinguished, bodies collected into carts for mass burial outside the eastern gate, and the people of Myrcath were slowly emerging from their hiding places like mice sniffing for danger. But Caelen knew danger still lingered, even if it had withdrawn into the shadows for now.
"You should rest," came a soft voice behind him.
He turned slightly. Elyria stood there, wrapped in a woolen mantle. Her hair was tied back, but loose strands curled around her face, damp from the snow.
"I can't," he murmured. "Not yet. There's too much left undone."
Elyria stepped beside him, her eyes tracking the curve of the city below. "We survived," she said quietly. "Barely. But we did."
Caelen gave a tight nod. "For now."
They stood in silence for a long moment. Snow gathered on the stone ledge before them. Down below, a pair of soldiers worked to prop up a fallen section of palisade, moving like ghosts in the moonlight.
Then Elyria asked, "Do you think it was him?"
Caelen didn't need to ask who she meant. "Yes," he said, his voice low. "Even if we never saw him. The strategy, the timing… it was too perfect. Too calculated."
"The Devil has returned," she whispered.
Caelen said nothing. He clenched the edge of the stone ledge until his knuckles whitened.
They left the parapet together, descending the narrow stairwell inside the tower. The torchlight flickered as they walked, casting long shadows on the stone walls, elongating their figures like specters trailing behind. The air smelled of burnt wood and blood, but beneath that—beneath the surface—there was something more subtle, something colder. A chill that didn't come from the snow.
As they reached the great hall, they found it bustling with quiet movement. Soldiers patched armor with whatever scraps they could salvage, and clerics moved among the wounded, whispering prayers to both known gods and lesser spirits. The fire in the hearth had long since died down, replaced by smoldering embers and a shallow warmth that barely touched the corners of the room.
At the center of it all stood Captain Virek, speaking with Lord Belathen and two of the surviving knights of the Order of the Black Sun. Maps were strewn across the table, many marked in blood, torn at the edges from hasty travel. Caelen could tell from their expressions—grave, weary, haunted—that no good news had come.
Virek saw him approach and gave a shallow nod. "Commander."
Caelen returned it. "Report."
"We pushed them back two days ago, but they didn't retreat. They dispersed. Melted into the hills, the forests, the villages to the east. Raiding parties have struck caravans, even torchbearers bearing Myrcath's crest. This wasn't a siege," Virek growled. "It was a message."
Caelen's jaw tightened. "From him."
Belathen leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And what is the message?"
"That he's watching," Caelen said, looking around the room. "That he knows we're rebuilding. That Myrcath isn't safe."
Silence followed.
A messenger rushed in, breathless, carrying a sealed parchment bearing a dark wax stamp.
Caelen took it. He didn't recognize the sigil—but the wax was deep crimson, almost black. When he broke the seal, the paper inside unfurled with unsettling ease.
One line.
"Tell the boy I haven't forgotten."
Caelen's fingers curled around the parchment, crumpling it slowly as dread churned in his chest.
Elyria stepped closer. "Who is it from?"
Caelen looked up. "I know the handwriting."
He didn't say the name. He didn't have to.
Later that night, Caelen found himself unable to sleep. He walked the halls of the keep with torch in hand, passing through the barracks, the old chapel, the ruins of the library. Each space whispered with memories: his mother singing lullabies when he was barely taller than the pews, his father scolding him for climbing the outer walls, Elyria practicing sword forms in the courtyard while he read beneath a tree.
So much of it was gone now.
But not forgotten.
He stepped into the crypt beneath the keep, where the oldest stones whispered of bloodlines long past. The air was cold—damp with ancient moisture—and smelled of dust and iron. Caelen held the torch high and walked deeper into the narrow corridors, past sarcophagi etched with faded names and broken crests.
He reached the end. The tomb of King Aedric the First.
And behind it, hidden by shadow and ivy, a narrow doorway.
He hadn't been down here in years. But his feet knew the path.
Through the passage, the stones gave way to older rock, darker and smoother. The hallway opened into a round chamber carved into the bedrock itself, empty except for a single dais in the center.
And a sword.
Long, black as obsidian, with veins of silver pulsing faintly beneath its surface.
The Mourning Blade.
He stepped closer, breathing slowed. He hadn't seen it since the day his father died.
A whisper rose from the air, low and sibilant. "You came back."
The shadows in the chamber thickened, like mist in reverse—pulling inward instead of dissipating. Caelen turned, torchlight flickering wildly.
A figure stepped from the black: cloaked, faceless, but undeniably human. Its eyes glowed like embers—no pupils, just fire.
"Who are you?" Caelen asked.
"You know me," the figure whispered.
Caelen stepped forward. "You were there when my father died. You whispered in his ear before the end."
The figure did not answer. Instead, it turned toward the blade.
"This sword has tasted kings," it said. "It has sung through necks and hearts and souls. It remembers."
"I don't want it," Caelen said.
"But you will need it."
A silence stretched between them.
Then the figure turned away, fading back into the wall of shadow. "He comes, Caelen. And he smiles still."
With that, the chamber was empty once more.
Caelen stared at the sword. The Mourning Blade. Forged in the Age of Wolves, tempered in the blood of tyrants. He remembered the stories. He remembered the cost.
But still—he reached for it.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt.
And the room screamed.
When Caelen emerged from the crypt hours later, his hair was damp with sweat, his hands shaking.
Elyria was waiting for him by the chapel door.
"What did you find?" she asked.
Caelen looked down at his hand. The blade was gone. But the hilt had left a mark—a ring of black on his palm, like ash or soot, that didn't wash away.
"I found a reminder," he said.
She studied him, then nodded. "We ride at dawn."
"To where?"
"North," she said. "To where this all began. To Vareth."
His eyes narrowed. "That city hasn't been touched in a hundred years."
"That's why it's time."
Caelen glanced back toward the crypt. Then forward.
"We'll need allies," he said.
"I've already sent messengers to the Varnari. And to the Hollow."
He looked at her, surprised. "You think they'll answer?"
"I think," she said slowly, "they remember what he did. And they'll want to make sure he doesn't do it again."
He nodded.
Then they turned together toward the gate, where the snow was falling heavier now, blanketing the road to the north. The wind howled like a warning—but Caelen no longer feared it.
He carried the storm inside him now.