Kaelith trudged through the ashen dunes, the horizon a smear of gray under a sky that never cleared. Her boots sank with each step, the ground sucking at her like a living thing. The Obsidian Key hung heavy in her satchel, its weight more than physical—a constant reminder of the temple, the bone-wraith, and the vision that had burned itself into her mind. Shard bearer. The word clung to her, sharp as a blade, and she hated it. She was no hero, no chosen one. She was a scavenger, a survivor, nothing more. Yet the key pulsed faintly against her hip, as if daring her to believe otherwise.
Cinder hold was still a day's walk, maybe two if the ash-storms kicked up. The trading outpost was her only shot at answers, at figuring out what the key was and why it had woken something in her. She'd sell it if she could, trade it for enough coin to eat for a month, but the vision—the thread, the voice—made that feel like a fool's hope. This wasn't something you could pawn off. This was a curse, and she'd been stupid enough to pick it up.
The wind carried a low moan, not the usual howl of the wastelands but something deeper, almost human. Kaelith froze, her hand dropping to the knife at her belt. The dunes stretched endless around her, broken only by jagged rocks and the occasional husk of a dead tree. She squinted, scanning for movement. Nothing. Just the ash, swirling in lazy spirals. But the moan came again, closer, and her skin prickled. She'd survived too long to ignore her instincts.
She crouched behind a boulder, its surface pitted and warm from the sun. The moan turned into words, faint and garbled, like someone speaking underwater. Her grip tightened on the knife, its dull edge a poor comfort. The wraith was gone—she'd seen it dissolve—but the Veil was full of horrors. Maybe the key had marked her, drawn something else. She cursed under her breath, regretting every choice that led her to that damned temple.
A figure stumbled into view, lurching over a dune. Not a wraith, not a beast, but a man, cloaked in tattered black, his face hidden by a hood. He was muttering, his voice the source of the moan, words tripping over each other in a frantic chant. Kaelith's first thought was scavenger, maybe a rival who'd tracked her from the temple.
But his movements were wrong—jerky, like a puppet with half its strings cut. And the air around him shimmered, a faint distortion, like the Tear in the temple.She stayed low, watching. He stopped, swaying, and raised his hands. The shimmer intensified, and the ash at his feet stirred, forming runes that glowed a sickly yellow. Magic. Kaelith's stomach twisted. Sorcerers were rare in the Ashen Empire, and those who weren't serving the Immortal Tyrant were usually mad, their minds frayed by the Veil's decay. This one looked like he was halfway to breaking.
"Show yourself," he rasped, his voice raw but commanding. "I know you're here. I can feel it—the key, the shard. It sings."
Kaelith's blood ran cold. He knew about the key. How? She hadn't told a soul, hadn't even reached Cinder hold. Her fingers brushed the satchel, the key's pulse quickening, as if answering his words. She weighed her options: run and risk him chasing her, or stay and confront him. Running was safer, but if he could track the key, she'd never outrun him. She stood, knife raised, her voice steady despite the fear clawing her chest.
"Who are you?" she called, stepping into the open. "And what do you know about my key?"
The man's head snapped toward her, his hood slipping back. His face was young, maybe thirty, but his eyes were old, bloodshot, and ringed with dark circles. His hair was a tangled mess of black, streaked with gray, and a scar ran from his temple to his jaw, puckered and fresh. He grinned, a crooked, unsettling thing, and the runes at his feet pulsed brighter.
"Your key?" he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "You think you own it? That's like claiming you own the wind or the stars. It chose you, girl, but it doesn't belong to you."
Kaelith bristled, her grip tightening. "Answer the question, or I'll cut that grin off your face.
"He laughed, a dry, barking sound. "Bold. I like that. Name's Varyn, formerly of the Ashen Cabal, now… let's say a free spirit. And you're the one who woke the Obsidian Key, which makes you interesting. Dangerous, but interesting."
The Ashen Cabal. Kaelith's heart sank. The cult served the Immortal Tyrant, weaving necromantic rites to keep his rotting empire alive. They were whispered about in Cinderhold, stories of shadowed figures who hunted relics and slaughtered anyone in their way. If they wanted the key, she was already dead.
"What do you want?" she asked, edging back, her eyes darting for an escape route. The dunes offered little cover, and Varyn's runes were still glowing, the air around him crackling with energy.
"Not what you think," Varyn said, lowering his hands. The runes dimmed, but didn't vanish. "I'm not with the Cabal anymore. They'd gut me as soon as they'd gut you. But they're coming, and they want that key. You've got no idea what you've stumbled into, do you?"
"Then enlighten me," Kaelith snapped, her patience fraying. "What is it? Why's it doing… this?" She gestured vaguely at herself, at the lingering hum in her bones, the echo of the vision.
Varyn's grin faded, his eyes narrowing. He studied her, like he was seeing something she couldn't. "It's a piece of the Veil," he said finally. "A shard of the thread that holds the worlds together. And you—you're bound to it now. Shard bearer, they'll call you, if they don't kill you first."
There it was again, that word. Kaelith's throat tightened. "I didn't ask for this. I just wanted something to sell."
"Nobody asks for it," Varyn said, his voice softening, almost pitying. "But the Veil doesn't care. It's breaking, and you're part of it now, whether you like it or not."
A distant rumble interrupted them, like thunder but sharper, more deliberate. Varyn's head whipped toward the sound, his body tensing. "They're here," he muttered. "Faster than I thought."
"Who?" Kaelith demanded, but she already knew. The Cabal. Her pulse raced, the key's heat flaring again, as if warning her.
"No time," Varyn said, grabbing her arm. His grip was strong, his fingers cold. "Run, or we're both dead."
She yanked free, glaring. "I don't trust you."
"Good," he said, already moving. "Trust gets you killed. But I know the key, and I know the Cabal. You want to live? Follow me."
The rumble grew louder, and now Kaelith saw it—a line of dark shapes on the horizon, moving fast. Cloaked figures, their forms distorted by the same shimmer she'd seen around Varyn. Magic, and not the weak kind. She cursed, her options dwindling. Varyn was a risk, but the Cabal was certain death.
She ran after him, her boots kicking up ash as they sprinted toward a cluster of rocky outcrops. Varyn moved with surprising grace, his cloak billowing, his muttered chants keeping the air around them hazy, like a shield. Kaelith's lungs burned, her satchel bouncing, the key's pulse syncing with her heartbeat. The vision flashed in her mind—the thread, the figure, the voice—and she stumbled, catching herself on a rock.
"Keep moving!" Varyn hissed, pulling her into a narrow crevice between two boulders. The space was tight, the stone cold against her back. He pressed a hand to the rock, muttering, and the air shimmered again, sealing the crevice with a faint veil of mist.
"Quiet," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "They'll sense the key if you don't calm down."
Kaelith glared but bit back a retort. Outside, the rumble stopped, replaced by the crunch of boots and low, guttural voices. She couldn't make out words, but the tone was predatory, searching. Her hand hovered over the satchel, the key's heat almost unbearable now. She wanted to throw it, to scream, to be anywhere but here. But she forced herself to breathe, slow and shallow, her brother's voice in her head: Stay sharp, Kael.
The voices faded, the boots retreating. Varyn let out a shaky breath, the mist dissolving. "They're gone," he said. "For now. But they'll be back. The key's awake, and it's loud.
"Kaelith shoved him away, her knife raised. "Start talking. What's the Cabal want with it? And why should I believe a word you say?"
Varyn leaned against the rock, rubbing his scar. "The Cabal thinks the key can control the Veil's collapse. They want to harness it, to rule what's left when the worlds burn. As for me…" He hesitated, his eyes distant. "I was one of them, once. Trained to wield the Veil's power. But I saw what they're planning, what they'll do to get it. I ran. And now I'm trying to stop them."
"Why?" Kaelith asked, her voice sharp. "What's in it for you?"
He laughed, bitter and low. "Redemption, maybe. Or just spite. Take your pick."
She didn't trust him, not even close. But he hadn't attacked her, and he'd hidden them from the Cabal. That was something. "What now?" she asked, lowering the knife slightly.
"Cinder hold," Varyn said. "There's a scholar there, Zorath. He knows more about the Veil than anyone. He can tell you what the key is, what you are. But we need to move fast. The Cabal's not the only thing hunting you.
"Kaelith's stomach twisted. The wraith, the vision, the power—she was in over her head, and she knew it. But she wasn't helpless. She'd survived the wastelands, the hunger, the loss of everyone she'd ever loved. She could survive this.
"Fine," she said, stepping out of the crevice. "But if you betray me, Varyn, I'll gut you before the Cabal gets the chance."
He grinned, that crooked, unsettling grin. "Fair enough, Shardbearer."She ignored the title, ignored the key's pulse, and started walking. Cinderhold was waiting, and with it, answers—or her death. The ash swirled around her, the wind whispering secrets she wasn't ready to hear.