The following morning, Kael awoke to the sound of screaming crows.
Dozens of them circled overhead outside Mira's safehouse, shrieking like the sky itself had been wounded. He sat up in his cot, drenched in sweat. The dream still clung to him—Vosk, burning, laughing even as he died. And behind him, a figure cloaked in flame, its face hidden, its eyes like smoking suns.
Malrekh.
It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt like a message. Or worse—an invitation.
Kael stood, gripping Neviran's Fang. The weapon was still slick with cold energy, its red-tinted runes pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
He didn't need breakfast.
He needed answers.
---
Marek and Mira were already awake.
Mira sipped coffee and marked runes on the floor with white chalk, creating a layered circle of protection. Marek paced near the window, fully armed. A new notebook lay open on the table—a fresh journal Kael hadn't seen before.
Kael approached it cautiously. "Is that…?"
Marek nodded. "Your mother's second journal. Mira found it in the ruins last night after the mine collapse. It's encrypted."
Kael frowned. "Encrypted?"
Mira gestured. "Elaine wrote in multiple layers—runes, false languages, metaphors only she understood. But this part—" she tapped a line at the top of the page, "—was written clearly. In Common."
Kael leaned in and read aloud:
> "If I fall, tell Kael: the Hunter's Creed is buried in the Archive. Only those who bleed for it can open the gate."
He looked up, confused. "What's the Archive?"
Marek's jaw tightened. "A sacred place. Old. Dangerous. No one's been there in fifty years."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "What's there?"
Mira answered softly. "Everything. Every spell, every map, every bloodline. The whole history of the Hunters. If your mother was searching for it, she believed it was the only way to stop what's coming."
---
They left Blackridge before noon.
The road to the Archive wasn't paved. It wasn't marked. Marek guided them along forgotten trails through mountain passes and forests so deep the sun barely reached the floor. For three days they traveled—on foot, by horse, and once even by an old steam train operated by monks who refused to speak.
Kael's dreams worsened. Each night he saw glimpses of burning cities, of demons walking in daylight, of familiar faces twisted by hate. He began waking before dawn, always with one word echoing in his skull:
Creed.
On the fourth night, they camped in a high valley beneath the shadow of a massive stone gate—moss-covered and ringed with dozens of iron blades embedded into the earth like fallen swords.
Marek stood beside it, unsheathing his own blade.
"This is it," he said. "The Archive."
---
The gate opened not by force, but by blood.
Each of them made a cut across their palms, pressing them against the stone. The rock trembled. The blades in the ground shimmered—and then the gate sank into the earth, revealing a staircase descending into pitch black.
Kael followed without hesitation.
The descent was silent. No torches were needed. The walls glowed faintly, illuminated by ancient runes that flickered as they passed. After what felt like an hour, the stairs opened into a vast cavern.
And there it stood:
The Archive.
A colossal stone library carved into the heart of the mountain. Its architecture was a blend of monastery, temple, and battlefield—bookshelves twenty feet high, banners hanging from the ceiling, walls marked with names.
Kael whispered, awed, "It's like a cathedral."
Marek nodded. "To the fallen. And the forgotten."
---
Mira led them to the Blood Index, a stone obelisk at the heart of the chamber.
She cut her palm again and pressed it against the slab.
A shimmering glyph flared, and thousands of pages began to flutter around them—magical scrolls, glowing tomes, and records long thought lost. Kael watched as a silver-bound book floated toward him.
The title on the cover read:
> "The Hunter's Creed — Volume XIII."
He opened it.
Inside were pages of old laws, strategies, names—hundreds of names. Bloodlines. Kael found his family's sigil on page 191. The Rune of the Greyflame. His mother's name was there. So was Marek's.
And below them…
A single red entry:
Kael. Marked. Status: Unawakened.
He looked up, stunned. "What does that mean?"
Marek stepped closer. "It means your full abilities haven't surfaced yet."
Kael's heart pounded. "I've already fought demons. I've used the Fang. I've—"
"—Survived," Marek cut in. "But that's not the same as being chosen."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Chosen for what?"
Mira answered softly.
"To kill Malrekh."
---
At the far end of the Archive, they found the Sanctum of Seals.
An inner vault guarded by statues of armored hunters, each holding weapons carved from bone. The door was etched with an unfamiliar symbol—a triangle inside a circle, surrounded by flames.
Kael reached for it—and the door responded.
It opened.
Inside was a single item:
A mirror.
But unlike any other mirror Kael had seen, this one showed not reflections—but memories.
His mother appeared in the glass—young, younger than Kael had ever seen her. She was alone, standing in this very room, writing something into a book.
Her voice echoed softly:
> "If Kael finds this… I pray he never needs it. But if he does, then war is coming. And only the Creed can guide him."
Kael's fists clenched.
"Show me," he whispered.
The mirror shifted—showing pages, passages, rituals. Then a prophecy:
> "He Who Was Cast Down Shall Rise When the Blood Moon Burns. One from the Line of Flame shall stand between Worlds, or watch them both fall."
Kael's blood went cold.
Mira stepped back. "You're the Line of Flame. Your family was bound to this prophecy."
Kael whispered, "And I'm the only one left."
---
Suddenly, the Archive shook.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
The light in the walls flickered.
Marek's eyes widened. "We were followed."
From the upper halls came a roar—deep, demonic, echoing. A voice, impossible and cold:
> "Kael…"
He turned slowly.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
A hunter's body, but not a hunter's face.
Its flesh peeled back to reveal bone and black fire. Its eyes were pits of shadow.
Mira whispered, "Ashbound. One of the corrupted."
The creature spoke again.
> "Your soul will open the gate. Give it freely."
Kael raised Neviran's Fang.
"Come take it."
---
The battle tore through the Archive.
Scrolls burst into flame. Statues shattered. The Ashbound moved like smoke—blades flickering, voice singing spells of ruin. Marek held the line while Mira chanted wards from the sanctum. Kael moved with purpose, letting the spear guide him.
But the Ashbound was faster.
Smarter.
It knew him.
"You dream of fire," it hissed, slashing at his chest. "Because your soul belongs to Him. Just like your mother's did."
Kael roared and struck—
The spear plunged deep.
The Ashbound screamed—and exploded into light.
Silence fell again.
Marek limped toward him.
"That was only the first," he said.
Kael stared at the scorch marks on the Archive floor.
"There'll be more."
---
That night, Kael wrote in the blank journal Mira had given him.
> "I've seen the Archive. I know the Creed. I know what I am now. There is no running."
> "The war has already begun."
He signed it.
Kael Greyflame.
Hunter.
Marked.
Awakened.