The wind howled across the Ashen Wastes, carrying the bitter tang of soot and despair. Kael Draven trudged through the cracked, gray earth, his boots crunching against the brittle remains of a world forsaken.
His cloak, once a proud crimson emblazoned with Eryndor's golden flame, was now tattered, its edges frayed like his honor.
The weight of his longsword, sheathed at his hip, felt heavier than ever—a reminder of the oaths he'd broken. Above, the sky churned with storm clouds, their edges tinged with an unnatural violet hue, as if the heavens themselves mourned the kingdom's fall.
Kael's dark hair clung to his sweat-streaked forehead, and his storm-gray eyes scanned the horizon for threats. At thirty-two, he bore the scars of a warrior: a jagged line across his left cheek, a memento from a duel he'd barely survived, and a deeper wound in his soul, carved by betrayal.
Three years ago, he'd been a knight of Eryndor, sworn to protect King Torren. But when assassins struck, Kael had faltered, his blade too slow to save his lord. The court branded him a traitor, and Queen Lysara, Torren's widow, had no choice but to exile him. Now, he is a wanderer, a ghost haunting the fringes of a fractured world.
The Wastes stretched endlessly before him, a desolate expanse where nothing grew, and only the desperate or damned dared to tread.
Kael had heard rumors of a village nearby, a stubborn outpost clinging to life. He needed supplies—water, bread, perhaps a moment's respite from the memories that gnawed at him. His waterskin hung nearly empty at his belt, and his stomach growled, a harsh reminder of days without a proper meal. But survival was a habit he couldn't shake, even if he no longer knew why he fought for it.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of blood and ash, Kael crested a low ridge. Below, nestled in a shallow valley, lay the village: a cluster of ramshackle huts surrounded by a crude wooden palisade. Smoke rose from the chimneys, thin and gray, but something was wrong. The air carried the acrid scent of burning flesh, and the distant wail of a child pierced the wind's howl.
Kael's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt. His heart quickened, not with fear, but with a flicker of purpose he hadn't felt in years. He descended the ridge, his steps cautious but swift, the crunch of gravel underfoot drowned out by the growing clamor from the village. As he neared the palisade, he saw the gates splintered, hanging off their hinges. Shadows moved within—figures clad in black cloaks, their movements predatory.
He crouched behind a boulder, peering through the dusk. The village square was a scene of chaos. Huts burned, their thatched roofs collapsing in showers of sparks. Bodies lay scattered, villagers cut down mid-flight, their blood pooling in the dirt. At the center of the square, a group of cloaked figures surrounded a small girl, no older than ten, her face streaked with tears. She clutched a rag doll, her sobs muffled by the crackle of flames.
The cloaked figures—six in total—wore masks carved with jagged runes that pulsed with a faint, sickly green light. Kael's breath caught. He'd seen those runes before, in the forbidden texts of Eryndor's archives. They were the marks of the Void King's cult, a sect thought eradicated centuries ago. Their return could mean only one thing: the ancient evil that once threatened the Five Kingdoms was stirring again.
One of the cultists, taller than the others, stepped forward, his voice a low rasp. "The child bears the mark," he said, gesturing to the girl. "The master demands her blood."
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. The mark? He didn't know what it meant, but he knew innocence when he saw it. The girl's wide, terrified eyes reminded him of his sister, long dead, and the failure that had cost her life. He couldn't save her then, but he could act now.
He rose, drawing his longsword with a soft rasp of steel. The blade, though nicked and worn, gleamed faintly in the firelight, its edge still lethal. Kael stepped into the square, his cloak billowing behind him. "Let her go," he called, his voice steady despite the odds.
The cultists turned, their masks glinting. The leader tilted his head, as if amused. "A lone wanderer dares challenge the Void's chosen? You court death, fool."
Kael's lips twitched into a grim smile. "Death and I are old friends. Let's see if your master's as welcoming."
The leader snarled, raising a curved dagger etched with the same glowing runes. "Kill him."
The cultists charged, their movements unnaturally swift, as if fueled by dark magic. Kael met the first with a sidestep, his sword arcing to sever the man's arm at the elbow. The cultist screamed, collapsing as blood sprayed. The second lunged, wielding a spiked mace, but Kael parried, the impact jarring his bones. He countered with a thrust to the chest, dropping the attacker in a heap.
The square erupted into a whirlwind of steel and firelight. Kael fought with the precision of a knight trained in Eryndor's halls, but also with the desperation of a man with nothing left to lose. He ducked a dagger aimed at his throat, rolling to avoid a blast of green flame conjured by a cultist's rune. The heat singed his cloak, and he cursed under his breath. These weren't mere fanatics—they wielded sorcery, a power forbidden since the last war.
As he dispatched the third cultist with a slash to the neck, the leader raised his dagger over the girl, who screamed and curled into a ball. Kael's heart pounded. He couldn't reach her in time. Desperation surged, and he hurled his sword, a reckless move born of instinct. The blade spun through the air, striking the leader's shoulder with a sickening crunch. The dagger fell, and the leader staggered, clutching the wound.
Kael sprinted forward, unarmed but undeterred. He tackled the leader, driving him to the ground. The cultist's mask cracked under Kael's fist, revealing a gaunt face twisted with fanaticism. "The Void will rise!" the man spat, blood flecking his lips.
"Not today," Kael growled, slamming the man's head into the dirt until he went limp.
The remaining two cultists hesitated, their confidence shaken. Kael retrieved his sword, standing protectively over the girl. "Run, or die," he said, his voice cold as the Wastes.
They fled, vanishing into the smoke. Kael exhaled, his body aching, his hands trembling from the adrenaline. He knelt beside the girl, who stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "You're safe now," he said softly, though he wasn't sure he believed it.
She clutched her doll tighter. "They… they wanted my mark," she whispered, pulling back her sleeve to reveal a faint, star-shaped scar on her wrist. It shimmered faintly, like moonlight trapped in skin.
Kael frowned. He'd never seen such a mark, but its presence confirmed the cult's purpose wasn't random. "What's your name?" he asked, keeping his tone gentle.
"Lira," she said, her voice barely audible.
"Lira, I'm Kael. We need to get you somewhere safe." He glanced at the burning village, the bodies, the ruin. There was no safety here, not anymore. But a town lay a day's journey east, across the Wastes. He could take her there, find someone to care for her. It was a small act, but it felt like a step toward redemption.
As he helped Lira to her feet, he noticed a pendant clutched in the cultist leader's hand, torn free during their struggle. It was a black stone etched with the same glowing rune. Kael pocketed it, a clue to the cult's plans. The Void King's return was no myth, and this attack was only the beginning.
The flames roared higher, consuming the village. Kael led Lira away, her small hand trembling in his. The Wastes stretched before them, vast and unforgiving, but for the first time in years, Kael felt a spark of purpose. He was a fallen knight, a man without a home, but he could still fight. And fight he would, against the darkness that threatened to swallow the world.
As they walked into the gathering dusk, the wind carried a faint whisper, like a voice from the void itself. Kael tightened his grip on his sword, knowing the path ahead would be fraught with peril. But for Lira, for the memory of those he'd failed, he would face it.