Chapter 2 – Echoes in Iron

The road out of Shakarra wound like a scar through the desert. Caravan wagons creaked along its ruts, guarded by mercenaries who eyed Kael and Arinya with the suspicion born of long miles and easy betrayal. The sun beat down, mercilessly, while wind hissed over the dunes like a whispering crowd.

Kael kept to the rear, cloak hooded, one hand brushing the wrapped Blade strapped to his back. It hasn’t stopped humming since the alley fight. Faint, steady, a reminder that he’d crossed a line. Every step, it pulsed like a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

Arinya rode beside him on a lean desert mare, posture straight, eyes constantly scanning. She didn’t speak, and Kael didn’t ask. Silence was safer than the questions eating at him.

But the silence didn’t last.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said finally.

Kael snorted. “Not your concern.”

“It is,” she replied evenly. “The Blade feeds through your mind first. It whispers. Dreams, urges, visions. The more you give in, the harder it becomes to tell its voice from your own.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “You seem to know a lot about something you claim no one should have.”

“My family’s bloodline remembers,” Arinya said. Her gaze didn’t shift from the horizon. “When the Empire fell, survivors recorded what was left. I was raised on warnings. The Blades are not tools. They are cages—for the Emperors who forged them.”

Kael barked a short, bitter laugh. “So I’m babysitting a dead Emperor now?”

Her eyes flicked toward him. “Pray he stays dead.”

---

By midday, the caravan reached an outpost: a ring of mud-brick walls, a well at its heart, and a cluster of tents buzzing with trade. Kael welcomed the shade as they ducked into the largest tent, a tavern in everything but name.

Inside, merchants argued over salt and silk while mercenaries drank sour ale. Kael took a seat near the back, watching the door. His instincts had been prickling since sunrise. Too many stares.

Arinya ordered water and flatbread, spreading a map across the table. “Here. The Drowned Temple lies past the Scorched Coast, three days from here. But the Firebrand Warlord controls those lands.”

Kael frowned. “Firebrand?”

“His name was Rouran. A mercenary like you, once. Until he found a Blade.” Her voice dropped. “He calls himself Prophet now. His followers believe he’s the first Emperor reborn.”

Kael felt the Blade at his back stir. Brother, it whispered, faint and cruel.

He shuddered. “Wonderful.”

---

They weren’t alone.

Kael noticed them first: a trio of men at the next table, drinking but not drunk, eyes too sharp, hands too close to their blades. Soldiers, not traders.

He leaned closer to Arinya. “We’re being watched.”

“I know,” she murmured without lifting her eyes from the map. “Keep your hand away from the Blade.”

The trio rose as one, crossing the room. Their leader, a tall man with a scar splitting his cheek, stopped at their table. His armor was battered but serviceable, a crimson emblem stitched to his cloak: a flame crossed by a sword.

Kael’s stomach sank. The Firebrand’s men.

“Travelers,” the scarred man said, voice oily. “The Prophet welcomes all who walk the path of rebirth. He has heard whispers of a Blade carried through these sands. Perhaps you’ve seen it?”

Kael forced a grin. “Can’t say I have. Plenty of sharp steel in Shakarra, though. Check the bazaar.”

The man’s eyes slid to the bundle on Kael’s back. “That one. May we see it?”

Arinya’s hand brushed Kael’s knee under the table: a warning. Don’t.

Kael shrugged, leaning back. “Not for sale.”

The man’s smile thinned. “The Prophet does not buy. He claims what is his.”

The room had gone quiet. Mercenaries and traders shifted, watching, and waiting. Kael’s fingers itched toward the Blade. His pulse hammered. He could almost hear it whispering: Draw me. Feed me. Kill them.

Arinya stood before he could move, her tone crisp, commanding. “Tell your Prophet the Blade he seeks is a myth. Nothing more. Now leave.”

The scarred man studied her, eyes narrowing. Then he laughed—a cold, humorless sound. “The Prophet will find it. He always does.”

He turned, his men following. But his parting glance at Kael promised the matter wasn’t over.

---

That night, Kael didn’t sleep. He sat outside the outpost walls, the cloak pulled tight, staring at the dunes. Every shadow looked like an enemy. Every sound carried a threat.

The Blade pulsed against his back, stronger now.

They will come. You cannot hide me. You can only wield me.

Kael’s fists clenched. “Shut up.”

You need me. They all do.

Visions flickered at the edge of his sight: armies kneeling, crowns shattered, blood running like rivers. For one dizzying heartbeat, he wanted it. Power. Control. An end to running.

Arinya’s voice cut through the haze. “You’re slipping.”

He hadn’t heard her approach. She stood behind him, arms crossed, moonlight glinting off her dark hair.

“You think I can’t hear it?” she asked softly. “I can. Every time you touch it, it grows louder.”

Kael looked away. “What choice do I have? Every bastard in the desert wants it. They’ll come whether I carry it or not.”

“Then let me carry it,” she said. “It’s my burden, not yours.”

Kael laughed bitterly. “You wouldn’t last a day. It wants blood. You think you’re strong enough to deny it?”

Her eyes hardened. “Stronger than you.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Then Kael shook his head. “Not happening.”

She sighed, kneeling beside him. “Then listen to me. The Firebrand has a Blade. His will is already twisted. If he gathers another, he’ll rally half the desert behind him. You think you’ve seen war? You haven’t.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “So what—you want me to march into his camp and kill him?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “If it comes to that, yes.”

The Blade pulsed, hot and eager, as if laughing in his bones.

---

At dawn, the caravan set out again. Kael and Arinya rode at its tail, the desert stretching endlessly before them. The further they went, the more Kael felt the Blade tugging—pulling him east, toward the coast.

Toward the Firebrand.

By midday, vultures wheeled overhead. Smoke smudged the horizon.

The caravan halted.

As they crested a dune, Kael saw why. Below, in the shallow valley, wagons lay shattered, corpses scattered like broken dolls. A caravan had been slaughtered.

Kael’s stomach tightened. Not by raiders. This was different.

Every body was shriveled, desiccated. As if drained.

Arinya dismounted, face pale. “Another Blade.”

Kael felt his weapon pulse in response, hungering.

The desert wind whispered through the corpses like a sigh.

And Kael realized with a sick twist in his gut: they weren’t the only ones on the hunt.

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