Kael Draven
The first thing that I felt was pain.
Not the sharp kind that makes you scream. It was deeper, duller, the pain of a body that had given up long before the soul inside it wanted to quit. My lungs burned with every breath, my ribs pressing against skin so thin I could probably count each one if I had the strength to look down.
I tried to open my eyes, but even my eyelids felt heavy, as if weights had been attached to them. When finally I could manage to crack them open, it was to be greeted by darkness. Complete and total darkness.
Panic seized me for a moment. Was I blind? Dead? Then I heard it, the rhythmical sound of metal striking stone, echoing off walls I couldn't see. The air tasted of dust and something metallic. Blood, maybe. Or iron. Hard to tell which.
My memories came back in fragments, like shattered glass cutting through fog. I remembered. falling. No, not falling. Being struck. A blade through my chest. Cold. So cold. And eyes, eyes I trusted, filled with tears and something that looked almost like regret.
Theron. My general. My friend.
The betrayal hit me harder than the pain. I tried to move, to summon my power, to wrap shadows around myself like I'd done so many times before. Nothing happened. My body refused to respond. I felt. weak. Pathetically, disgustingly weak.
"Get up, boy. Quota won't fill itself."
The voice was rough and tired. I felt a boot nudge my side, not hard enough to break anything, but not gentle either. It was the practical kick of someone who'd done this a hundred times before and expected to do it a hundred more.
I made myself move. Every muscle protested, screaming as I finally sat up, my head spinning so badly I almost fell back down. But I didn't. Something in me, some part that was still me, refused to stay down.
Light flowered as someone opened the lantern nearby. I blinked against it, my eyes adjusting slowly. What I saw made my stomach twist.
I was in a cave. No, a mine. The walls glittered with veins of dark crystal that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Shadowstone. I'd know it anywhere. It was the physical manifestation of shadow magic, rare and powerful. In my time, it had been precious. Now, apparently, it was common enough to mine with slave labor.
Slaves. I looked around at the dozens of figures hunched over picks and shovels. Most were thin, like me. Some had scars. Others had the empty eyes of people who'd stopped hoping for anything beyond their next meal. Children worked alongside adults. No one spoke unless necessary.
I looked down at my hands. They were small. Young. The hands of a boy, not a man who'd commanded armies. Calluses covered the palms, fresh blisters broke open across the fingers. These hands had been swinging a pick for months, maybe years.
This was not my body. This was someone else's body-a slave boy who had died, I could feel the echo of his last moments, the way his heart had merely stopped from exhaustion and despair. And somehow impossibly, I'd taken his place.
"I said get up!" The boot came harder this time.
I looked up at the overseer. He was a big man, thick with muscle gone slightly soft around the middle. An old scar ran from his left eye down to his jaw. The eye itself was milky white, blind. He was wearing leather armor that had seen better days and carried a whip coiled at his belt.
"Yes, sir," I heard myself say. The voice was wrong, too young, too hoarse. But it was mine now.
I grasped the pick lying next to me and stood. My legs wobbled like a newborn calf's. How long had this body been pushing past its limits? How had it lasted this long?
The overseer grunted and moved on to wake another slave who'd collapsed. I watched him go, and something cold settled in my chest. Not anger. Not yet. Something closer to calculation.
I was Kael Draven. I conquered continents. Bent kingdoms to my will. Made the very shadows themselves obey my command. And now I was. this. A slave boy in a mine, so weak I could barely stand.
The irony was almost humorous. Almost.
I shifted to the wall and lifted my pick. The movement was instantly familiar; this body had done this ten thousand times before. I brought it down against the stone. Pain shot through my shoulders and back. I ignored it and swung again.
Around me, others worked in silence. The only sounds were metal on stone, labored breathing, and the occasional crack of a whip when someone slowed too much. No one looked at each other. No one offered help. Survival here meant keeping your head down and your mouth shut.
I worked mechanically, my mind elsewhere. Questions piled up faster than I could sort them. How long had it been since my death? Where was I? What had happened to my empire? Most importantly, why was I back? It wasn't supposed to go this way. Death was final; I knew it, embraced it even in that last moment when Theron's blade pierced my heart.
Why was I here, then, in this broken body, in this gods forsaken mine?
Hours passed. Or days. Time felt strange, measured only in the ache of muscles and the slow filling of ore carts. Eventually, a bell rang somewhere in the distance. The sound of picks stopped like someone had cut invisible strings.
"Line up for count and rations," called the overseer.
We shuffled into a ragged line. I counted maybe forty slaves total, ranging in age from children no older than ten to men and women who looked ancient but were probably only in their forties. Hard labor aged people fast.
The count was quick and brutal. Anybody who couldn't stand was dragged away. I didn't ask where; I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
Somebody thrust a wooden bowl into my hands when it came to be my turn. The contents looked like watery gruel with bits of. something. floating in it. It smelled ghastly. My stomach turned.
But I was so hungry.
I found a corner and sat, forcing myself to eat slowly. This body needed fuel, needed strength. If I was going to survive-if I was going to figure out what had happened and why I'd returned-I needed to keep this weak vessel alive.
As I ate, I listened. Slaves talked quietly around me, their voices barely above whispers.
"They say another Cleansing happened in Valdris yesterday."
"How many this time?"
"Twelve. All shadow cultists, supposedly."
"Shadow cultists." the speaker spat. "They call anyone they don't like a cultist nowadays."
"Keep your voice down. Viktor's in a mood today."
Viktor. The overseer. I filed the name away.
Shadow cultists. Cleansings. The words meant nothing to me yet, but I felt their weight. Something had changed in the world, something fundamental. And whatever it was, it had to do with shadow magic.
With my magic.
I finished the gruel and closed my eyes, exhaustion tugging at me like chains. But before sleep could take me, I felt something. A familiar sensation, like silk brushing against my awareness.
Shadows.
They were weak here, thin. The lanterns kept them at bay. But they were there, in the corners, in the cracks between stones. And they. recognized me. I felt them reaching out, curious, welcoming.
I didn't try to control them. Not yet. This body was too weak, and I didn't know who might be watching. But feeling them there, feeling that connection still intact despite everything, gave me something I hadn't felt since waking.
Hope. I was Kael Draven. Once, from nothing, I had built an empire. I could do it again. This time, I would discover the truth behind my death. This time, no one would betray me. This time I'd make sure of it.