Where All Roads Lead
Ash blanketed the ground like snow.
Kael stared across the plains outside the ruined walls of the City of No Doors. His boots crushed bones with every step. Behind him, the wind howled through the empty gate, dragging whispers from the dead.
"You're quiet," Elarin said.
Kael didn't answer. He was watching the sky.
The clouds were wrong now. Burnt-orange and warped, like a child had smeared them with bloodied fingers. Above them, where the stars should've been, only a dull violet haze pulsed faintly — the Burned Gate, slowly tearing its way open.
Behind him, the Keeper emerged from the smoke, her cloak wet with dark blood.
"It's awake," she said grimly.
Kael tightened his grip on the Darksword. "Then we move now. Before it becomes more than that."
The Path of Unmaking
They rode silent, three riders across an ashen world. Their destination: the Cauldron Rift, where the last seal slept — the final gate that, if broken, would let the World-Ender through completely.
Elarin guided the way, her spell-maps burning faintly in the air like glowing veins. The Keeper rode behind her, muttering words in the forgotten tongue.
Kael didn't look back once.
The Darksword had changed again.
It whispered louder now, not in words, but feelings — sharp hatred, boundless hunger, and something else. Something almost like joy.
It wants this, Kael thought grimly. It's always wanted this.
By sundown, the trees gave way to black cliffs and a river of glass. At the horizon stood a monolith of jagged stone — the Cauldron Rift.
"It's not sealed anymore," Elarin whispered.
A pulse shook the earth beneath their feet.
They weren't alone.
The Broken Knight
A shadow stepped forward from the rift.
It wore shattered armor — twisted and burned — with runes etched into its breastplate that glowed like dying stars. Its face was hidden, but its voice rang out like a blade scraping on bone.
"Kael Darksbane."
Kael dismounted slowly. "You know my name."
"I knew the first wielder," the knight said. "I killed him."
The Darksword rang like a chime.
Elarin gasped. "You're the last Scourge-Bearer… the traitor knight who let the first Gate open."
"I was chosen," the knight growled, stepping forward. "As you are now. You think yourself its master. You are nothing but its next offering."
Kael drew the sword.
"I'm not an offering," he said. "I'm the reckoning."
Sword Against Sword
They clashed with a roar that shook the mountains.
The traitor knight's blade was made of voidlight — raw, unstable energy harnessed into a jagged form. It screamed with every swing. Kael blocked it with the Darksword, sparks bursting like stars every time steel met steel.
The knight moved like death itself, each blow meant to kill, not weaken.
"You carry a god's curse," he spat. "And you think you'll be different?"
Kael lunged, cutting low. The knight sidestepped, driving his gauntlet into Kael's chest. Kael staggered back, air knocked from his lungs.
But the Darksword sang.
Kael felt the energy rise — a dark hum behind his ribs. And this time, he let it through.
He roared and swung.
Black light exploded across the field. The knight flew backward, crashing into the cliffside with enough force to crack the earth.
But he rose again.
Bleeding.
Laughing.
"You're learning," he said, voice gurgling. "Good. You'll need more than that where we're going."
The Gate Opens
It didn't wait.
The Cauldron Rift shattered behind him, a massive tear opening in the air like skin peeled from bone.
From within it, something stirred.Not a creature. Not a man. Not a god.The World-Ender.
A form too large for the mind to grasp stepped through — not with feet, but with presence. A shadow that cast no light. A scream that had no sound. A hunger that knew no end.
Kael dropped to his knees.
The Keeper screamed. "It's not ready! He's not ready—!"
The World-Ender's gaze — if it could be called that — fell on them.
Kael's vision went white.
And for a moment, he was somewhere else.
The Memory That Burns
He was falling through time.
Through lives.
He saw the first wielder — Azar, the Flame-Bound. A king with golden eyes and blood on his hands.
He saw the second — Serel, the Forsaken Queen. Betrayed by her own court. Executed on her throne.
The third — Malrek, the God-Eater. Who shattered the moon to seal the Rift.
Each of them held the Darksword.
Each of them died alone.
And then — Kael saw himself.
Older. Broken. Kneeling in the ash, sword buried in his chest.
"No," he breathed.
The vision shattered.
The Keeper's Final Spell
Kael snapped back to the present. Blood was leaking from his nose, his ears, his eyes.
The World-Ender was stepping further through the Rift.
Elarin was shouting something — her voice drowned by wind and screams.
The Keeper stepped forward.
"No more," she said. "This world does not belong to you."
She raised her arms.
Kael saw the spell form — not magic, but something older.
"Keeper, don't—" Elarin choked.
But it was already done.
The Keeper's body turned to light. Pure, white, blinding. It struck the Rift like lightning. The World-Ender shrieked — a sound that shattered the cliffside, cracked the earth, and ruptured the sky.
And was pushed back.
Slightly.
Only slightly.
The Keeper was gone.
But the Rift… still open.
Dawn Before the Fall
The silence after her death was almost peaceful.
Kael stood, barely, holding the Darksword like a crutch.
"Did it work?" he asked.
"No," Elarin whispered. "But it gave us time."
Kael turned toward the Rift.
The World-Ender was still watching.
Waiting.
And Kael understood what had to be done.
"This sword… it doesn't want to be wielded," he said. "It wants to feed. On power. On souls. On me."
Elarin grabbed his arm. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes," Kael said. "I do."