The village slept, but Kael did not.
He lay on the straw mat in the small hut they had given him, staring at the rafters where the moonlight leaked through cracks in the wood. His body ached from the trial, cuts burning, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Yet sleep would not come.
Not because of pain. But because of the voice.
"They doubt you. They always will."
It was softer now, not the roar of battle, not the commanding presence in his dreams. Just a whisper, weaving into the silence of the night.
"Why fight it? Their fear is proof of what you are becoming. Proof that you are more."
Kael turned on his side, pressing his hands to his ears, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. "I'm still me," he whispered back. "I'm still human."
The whisper chuckled. "Human? Was a human able to rise from death three times in a single night? Was a human able to tear through a horde with nothing but a cleaver and rage?"
His breath grew ragged. He wanted to shout, to drown it out. But then he heard it—the faint murmur of voices outside.
---
Peering through the crack in the wall, Kael saw two villagers by the well, drawing water in the moonlight. Their words drifted clearly in the still night.
"…Eldran says he passed the trial," one muttered.
The other scoffed. "Passed? Did you see his eyes? He wanted to kill that beast. He enjoyed it."
"He stopped himself."
"Barely. What happens when he doesn't? What happens when the whispers win?"
The first man fell silent. Then, softly: "Maybe we should end it before it's too late."
Kael's chest went cold. His fingers curled into the straw mat until it snapped beneath his grip.
"Hear them?" the whisper breathed. "They plot against you. You bleed, you die, you suffer, and still they call for your death. Why spare them?"
His heartbeat pounded in his ears. The cleaver, resting against the wall, seemed to glow in the dark, calling to him.
One swing, and the whispers would end. One swing, and they would never doubt him again.
Kael shut his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to remember Serenya's face, the disappointment in her gaze when he nearly lost control. That memory burned hotter than any whisper.
When he opened his eyes again, the villagers had gone. The square was empty. But the unease remained.
---
At dawn, Serenya approached him as he sat sharpening his cleaver outside the hut. She studied him for a long moment before speaking.
"You didn't sleep," she said flatly.
Kael gave a humorless smile. "Didn't think you were watching."
"I always watch." Her eyes flicked to the cleaver, gleaming sharp in his hands. "You heard them, didn't you?"
His grip faltered. "Who?"
"The villagers. Talking about you. Deciding what you are."
Kael's throat tightened. He wanted to lie, to pretend he hadn't heard. But Serenya's gaze was too sharp, too knowing. "They don't trust me," he said at last.
"They never will," she replied simply.
The words cut, but there was no malice in them. Only truth.
"Then why stay?" Kael asked bitterly. "Why fight for people who will turn on me the moment I slip?"
"Because slipping isn't the same as falling," Serenya said. She crouched, meeting his eyes. "I've seen monsters wear human faces. You're not one of them. Not yet. But if you give in…" Her voice dropped. "…then I will put an arrow through your heart."
Kael met her gaze, searching for hesitation. He found none. And strangely, that honesty steadied him more than any hollow promise could.
---
Eldran summoned him again that afternoon.
The old mage's hut smelled of incense and smoke, and the crystal sphere still sat on the table. This time, Eldran didn't ask him to touch it. Instead, he held out a worn leather book, its cover marked with strange sigils.
"This was written by a man who bore power like yours," Eldran said gravely. "Decades ago. He believed it a blessing at first. But in the end, it consumed him. His village burned."
Kael took the book, fingers tracing the faded ink. Inside were fragmented entries: half-journal, half-confession.
I die. I rise. Each time stronger. Each time less myself.
Their faces haunt me, but their screams… excite me.
Perhaps the whispers were always right.
Kael slammed the book shut, bile rising in his throat. "You think I'll end like him."
"I think you're already further than he was," Eldran said. "The question is whether you can stop before it's too late."
Kael wanted to argue, but the words in the journal lingered. His own fears, his own temptations, written decades before in another hand. A mirror he couldn't look away from.
---
That night, the dream returned.
The plain of ash. The chains. The bone-masked figure waiting.
This time, the figure didn't move. It only stood there, arms outstretched, as if welcoming him.
"You see it now," the whisper said. "Their distrust. Their hatred. You will never belong. But with me, you will never need to."
Kael's chest heaved. He remembered the book, the man who had burned his village. He remembered Serenya's voice: slipping isn't the same as falling.
His hands trembled. One step toward the figure, and the chains began to loosen. One step back, and they tightened, cutting into his flesh.
He screamed, torn between them, until a shadowed voice cut through the void.
"Kael!"
Serenya again, though distant, muffled as though through water. Her bow glowed, her fire dimmer than before.
Kael reached toward her. But the bone-masked figure moved faster. Its hand clamped over his chest, searing cold, and the chains shattered into dust.
The whisper surged, louder than ever.
"It is not her voice you should hear. It is mine."
Kael gasped awake, clutching his chest. The scar where the figure's hand had touched him burned, glowing faintly beneath his skin.
For the first time, the whispers didn't fade with the dawn.
---