Kael's boots crunched against the dry earth, each step taking him farther from the charred remains of the village. Smoke lingered in the air, curling into the crimson-streaked sky, as though the wasteland itself was unwilling to let go of the destruction. The survivors' hollow eyes haunted him, their silent stares etched into his mind.
The Crown of Shadows hummed softly at his side, its tendrils quivering like an eager predator. The whispers were quieter now but no less insistent, a background murmur that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
"Did you see their faces, Kael?" the voices taunted. "The fear? The awe? They know what you are, even if you deny it."
Kael gritted his teeth and quickened his pace. He didn't respond; he knew better than to argue with the crown. The road stretched before him, empty save for the occasional twisted skeleton of a long-dead tree. The horizon was a smear of ochre and gray, an endless void that seemed to mock his every step.
But it wasn't the vast emptiness that weighed on him. It was the power.
Kael had felt it—cold, alien, and intoxicating. When he had unleashed the shadows, they had moved with a will of their own, striking down his enemies with savage precision. It had been effortless, almost exhilarating. And that terrified him.
"You didn't hesitate," the whispers said, their tone sly. "You reached for us. You embraced what you are."
"No," Kael muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "I embraced what I needed to be."
The crown chuckled, a sound like rustling leaves in a dark forest. "Is there a difference?"
Kael stopped walking, his hand instinctively tightening around the rusted chain at his side. He stared at the barren ground, his thoughts swirling like a storm. How much of himself had he lost already? How much more would the crown demand?
A distant sound broke his reverie—a faint rumble, low and rhythmic, like the beating of a great drum. Kael turned his head, his eyes narrowing. The wasteland was empty, or so it had seemed. But now, on the far edge of his vision, he could make out movement.
A caravan.
Several wagons trundled across the cracked earth, their wooden frames groaning under the weight of heavy cargo. Oxen pulled the wagons, their gaunt forms straining against their yokes. Around the caravan, a group of figures on horseback rode in loose formation, their weapons gleaming faintly in the fading light.
Kael hesitated. A caravan meant people—potential allies, but also potential threats. The memory of the burning village was still fresh in his mind, and he knew better than to trust strangers. But the caravan was heading in the same direction as he was: toward Altaris.
He adjusted his cloak, ensuring the crown was hidden from view, and began walking toward the caravan. As he drew closer, he could make out the faces of the riders—hard, weathered men and women, their eyes scanning the horizon with practiced vigilance. Mercenaries, most likely.
One of the riders noticed him and raised a hand, signaling the caravan to stop. The wagons creaked to a halt, and the riders formed a loose semicircle around Kael, their hands resting on the hilts of swords and axes.
"Traveler," a woman called out, her voice sharp and commanding. She was older, with silver streaks in her dark hair and a scar running down the side of her face. Her armor was battered but functional, and she held the reins of her horse with the ease of someone accustomed to authority.
Kael stopped a few paces away, his hands visible at his sides. "I'm just passing through," he said evenly. "I mean no harm."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Not many pass through these lands alone. And fewer still survive. Who are you?"
Kael hesitated, considering his words carefully. "A traveler," he said finally. "Looking for Altaris."
At the mention of the city, the woman's expression darkened. Murmurs rippled through the group, and the riders exchanged uneasy glances.
"Altaris is no place for a lone wanderer," the woman said, her tone wary. "What business do you have there?"
Kael met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "That's my concern."
The riders tensed, their hands moving toward their weapons. Kael shifted his stance slightly, ready to defend himself if needed.
"Stand down," the woman said sharply, raising a hand. The riders hesitated but obeyed, their grips on their weapons loosening. She studied Kael for a long moment, her eyes narrowing. "You've got the look of someone running from something—or toward it. Either way, you won't last long out here on your own. Join us, if you've got the coin to pay for protection."
Kael's lips twitched in a faint smirk. "Generous offer. But I think I can handle myself."
The woman raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to the rusted chain at his side. "Maybe. But the road to Altaris is more dangerous than you know. You'll find worse than brigands and beasts out there."
Kael's smirk faded. He had no doubt she was right. The wasteland was hostile enough, but Altaris—if the whispers of the crown and Lyria's warning were to be believed—would be far worse.
"Fine," he said after a moment. "I'll travel with you. But I'm not paying."
The woman's scarred face broke into a wry smile. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. What's your name, traveler?"
Kael hesitated again, the weight of the crown at his side a constant reminder of who he was—and who he had been.
"Kael," he said finally.
The woman nodded. "Kael, then. I'm Captain Sarra. Welcome to the company."
As the caravan began moving again, Kael fell into step beside the wagons. The riders kept a watchful eye on him, their suspicion evident. He didn't blame them. Trust was a scarce commodity in these lands.
The whispers of the crown grew quieter, but Kael could still feel its presence, like a shadow lurking just out of sight. The journey to Altaris had begun, and with it, the next chapter of his fate.
The city awaited, its gates shrouded in mystery—and danger.