36

  Inside the Sierra Castle, the air was damp and heavy with the scent of earth and moss. The torches lining the stone walls flickered weakly, their orange glow reflecting on the sprawling vines that had long since claimed the interior. At the foot of a grand staircase lay a rectangular table, carved from obsidian and etched with old runes that pulsed faintly.

  Upon it rested a cradle, small and wooden, shrouded in roots that had sprouted from the very floor. Beneath those same roots, encased in a tangle of vines, was the lifeless body of Reni, former King of Diospyrus—his chest unmoving, his face half-covered in the bark-like growths that had slowly encased him.

  But deep beneath those layers of root and earth… faintly, just faintly, a heartbeat still pulsed.

  From the shadows, Baldirion emerged—his robe tattered, his face illuminated by the pale flame of his staff. His steps echoed faintly as he approached the cradle. The vines that wrapped around it stirred, as though aware of his presence. He gazed down at the child within—an infant, no more than a few days old, eyes closed, wrapped in woven leaves that shimmered faintly in the light.

  He extended a long, bony finger, brushing the boy’s forehead.

  “Kael,” he said softly. “You will be known as Kael.”

  There was no warmth in his tone, no tenderness that a father might bear for his son. His voice was flat, analytical—a scholar naming an experiment.

  The infant cooed, unaware of the coldness in that voice.

  Baldirion looked down at Reni once more. The roots surrounding the former king tightened, and the faint glow within them dimmed. Baldirion’s expression didn’t change. He turned away and lifted the infant into his arms.

  “You,” he whispered, “may yet be of use.”

  Years passed.

  Kael grew swiftly, his intelligence sharp even as a child. He was the son of a druid—but raised in the heart of a sorcerer’s fortress.

  At three, he could already read and speak fluently in the tongue of the old mages.

  At six, he understood the intricate geometry of alchemy circles—how runes intertwined to harness the elements.

  At eight, he was dissecting the anatomy of spells, memorizing patterns that even adult apprentices struggled to grasp.

  He asked questions—about the outside world, about his parents, about the kingdoms of men. But Baldirion never answered.

  The old mage’s lessons were rigid, merciless. Kael learned through pain—through cuts and bruises, through sleepless nights of repetition and failure. His meals were often earned through survival, his rest through endurance.

  Yet… despite the cruelty, Kael began to love him.

  He admired Baldirion’s strength—the way the old mage could summon fire from nothing, shape water into blades, or crush rock with a gesture. He saw in Baldirion what he believed to be the essence of greatness.

  So he endured.

  Every bruise became a lesson.

  Every scar, a reminder.

  By the age of ten, Kael’s mastery of sword and dagger rivaled that of seasoned knights. He fought in silence, his movements precise, controlled. Baldirion watched, eyes sharp and unforgiving, and when Kael faltered, the strikes grew harder.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Give your all,” Baldirion said one evening, as Kael stood bleeding from a cut on his arm. “Every time. Or be nothing.”

  Kael nodded, and he never forgot those words.

  At fifteen, Kael commanded the three elements with fluidity.

  At eighteen, he had learned to combine them—molten stone, boiling water, hardened mud. His skill bordered on the unnatural. Even Baldirion, in the solitude of his chamber, wondered if the boy had surpassed him.

  On Kael’s coming of age, Baldirion summoned him to the grand hall.

  There, laid across the table, was a weapon—its blade gleaming faintly under torchlight.

  A triblade dagger, its edges serrated like the teeth of a beast.

  Its hilt was black, wrapped in red thread, and its center stone shimmered faintly, alive with old power.

  “This,” Baldirion said, handing it to him, “is your inheritance.”

  Kael looked at it with reverence. “What does it do?”

  “It kills,” Baldirion said simply. “Everything it touches remembers pain.”

  That night, Baldirion told him, “I have business beyond the cliffs. Stay within the castle. Do not wander.”

  Kael nodded, obedient as ever.

  When Baldirion left, the boy found himself restless.

  The castle was silent—too silent.

  So Kael wandered into the library, his favorite place. Rows of dust-covered tomes lined the walls, each filled with forgotten knowledge. He lit a candle and began browsing until a leather-bound volume caught his attention—“Weapons of the Ages.”

  He flipped through it, curious, until his eyes fell on an illustration.

  A triblade dagger.

  Exactly like his.

  He read the passage:

  “Forged in the fires of the Old Wars. The dagger that once struck the heart of the Lich beneath Mount Sahr. Said to devour the soul of its victim, binding it to the wielder.”

  His heart quickened. He turned the page, scanning every word.

  Then a thought struck him.

  Baldirion had told him it was a weapon of inheritance—but from whom?

  The candle flickered.

  He stood, clutching the dagger, and left the library.

  He searched the corridors. The towers. The chamber. Nothing.

  Baldirion was nowhere in sight.

  So Kael went outside—to the cliffs.

  The rain had begun to fall, cold and steady.

  When he reached the checkered plateau, he froze.

  There, near the edge, Baldirion was half-consumed by a tree, roots winding around his body.

  And before him stood a man—broad-shouldered, with long gray hair, eyes glowing faintly green.

  Kael’s heart dropped.

  He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

  He felt only rage—and fear.

  A surge of molten energy rose from his palm. He hurled it forward.

  The molten rock struck the man’s shoulder, sending him flying sideways.

  Kael ran, swift as wind, and kicked him hard in the abdomen. The man flew down the stone steps.

  Kael followed, leaping after him, dagger raised. He drove the triblade downward—only for the man to raise his hand and catch it in his palm.

  The blade pierced flesh, but the man didn’t flinch.

  Their eyes met—and in that instant, something passed between them.

  A flicker of memory.

  A whisper.

  Rowan…

  Voices that weren’t his echoed in his mind—his mother’s name, Lily, the woman who died giving birth to him. His father, Reni, and the lineage of druids that flowed through his veins.

  For a moment, Kael saw images: a kingdom bathed in light, a brother holding a newborn, tears in his eyes…

  But then Baldirion’s voice echoed in his head—cold and absolute.

  “Do not believe in anyone except yourself.”

  Kael’s pupils shrank.

  He gritted his teeth.

  He snarled—and pushed the dagger forward.

  It sank deep into the man’s chest.

  The druid didn’t cry out. He only whispered something Kael could not hear—and then stone surged behind him, enveloping him completely.

  Kael’s breath was ragged. His arm trembled. He pulled the dagger free and stumbled backward, gasping.

  He turned toward the tree.

  “Master!” he cried.

  He rushed to Baldirion’s side, whispering incantations. The roots loosened, creaking and falling away. Baldirion slumped forward, breathing faintly.

  Kael caught him, his voice shaking.

  “Master… I stopped him. I did it…”

  Baldirion’s hand rose weakly, touching his cheek. A faint smile crept onto his cracked lips.

  “You did well… my son.”

  Kael closed his eyes. For the first time, he felt warmth in those words.

  He did not see—the faint green glow still pulsing beneath the stone where Durante lay.