The abandoned watchtower stood like a broken sentinel against the storm-lashed sky, its stones slick with moss and decay. Rain slashed through gaping holes in the roof, pooling in murky puddles that reflected the erratic dance of Veyra's flames. The fire hissed and spat, struggling against the damp kindling, its light carving jagged shadows into the tower's crumbling walls. Elara leaned against the cold stone, her form flickering like a dying candle. Translucent fingers brushed the frayed red ribbon at her collar—her mother's last gift, now as ghostly as she was.
Kael sat apart from the others, his shadow-blade resting across his knees. The weapon hummed faintly, its obsidian edge drinking in the firelight. He stared at his reflection in the blade, barely recognizing the face staring back—pale, gaunt, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. The Thorned Prince's voice slithered through his mind, relentless. "You stink of fear, little king. They'll abandon you. Just like your mother."
Sorin crouched by the fire, grinding moonleaf petals into a mortar with more force than necessary. The bitter scent of the herb mingled with the rot clinging to their clothes. "We need to move before dawn," he said, his voice sharp with tension. "Thornmarch track by scent. And right now, we reek like a corpse pile."
Veyra snorted, feeding another handful of brittle twigs to the flames. The fire flared, casting golden light over her scarred arms. "Speak for yourself. Some of us bathe."
Elara's teal eyes glowed faintly as she stared at her translucent hands. The Veil's threads were slipping away faster now, unraveling like a frayed tapestry. "I can… feel it," she whispered, her voice hollow. "The Veil's remnants. They're dissolving. Like sand slipping through my fingers."
Kael's jaw tightened. The Thorned Prince's laughter echoed in his skull. "She'll leave you. They all do." He gripped the hilt of his blade until his knuckles whitened. "Then we find the Thorned King. End this."
Sorin barked a laugh, tossing a crushed moonleaf stem into the fire. "Sure. Let's stroll into the rot's heart with a smile and a wave. What's Plan B? Or are we skipping straight to the funeral pyre?"
"There is no Plan B," Elara said quietly, her gaze fixed on the storm outside. Rain drummed the tower's roof like a funeral dirge, the sound seeping into their bones.
...
Kael slipped into the storm when the others succumbed to exhaustion.
The woods swallowed him whole, shadows clinging to his cloak like loyal hounds. Rain lashed his face, mingling with the cold sweat on his skin. The Thorned Prince's laughter slithered through the downpour, a serpent in the dark. "Running to your doom, little king? Or are you finally ready to embrace your birthright?"
"Neither," Kael growled, his boots sinking into the mud. "Show yourself, coward."
A gnarled root erupted from the earth, thorned and pulsating with black ichor. The Prince's form coalesced atop it—antlers dripping venom, void-like eyes gleaming with malice. "You beg for death? Or dominion?"
Kael's blade flashed, slicing through the rain. "Answers."
The Prince sidestepped, fluid as smoke. "The Thorned King is your blood. Your legacy. He carved the First Weaver's crown, fed her suffering to the rot until it birthed the Mother. You carry his sins… and his strength."
"I'm not him," Kael snarled, slashing again. The blade passed harmlessly through the Prince's shadow.
"Aren't you?" The Prince's clawed hand lashed out, raking Kael's arm. Blood welled—black and glistening, the same rot that infected the woods. "You crave power. To protect her. To be enough."
Kael staggered, pain searing up his arm. The Prince's words struck deeper than the wound. "You're lying."
"Am I?" The Thorned Prince circled him, his voice a velvet poison. "You've tasted the shadow's bite. Felt it sing in your veins. You could crush the Thorned King, claim his crown, and make this blighted world yours."
Kael's breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he saw it—Elara safe, the village restored, Veyra and Sorin laughing by a fire untainted by rot. The Prince's shadow curled around his shoulders, warm as a lover's embrace. "All it takes is a single choice."
Kael lunged, blade piercing the Prince's chest—but it passed through shadow, striking only air.
"Find the crown," the Prince whispered, dissolving into the storm. "Wear it… or break it. But know this—the rot cannot be killed. Only mastered."
"..."
Back at the tower, Veyra stared at her reflection in a shard of broken glass. Golden blood shimmered under the firelight, the cut on her arm already knitting closed.
"You're staring," Sorin said, tossing her a bandage without looking up.
"It's weird," she muttered, pressing the cloth to her skin. "Feeling like a damn torch. Like I'm not… me anymore."
Sorin snorted, grinding another handful of moonleaf. "Embrace it. Or it'll burn you alive."
She glared at him, flames flickering in her palm. "Easy for you. You're just… you."
"My sister said the same." Sorin's hands stilled, his voice dropping. "Before the cult turned her into kindling."
Veyra's fire dimmed. "I'm sorry."
He shrugged, the motion too sharp to be casual. "Light a pyre for her later. For now—"
A scream tore through the night—raw, agonized, unmistakably Kael's.
Elara bolted upright, her form solidifying briefly as panic overrode the Veil's pull. "Kael!"
"..."
They found him knee-deep in a bog, shadow-blade cleaving through writhing tendrils of rot. The creature was a living mass of fungus and bone, its maw bristling with larvae that screeched as they spilled onto the mud.
"Get back!" Kael roared, but the sludge surged, engulfing his legs up to the thighs.
Elara's threads lashed out, slicing through the thorned tendrils. "Pull him free!"
Sorin hurled a vial into the muck. It exploded in a cloud of acrid smoke, the rot recoiling with a guttural hiss. Veyra's flames roared to life, golden fire searing the retreating mass. The creature shrieked, dissolving into a puddle of steaming sludge.
Kael collapsed onto solid ground, coughing up black ichor. His arm trembled as he wiped his mouth. "The crown… it's the key."
Elara knelt beside him, her hand hovering over the fresh wound on his arm. "What crown?"
"The First Weaver's. The Thorned King has it. It's what binds the rot to this world."
Veyra's flames flickered uncertainly. "So we steal it?"
"Or destroy it," Sorin said, sheathing his dagger. "Same difference, really."
"..."
The Thornmarch found them at dawn.
They emerged from the mist like nightmares given flesh—soldiers clad in armor of thorns and bark, their faces hidden behind masks carved from bone. At their helm rode the Thorned King, antlers scraping the low-hanging clouds, a twisted crown of blackened roots resting upon his brow. The crown pulsed with a sickly green light, veins of rot snaking down his armor.
Elara's threads wove a barrier of starlight around them. "Stay behind me!"
The Thorned King raised a clawed hand, and the Thornmarch charged.
Kael met them head-on, shadow-blades a whirlwind of fury. The Prince's voice urged him deeper into the fray. "More. Faster. Kill."
Veyra's flames engulfed a soldier, his thorned armor melting like wax. "Sorin! The crown!"
Sorin ducked a spear thrust, his dagger slashing the attacker's throat. "Working on it!"
Elara's barrier faltered, her form flickering dangerously. The Thorned King's gaze locked onto her, void-like eyes gleaming with hunger.
"Mine," he rasped, dismounting with a ground-shaking thud.
"..."
Kael reached the King first.
Their blades clashed, sparks flying as shadow met rot. The King's mask split, revealing a face that mirrored Kael's—older, crueler, eyes voids of corruption.
"You wear my shadow," the King hissed, pressing closer. "But you lack the spine to wield it."
Kael's blade found the King's ribs, black blood oozing from the wound. "I'm not your puppet."
The King laughed, yanking the blade deeper. "No. You're my vessel."
The crown glowed, tendrils of rot snaking toward Kael's head.
Elara screamed. "NO!"
Veyra's fire erupted—golden, blinding, a sunburst in the gloom. The crown shuddered, its light dimming.
Kael seized it, the thorns biting into his palms. Blood dripped, black and gold mingling.
"Break it!" Elara cried, her threads straining against the Thornmarch.
The Prince's voice whispered, "Or claim your birthright. Save them."
"..."
Kael hesitated.
The crown pulsed, flooding him with memories—the First Weaver's scream as the thorns pierced her flesh, the King's triumph as the rot consumed her, centuries of blight festering in her name.
Elara's hand brushed his, cold and fleeting. "Choose us."
He brought the crown down onto a jagged rock.
The crack echoed like thunder. The crown shattered, rot spewing forth in a geyser of black sludge. The Thorned King howled, his form dissolving into the muck. The Thornmarch collapsed, armor crumbling to dust.
Silence fell, broken only by the drip of rain and the ragged breaths of the living.
Kael sagged to his knees, the shadow in his chest quiet at last.
Elara's form flickered, her hand solid enough to grip his shoulder. "It's over."
Veyra's flames sputtered out, leaving her swaying on her feet. "For now."
Sorin stared at the remains of the crown, his dagger still bloodied. "Yeah, for now."