The stars blinked behind a veil of thick cloud, and Kael couldn't shake the feeling that the sky was watching him—judging him. Judging all of them.
They'd made camp beneath the ruins of an old aqueduct, crumbled stones smothered by moss and time. It was shelter, barely, but the kind of shelter where the shadows whispered stories you didn't want to hear. Kael sat apart from the others, firelight dancing across the scar on his cheek. His hands trembled—just slightly—as if even his body wasn't sure which part of him still belonged to truth.
Elyra stared at the dying embers, her thoughts locked behind unreadable eyes. Aric had gone to scout, claiming he'd heard something—a lie, probably. Kael didn't blame him. Sometimes the air was easier to breathe without company.
But the quiet didn't last.
A voice cracked through the dark. Not loud. Not urgent. Just... wrong.
"You're late, Kael."
He stood in a blink, sword drawn, senses flaring. Elyra did the same, dagger flashing. But the figure who stepped into the firelight made Kael freeze. Because he knew that face.
"General Rhystan?" Kael choked, disbelief clinging to the name. "You're dead. You died at Elsmire Pass—three years ago."
The man smiled. "Did I?"
No one moved. Not even the wind dared stir. Rhystan—his old mentor, his first commander, the man Kael had watched fall beneath a Pale Flame blade—was standing in front of them as real as memory.
But his eyes. Stars above, his eyes.
They were wrong.
Too black. Too hollow.
"You're not him," Elyra said slowly, voice like cracked glass. "You're wearing his skin."
Rhystan—the thing inside him—grinned, and Kael finally saw the distortion. The shimmer of glamour. The subtle twitch, like a puppet on strings. And then it dropped the illusion like a snake shedding its skin.
What remained was something cruelly elegant. Long limbs, silver-veined armor, and a face like carved obsidian. A Marked One.
The same creatures spoken of only in broken stories—remnants of the Old Magic, banished centuries ago.
"Do you remember what I told you, boy?" the creature said, voice still wearing Rhystan's cadence. "That you had a fire in you the world would either fear or bow to?"
Kael's breath hitched. "Why are you here?"
"To collect what was promised."
Elyra stepped between them. "Over my dead body."
"Oh," the Marked One said smoothly, "that's always an option."
From the trees, more shapes emerged—eight, maybe ten. Not soldiers. Not monsters. Something worse: beings that didn't need to fight to win. They just needed Kael to doubt.
"You think you're fighting for justice," the Marked One said, stepping closer, "but you don't even know the truth of your own blood, do you?"
Kael flinched. "What?"
"Did your mother ever tell you why your magic burns so bright? Why your soul doesn't fracture under the weight of flame?"
Elyra looked at him, startled. "Kael... what is he talking about?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Because somewhere deep inside, something cracked.
"Your fire," the Marked One purred, circling Kael like a vulture, "is ours. Your lineage… it isn't human. Not fully. You're not just the Starflame's vessel. You are its heir."
Kael backed away, nearly stumbling over the stones. "You're lying."
"Am I?" it said, voice soft, like an old lullaby. "Do the dreams not whisper it? Do you not feel it, burning just beneath your skin? Why do you think the Pale Flame hunts you? Why do you think Vespera betrayed you?"
Kael shook his head. "No—she made a choice."
The creature tilted its head. "She was following orders. From me."
Elyra lunged.
Steel met shadow, and in a blur of motion, she was thrown against the aqueduct wall with a sickening crunch. Kael screamed her name, magic roaring out of him like wildfire, but the Marked One vanished into mist just before the blast landed.
In the smoke that followed, silence reclaimed the forest.
Kael dropped to Elyra's side. Blood. Broken ribs. Conscious, barely.
"I'm fine," she muttered, coughing. "Just... give me a second."
But Kael wasn't listening anymore. He was staring into the void where the creature had stood, his thoughts a whirlwind.
If what it said was true… if he wasn't fully human...
Then everything he'd built—every victory, every loss—was based on a lie.
And worst of all?
He was starting to believe it.