Chapter 10:
The group pressed onward through the winding canyons, their path illuminated only by the faint glow of the relic and the pale light of the moon. The weight of their encounter with the Herald hung over them, the quiet broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the rocky ground.
Lira broke the silence first. "They were hunting us. That wasn't just chance."
Ashen nodded. "Malthor must have felt the relic's awakening. He's afraid."
Caelum snorted. "I wouldn't call it fear. He's preparing for something. That Herald was more a message than an assassin."
The hermit's words from before echoed in Ashen's mind. *Malthor has grown stronger in your absence.*
But how strong? And what would it cost to face him?
---
The terrain grew steeper as they climbed higher into the Shardspire Peaks. The jagged cliffs stretched into the sky like broken shards of glass, their edges glinting in the moonlight. The air grew thinner, colder, and every step became a struggle.
They stopped at a narrow ledge to catch their breath. Lira scanned the horizon, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Something feels wrong."
Caelum glanced at her. "More wrong than usual?"
She ignored the jab, her voice tense. "The air. It's… heavy. Like we're walking into something."
Ashen frowned. He could feel it too—a subtle pressure, as if the very mountain resented their presence. He reached into his satchel, touching the relic. Its warmth steadied him, but it didn't ease the growing sense of foreboding.
"We keep moving," he said. "Whatever's waiting for us, we face it together."
---
The path narrowed into a winding corridor between two towering cliffs. The oppressive feeling grew stronger with each step, the air thick with an unnatural energy that made it difficult to breathe.
When they emerged into a wide plateau, they stopped dead in their tracks.
The ground was scorched black, and jagged pillars of obsidian jutted from the earth like the broken ribs of some long-dead beast. In the center of the plateau stood a massive stone altar, its surface etched with glowing red sigils.
"What is this place?" Lira whispered, her voice barely audible.
Caelum's face darkened. "A shrine. Not to the gods, though. This is something darker."
Ashen approached the altar cautiously, his sword drawn. The relic in his satchel pulsed in response, its light pushing back against the suffocating darkness.
As he reached the altar, a deep, resonant voice echoed across the plateau.
"So, the fallen god dares to tread where his kind once feared to go."
Ashen spun around, his eyes scanning the shadows. A figure emerged from the darkness, its form shifting and indistinct. It was draped in a tattered cloak, its face obscured by a mask of polished bone.
"Who are you?" Ashen demanded, his sword at the ready.
The figure chuckled, a sound that sent chills down their spines. "I am an emissary, a herald of the truth. Malthor does not send his strongest for you, Azrael. He sends the truth of what you are."
The ground beneath them trembled, and the sigils on the altar flared to life. From the obsidian pillars, shadowy forms began to emerge—twisted, humanoid shapes with glowing red eyes and elongated limbs.
The figure's voice grew louder. "Do you not see? The light you cling to is a lie. Even now, it burns you from within, feeding on your fear, your doubt."
Ashen raised his sword, the relic's light flaring in response. "And yet, here I stand. If the light burns, it's because I've chosen to carry it. What have you chosen, shadow?"
The figure tilted its head. "I have chosen freedom. Malthor offers a world without chains, without balance—a world where strength is the only truth."
Lira fired an arrow, aiming for the figure's chest, but it passed through harmlessly, dispersing the shadows.
The emissary laughed. "You cannot strike what you do not understand."
The shadowy figures charged, their twisted forms moving with unnatural speed. Ashen met them head-on, his blade cutting through their dark shapes. Each strike released a burst of light, and the creatures dissolved into ash.
Lira and Caelum fought alongside him, their movements synchronized from years of battle. Lira's arrows pierced through the creatures with precision, while Caelum's swordsmanship turned the tide of the fight.
But for every shadow they destroyed, more emerged from the pillars.
The emissary's voice echoed again. "This is only the beginning, Azrael. The closer you come to reclaiming your power, the more the truth will consume you. The light is not your salvation—it is your burden."
Ashen gritted his teeth, the relic's light growing brighter with each swing of his sword. The shadows began to falter, their forms growing less distinct.
"You're wrong," he shouted. "The light isn't a burden—it's a choice. And I choose to fight for those who can't."
With a surge of energy, he drove his blade into the ground. The relic's light exploded outward in a radiant wave, consuming the shadows and shattering the obsidian pillars.
When the light faded, the plateau was silent. The emissary was gone, leaving behind only the faint echo of its laughter.
Ashen fell to one knee, his breaths ragged. Lira and Caelum rushed to his side, their faces etched with concern.
"You okay?" Lira asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Ashen nodded, though he felt the weight of the emissary's words. "We need to keep moving. Malthor's reach is closer than I thought."
As they left the plateau, Ashen glanced back at the shattered altar. The battle had cost him more than he cared to admit. The light within him was strong, but the shadows of his past—and the truths they carried—were stronger still.
And somewhere, Malthor was watching. Waiting.