The first three cultists died before they realized Kaelen had moved.
He flowed through them like water, like darkness itself, Soulrender cutting precise arcs that opened throats and severed limbs. The sword drank deep, absorbing their shadow magic, their life force, their final terrified thoughts. Each kill made the blade stronger, made *him* stronger, and that was the trap—the seductive promise that power could solve everything.
*Yes!* Soulrender exulted. *This is what we were made for! This is glory! This is purpose!*
"Shut up," Kaelen growled, spinning to deflect a blast of shadow magic with the flat of his blade. The energy shattered against the steel, absorbed and consumed. "I'm using you, not the other way around."
The cultists spread out, recognizing that the confined space of the stairway was working against them. They began channeling more complex spells, combining their power, building up for a coordinated strike. Smart. Dangerous.
Kaelen didn't give them time to complete it.
He extended a tendril of shadow energy from Soulrender—thin, controlled, exactly like Lia had taught him—and used it to yank a support beam loose from the stairway ceiling. The beam crashed down on two cultists, crushing them, and the disruption broke the channeling of the others. Their spell detonated prematurely, a blast of uncontrolled shadow magic that threw them backward.
"Minimal use," Kaelen muttered to himself, trying to maintain that space of observation, that mental distance. "Controlled application. Small techniques, not overwhelming surges."
But it was hard. So hard. The sword wanted more, craved more, and part of him—a growing part—wanted to give it what it desired. Wanted to unleash the full torrent of power and simply *end* this fight, consequences be damned.
A cultist lunged from his blind spot. Kaelen twisted, too slow, and felt a dagger score across his ribs. Pain bloomed, hot and immediate. His concentration wavered.
Soulrender seized the opening.
Power exploded outward, a wave of shadow energy that smashed into every cultist in the basement. They flew backward like toys, crashing into walls, crumpling to the floor. Those who survived screamed. Those who didn't had the mercy of a quick death.
*MORE!* the sword howled in triumph. *FEED US MORE!*
Kaelen staggered, fighting to reassert control. His arm—the one holding the blade—was completely black now, covered in Shadow Scars that writhed and pulsed with their own terrible life. The cold had spread from his hand to his shoulder, creeping toward his heart.
"Control," he gasped, forcing the power back down. "I'm in control."
*For now*, Soulrender agreed, amused. *But how long can you hold us back, wielder? How long before you're too tired to resist?*
More footsteps thundered on the stairs. Reinforcements. The Cult had brought an army.
Kaelen looked around the basement, assessing his options. He could try to hold the stairway indefinitely, but eventually his strength would fail. He could retreat through the back exit, but that might be exactly what the Cult wanted—driving him into an ambush. Or he could...
His eyes landed on the rune-inscribed pillars that supported the basement ceiling. Structural supports. Load-bearing. If they collapsed...
"Terrible idea," Kaelen told himself.
*Brilliant idea*, Soulrender countered. *Bury them all. Let us feast on their crushed souls.*
"You're not helping."
But he did it anyway. Using precise applications of shadow energy, Kaelen struck the pillars at their weakest points. Cracks appeared, spreading like lightning through stone. The ceiling groaned.
Kaelen ran for the back exit as the basement began to collapse behind him.
The exit tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for one person, carved through bedrock and reinforced with old runic inscriptions. Kaelen could hear the thunder of falling stone behind him, feel the pressure wave pushing at his back. He sprinted through absolute darkness, one hand on the tunnel wall, praying he didn't hit a dead end.
Light appeared ahead. The canal district exit. Kaelen burst out into the grey predawn light of Eredor's waterfront, gasping for breath, his ribs screaming from the cultist's dagger wound.
And found exactly what he'd feared: more cultists, waiting in a semicircle around the exit.
"Trapped," one of them said, his bone mask reflecting the dim light. "Nowhere left to run, Soulrender wielder. Surrender the blade, and we'll make your death quick."
Kaelen straightened, despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite the cold weight of too many Shadow Scars eating at his soul. "Here's a counter-offer: leave now, and I won't have to kill all of you."
The cultists laughed. There were at least a dozen of them, fresh and uninjured, while Kaelen was bleeding and had already burned through most of his strength.
The smart move would be to surrender. Or to use Soulrender's full power one more time, damn the consequences, and cut his way through.
Kaelen was so tired of smart moves.
Instead, he did something stupid. He looked at the canal beside them—the same East Canal where he'd found Soulrender just days ago—and remembered what Lia had said about Star Core nodes. The Old Academy ruins had been built on one. The node's energy would have saturated the entire area, including the water.
"Soulrender," Kaelen said quietly. "How much ambient magic can you absorb?"
*All of it*, the sword replied eagerly. *Every drop. But wielder, the strain on your body—*
"Just do it."
Kaelen plunged the blade into the canal.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic. Shadow energy erupted from Soulrender, spreading through the water like ink, seeking out every trace of magical energy that had seeped from the node over two centuries. The sword began pulling it in, drinking it down, a vortex of power that lit up the entire waterfront with purple-black light.
The cultists realized their mistake too late. The sudden surge of shadow magic disrupted their own spells, sent their carefully controlled energy spiraling out of control. Some tried to run. Others tried to fight through it.
Kaelen pulled Soulrender from the water and released everything the blade had absorbed.
The shockwave flattened buildings. The cultists simply ceased to exist, vaporized by raw magical force. The canal itself flash-froze into black ice, then shattered. For a moment, Kaelen stood at the center of devastation, wreathed in shadows, more monster than man.
Then the price came due.
Pain. Agony beyond anything he'd ever experienced. It felt like his entire body was being torn apart and rebuilt, like the Shadow Scars were burrowing into his bones, into his organs, into the very core of his being. Kaelen collapsed to his knees, screaming, unable to stop it, unable to do anything but endure as the darkness consumed him.
*Yes*, Soulrender whispered. *Finally. Finally you understand. This is what we are together. This is what you can become. Stop fighting. Stop resisting. Let us be one.*
"No," Kaelen gasped, though he could barely form the word. "No. I'm... not... done..."
But he was done. He could feel it. Too many Scars. Too much power. Too much of himself given away. The darkness was filling in the gaps where his humanity used to be, and soon there would be nothing left but—
"KAELEN!"
Lia's voice, cutting through the agony like a blade. Kaelen forced his eyes open—when had he closed them?—and saw her running toward him, glowing with rune-light, Ronan behind her. They must have gotten the victim to safety, must have come back for him like she'd promised.
"Don't touch me," Kaelen managed to say as she dropped to her knees beside him. "Too much... corruption... will spread to you..."
"I don't care," Lia said fiercely, her hands already moving through purification patterns. "I'm not losing you to that sword. Not today. Not ever."
Her runes descended on him like a cage of light, and the pain somehow got worse—the darkness fighting against her magic, trying to preserve its hold on him. Kaelen thrashed, his back arching, every nerve on fire.
"Hold him!" Lia commanded, and Ronan grabbed Kaelen's shoulders, pinning him down with strength that spoke of his old Shadow Hunter days. "The Scars are deeper than before. He's at thirty. Thirty out of fifty."
"Too many," Ronan growled. "Girl, if you purify that much darkness all at once—"
"I said I don't care!" Lia shouted. "Work the equation later! Right now, just help me save him!"
The purification ritual intensified. Kaelen could feel the Shadow Scars being forced back, compressed, sealed beneath layers of Lia's magic. Not removed—they could never be removed—but contained. Made dormant. Given space to breathe.
And he could feel what it was costing her. Every scar he'd accumulated was transferring pain to Lia, making her share his burden. She was gasping, shaking, blood trickling from her nose from the magical strain.
"Stop," Kaelen tried to say. "You're killing yourself..."
"Shut up," Lia replied, tears streaming down her face. Not from sadness—from the sheer effort of keeping him human. "You don't get to tell me when to stop. You don't get to give up. You promised me. You promised you'd fight."
She was right. He had promised.
So Kaelen fought. Not against Lia's magic, but with it. He reached for that space of observation, that mental distance, and used it to pull himself back from the edge. To remember who he was. Kaelen Voss. Failed knight. Reluctant wielder of a cursed sword. A man who'd been drowning and now refused to drown again.
The darkness receded. Slowly, agonizingly, but it receded.
When it was over, Kaelen lay on the broken stones of the waterfront, gasping for breath. Lia collapsed beside him, her strength completely spent. Ronan stood over them both, keeping watch, a crossbow in his hands in case any surviving cultists tried to take advantage.
"Thirty scars," Kaelen said eventually. "More than halfway."
"Twenty-nine," Lia corrected weakly. "I managed to... seal one of them permanently. Used a technique my master taught me. It nearly killed me, but... one less scar. One more chance."
"You shouldn't have done that."
"Probably not." She turned her head to look at him, and despite the exhaustion, despite the blood still drying on her upper lip, she smiled. "But I'm not very good at making smart choices where you're concerned."
Before Kaelen could respond, Ronan interrupted: "We need to move. Now. That magical surge will have alerted every guard, mage, and power-seeker in three districts. And this place..." He gestured at the devastation Kaelen had caused. "This is going to take some explaining."
Kaelen tried to stand and immediately fell. His legs wouldn't support him. Ronan had to haul him up, draping one of Kaelen's arms over his shoulders.
"The Drunk Golem is compromised," Ronan continued as they started moving. "Half my tavern just collapsed into the basement. We need a new safe house."
"I know a place," Lia said, forcing herself to walk despite her own exhaustion. "An old warehouse in the craftsmen district. Used to belong to my master. It's warded, hidden, and stocked with supplies."
"Your master who was killed by a Forbidden Blade wielder?" Kaelen asked.
"The same. I've been maintaining it. Just in case." She looked at him. "Just in case I ever needed to deal with another cursed sword."
They moved through Eredor's waking streets, three people who looked like they'd fought a war—which, in a sense, they had. Behind them, smoke rose from the ruins of The Drunk Golem and the shattered waterfront. Ahead lay uncertainty, danger, and the knowledge that Marcus Blackwood now knew exactly how powerful—and how vulnerable—Kaelen had become.
But Kaelen was still alive. Still human, or mostly human, anyway. And Lia had kissed him, had nearly killed herself to save him, had looked him in the eyes and promised they'd figure this out together.
It wasn't much. But it was enough.
For now, it was enough.