The fires of Frostvale smoldered long into the night, their dying embers glowing like the eyes of fallen gods. Smoke curled upward in dark ribbons, mingling with the pale light of the moon. The village lay broken — homes shattered, walls torn down, blood frozen in the snow. The clash of steel had ended, but the battlefield lingered in every breath, every silence.
Kaelen moved through the wreckage, boots crunching over ice and ash. His shadow coiled faintly behind him, subdued, as though exhausted from the struggle. The shard still throbbed within his chest, its whispers low and sullen, like a predator denied its feast.
You could have ended them. You should have ended them. One release, one flood, and all this ruin would have been spared.
Kaelen ignored it, though his jaw clenched. Every corpse he passed, every wounded cry he heard, pressed the shard's argument deeper into his mind.
At the edge of the square, villagers gathered — men, women, children wrapped in furs, faces pale and hollow. Some wept softly, others stared blankly into the distance. Ashborn warriors moved among them, binding wounds, distributing food, muttering reassurances they barely believed themselves.
Lira knelt beside a young girl, her silver eyes soft as she tied a bandage around the child's arm. She smiled gently, whispering something that made the girl sniffle but nod with determination. When she rose, her gaze met Kaelen's across the square. She gave him a small nod, neither reassuring nor condemning — only acknowledging the choice he had made.
Varik was less subtle.
"You call that victory?" he roared, his voice echoing through the square. He staggered forward, bloodied but unbroken, his massive frame looming over the warriors who paused in their work to listen. "Half the village burns, our brothers and sisters lie cold in the snow, and why? Because our so-called champion holds his leash too tight!"
Kaelen turned slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it. "I made the choice that spared us from becoming monsters."
"Monsters?" Varik spat, his teeth bared. "Better a monster than a corpse! Better feared and alive than noble and buried!" He gestured to the dead laid out in neat rows, their bodies stiff in the cold. "This is your restraint, Kaelen. This is your mercy."
A murmur rippled through the gathered Ashborn. Some lowered their eyes, unwilling to choose sides. Others nodded grimly at Varik's words.
Kaelen's shadow stirred, sensing the tension, but he kept his voice steady. "I will not unleash the shard and risk losing myself. If we fight as monsters, we are no better than the Hollow Crown or the Shroudbound. Our people need protectors, not executioners."
"And if your restraint dooms us all?" Varik snarled. "What then? Will you explain philosophy to the dead?"
The two men stood locked in silence, the weight of their clash pressing on the air. Finally, Lira stepped between them, her cloak catching the wind.
"Enough," she said, her voice sharp as steel. "This battle is over. The next will come soon enough without you two tearing each other apart. Varik, tend your wounds. Kaelen, walk with me."
Varik glared, but did not press further. He stalked away, muttering under his breath.
Kaelen followed Lira beyond the ruins, past the smoldering houses, into the forest's edge where the snow lay untouched. The silence of the trees pressed around them, a stark contrast to the chaos they had left behind.
"You're losing them," Lira said quietly.
Kaelen's chest tightened. "They think me weak."
"They think you dangerous," she corrected. "And danger can inspire loyalty… or fear. Which path you walk depends on the choices you make next."
Kaelen closed his eyes briefly, hearing the shard's faint chuckle in his mind. She is right. Fear is quicker. Fear is cleaner.
He forced the voice down. "What would you have me do?"
"Be seen," Lira said. "Not just as the man who resists, but as the man who leads. Speak to them, fight beside them, listen to their grief. They will not follow a shadow — they will follow a man who bleeds as they do."
Kaelen looked back at Frostvale, where the villagers and warriors still tended the ruins. For a moment, he imagined his sister among them, her laughter echoing in the cold night. He swallowed hard.
"I will try," he said softly.
"Good," Lira replied. "Because the Shroudbound are watching."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "You felt them too?"
She nodded. "They linger at the edges, testing your strength, waiting for the moment you falter. Tonight was not their true strike. It was a taste."
Kaelen clenched his fists, shadow curling faintly around his boots. "Then we will be ready."
But even as he spoke, the shard whispered its warning. You cannot hold forever. When the moment comes, it will not be choice that decides, but hunger.
Back in the village, the Ashborn council had begun to gather. Though far from the mountain stronghold, their presence here was no accident. Three elders had accompanied the warriors to Frostvale, their cloaks heavy with ash and authority. They sat within the shell of a half-burned hall, torches flickering against charred beams, their eyes fixed on Kaelen as he entered.
Elder Asha, her hair white as snow and her gaze sharp as flame, spoke first. "We have seen your restraint, Kaelen Duskbane. We have seen its cost. Tell us, then — will restraint win us this war?"
Kaelen stood tall, though his body ached. "Restraint will keep us human. It will keep us Ashborn. If I give in, if I let the shard consume me, we may win a battle but lose the war to something worse."
A second elder, Torvak, slammed his fist on the table. "Worse? Worse than annihilation? Do you think the Hollow Crown will spare us because you refuse to wield the weapon you were given?"
Murmurs of agreement echoed in the hall.
Lira stepped forward. "Kaelen is not your weapon. He is your shield. The Shroudbound seek to push him into surrender. If he falls, we all fall. Do not be so eager to trade your lives for ashes."
The council's debate raged, voices rising, shadows dancing in the flickering firelight. Kaelen stood in silence, his mind torn between their words and the shard's constant pressure. He could feel the fracture widening — not just in himself, but among the Ashborn. Unity was slipping, and with it, their strength.
As the council argued, a faint cry echoed from outside. A scout burst into the hall, his face pale, his breath ragged.
"They're here," he gasped. "The shadows move. The Shroudbound are upon us."