They left Ashvale before dawn.
Marek drove with a cigarette clenched between his teeth, eyes bloodshot. Kael sat in the passenger seat, staring at the obsidian eye charm in his hand. It was warm now. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw reflections—not his own, but twisted versions of himself. Sometimes he was the one wielding the dagger. Sometimes he was the one being hunted. And in all of them, someone always died.
He wasn't sure which were dreams and which were warnings.
"You're quiet," Marek said, breaking the silence.
"I think I'm seeing the future."
Marek nodded, not surprised. "That's what happens when the Eye marks you. Visions. Illusions. Previews. The trick is knowing which is which."
Kael exhaled slowly. "And if I guess wrong?"
Marek's expression darkened. "People die."
By noon, they reached a small fishing town called Durin's Hollow, perched at the edge of Lake Dreadnought—a vast, black body of water that stretched for miles, ringed by fog and mountains. It wasn't on most maps, and the GPS had stopped working halfway up the gravel road.
Kael stepped out of the truck and immediately felt it.
The wrongness.
Not the usual cold or silence.
But pressure—as though something deep beneath the lake was watching him, waiting.
"We're not here by coincidence, are we?" Kael asked.
Marek locked the truck. "Your mother's trail ends here. She came to Durin's Hollow looking for a weapon."
Kael raised a brow. "A weapon?"
"A spear," Marek said. "Called Neviran's Fang. Said to have been forged by monks who used demon blood as a catalyst. It can pierce the hides of greater demons—maybe even kill one."
Kael swallowed. "Sounds useful."
"It is," Marek said grimly. "If it hasn't already been claimed."
They walked through the narrow town streets, past old taverns, smokehouses, and quiet boats docked at the wooden pier. Most of the residents looked away when they passed. A few watched them with glassy eyes—too glassy.
Marek stopped outside a fishmonger's shop with a rusted bell.
"This place used to be a hub for hunters," he explained. "They called it the Last Dock. Your mother came here two days before she disappeared."
Inside, the shop smelled of salt, blood, and oil. An old man sat behind the counter, skin pale and slick like he hadn't seen sunlight in years. His eyes were yellowed, almost reptilian.
"We're looking for the monk," Marek said.
The man blinked slowly.
"Monk's gone," he rasped. "Drowned in the lake."
"His name was Kerral," Marek said, voice low. "Don't lie to me."
The man didn't flinch. "Then you already know he's dead."
Kael stepped closer. "Did my mother come here?"
The man stared at Kael's chest—at the obsidian charm. His jaw tightened.
"She did," he said after a long silence. "She went to the lake. Same place all the marked go. She never came back."
They headed toward the pier.
Fog rolled in thick and heavy as they approached the dock. Kael could hear the water lapping gently against the wooden posts—but it felt unnatural, like something mimicking the sound of waves rather than real movement.
They met their guide at the edge of the pier. She was tall, lean, and wore a faded raincoat. Her eyes were sharp, and her skin was marked with old ritual scars.
"Name's Brine," she said. "I take hunters to the deep. No further."
Kael looked at Marek. "What's the deep?"
Brine pointed to a black silhouette far out on the lake. "An island. Used to be a monastery. Now? It's cursed. Things walk the shore at night."
Kael's dagger grew cold.
"We go now," Marek said. "Before the fog gets worse."
The boat ride was silent but tense.
As they cut across the lake, Kael noticed the water below was too still. Even with their movement, the ripples vanished after a second. No birds flew above the surface. No fish leapt from the depths. Just black, endless water.
Then—halfway to the island—Kael felt it.
Something brushed the boat from below.
He looked at Brine, but she didn't react. Marek's eyes, however, narrowed.
"Keep your blade close," he muttered.
Kael gripped the dagger tightly.
Another bump.
Then a shadow beneath them—huge, slow, circling.
A tail like a serpent. A fin. A mass of coiling limbs just below the surface.
Kael's stomach twisted.
"There's something under us," he whispered.
Brine only said, "There always is."
They reached the island.
Gray stone ruins rose from the mist like teeth. The monastery had crumbled over time, but sections of its walls still stood. Carvings lined the archways—symbols of protection, sanctity, and judgment.
But they'd all been scratched out.
Kael stepped onto the island and instantly felt it: the hunger.
It wasn't physical, but spiritual—like the air itself wanted to devour them. He followed Marek through the overgrown path, past broken statues and shattered relics. The ground was damp with moss and bloodstains.
They reached the inner courtyard.
There, in the center of an altar, was a crystal pedestal.
Upon it rested a long black spear—its shaft etched with runes, its tip glimmering red like fresh blood.
"Neviran's Fang," Marek breathed. "She really found it."
Kael stepped forward—
And the fog screamed.
From the shadows of the ruins, figures emerged.
Dozens of them.
Once human.
Now… Drowned.
Their skin was stretched tight, their eyes pure black. Water dripped from their mouths. Some carried old weapons—blades rusted with age. Others used claws and broken teeth.
"They're bound to the lake," Marek said, drawing his sword. "They protect the weapon. It's a curse."
Kael grabbed the spear.
The second his fingers touched it, everything changed.
A surge of power shot through him, and the dagger on his hip flared to life in response. Visions exploded across his mind—of monks chanting, demons screaming, blood being boiled into steel.
And then—his mother.
Elaine.
Standing exactly where he stood now.
Fighting.
Bleeding.
Screaming.
The Drowned attacked.
Kael barely had time to react as the first one lunged—he pivoted, driving the spear through its chest. It burst into black mist. Marek moved beside him, carving a path through the horde.
Kael fought like he'd been born for it.
The spear sang in his hands—faster than his thoughts. Every time it pierced a Drowned, their bodies unraveled, freed from their curse.
More came.
Brine joined them, knives flashing, slashing throats and dodging claws. She fought like a demon herself—calm, precise, unrelenting.
They were surrounded.
But Kael didn't feel fear.
He felt focus.
Like the spear was guiding him.
Eventually, the last Drowned fell, dissolving into the soil.
The silence returned.
Kael stood at the center of the carnage, chest heaving, spear slick with black blood.
Marek approached him, blood on his blade.
"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked.
Kael nodded.
"The spear… it's alive."
Marek placed a hand on his shoulder.
"And now it's yours."
That night, back at Brine's shack on the lake's edge, Kael cleaned the weapon and stared into the fire.
"So she really came here," he said. "She fought these things. She almost died here."
"She was stronger than both of us," Marek said. "But she knew what was coming."
Kael looked down.
"What happened after she left?"
Marek exhaled slowly. "She went to a town called Blackridge. Said she was following something. A lead on a name."
Kael met his eyes. "Whose name
?". Marek's voice dropped.
"Malrekh."
Kael's blood turned to ice.
The Demon Father. The one who started it all. The one awakening.
Kael gripped the spear tighter.
"I'm ready," he said.
Marek looked at him long.
"I hope you are."