The mountains loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks cutting through the night sky like the teeth of a great beast. The rebels trudged toward them in silence, the glow of the fires they had left behind still faintly visible on the horizon. The air was heavy with the stench of smoke and charred wood, and every step felt like a reminder of the destruction they had wrought.

  Alric walked at the head of the column, his body aching and his mind clouded. He gripped the obsidian dagger at his side, the weight of it both a comfort and a curse. His heart still raced with the adrenaline of the battle, but it was the memory of the crimson-cloaked captain’s face that lingered in his thoughts. The man’s final gasp, the look of shock and fury as the dagger pierced his chest—it was a sight Alric couldn’t shake.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Kaelion’s voice said, breaking the stillness in Alric’s mind.

  “I have nothing to say,” Alric muttered.

  “Liar,” Kaelion replied, his tone sharper than usual. “You’ve got a storm brewing in that head of yours. Speak it, or it’ll eat you alive.”

  Alric’s grip on the dagger tightened. “I killed a man tonight.”

  Kaelion snorted. “You’ve killed before.”

  “Not like this,” Alric said, his voice low. “The way he looked at me… He wasn’t just some faceless soldier. He knew who I was. And I think—” He hesitated, his stomach twisting. “I think he believed in what he was fighting for. He wasn’t just following orders. He believed in Mordain.”

  Kaelion’s spectral form appeared beside him, the golden-eyed warrior matching Alric’s pace as they walked. “That’s what makes this war dangerous,” Kaelion said. “Your uncle isn’t ruling with fear alone. He’s convinced people that his cause is righteous. That he’s righteous. And those who believe will fight harder than anyone forced to.”

  Alric shook his head. “How do I fight that? How do I convince people that Mordain’s a tyrant when they think he’s saving them?”

  Kaelion studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “That’s a question only you can answer, boy. But I’ll tell you this: you don’t win wars with words alone. Sometimes, you have to show people the truth—and sometimes, that truth comes with blood.”

  By the time the rebels reached the safety of the mountains, the first light of dawn was creeping over the horizon. Iridia called for a halt, allowing the fighters to rest and tend to their wounded.

  Alric sat apart from the others, his back against a boulder as he stared out at the valley below. The ache in his chest had grown stronger, and his vision blurred as exhaustion threatened to overtake him.

  He closed his eyes, hoping for even a moment of peace. But instead, he found himself standing in the same dark expanse he had visited before—a world of shadow and glass, where whispers filled the air like a rising tide.

  “Not now,” he muttered, clenching his fists.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  But the whispers grew louder, swirling around him like a storm. The shadowy figures began to take shape, their forms vague and shifting, their eyes burning with an eerie light.

  One figure stepped forward, and Alric’s heart sank as he recognized him.

  Maltheron.

  The blood mage smiled, his pale face gleaming like bone. “Poor little prince,” he said, his voice a soft, mocking drawl. “You look tired. Have the burdens of leadership already begun to weigh on you?”

  Alric glared at him. “What do you want?”

  Maltheron’s smile widened. “I want what I’ve always wanted—to help you.”

  “Help me?” Alric spat. “The last time you spoke to me, you told me the Echoes would consume me.”

  “And they will,” Maltheron said, his tone light and conversational. “But it doesn’t have to be so… unpleasant. You see, unlike Kaelion and his ilk, I’m not interested in fighting for control. I only want to show you how to use the power you’ve been given. Properly.”

  Alric hesitated, his mind racing. Maltheron’s words were poison, but they carried a dangerous allure.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Kaelion’s voice growled, cutting through the shadows. A moment later, Kaelion appeared beside Alric, his golden eyes blazing with anger. “He’s twisting the truth to suit his own ends. That’s all he’s ever done.”

  Maltheron raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Twisting the truth? My dear Kaelion, I’m simply offering the prince a choice. Unlike you, I believe in being honest about the costs of power.”

  Kaelion stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his spectral blade. “Get out, Maltheron. Now.”

  Maltheron smirked. “As you wish. But remember, prince: the blood is a gift. And if you continue to squander it, you’ll only be making things harder for yourself.”

  With that, he dissolved into the shadows, leaving Alric and Kaelion alone in the dark expanse.

  Alric let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding. “What did he mean? About the blood being a gift?”

  Kaelion hesitated, his golden eyes narrowing. “The power you’ve awakened—it’s ancient, and it’s dangerous. But it’s also the reason your bloodline ruled for centuries. The Echoes are more than just fragments of the past. They’re a force that can shape the future.”

  Alric frowned. “Shape it how?”

  “That’s up to you,” Kaelion said. “But remember this: the more you use our power, the stronger the connection becomes. You’ll have to decide how far you’re willing to go—and how much you’re willing to lose.”

  Alric woke with a start, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The first rays of sunlight were breaking over the mountains, painting the rocky landscape in shades of gold and amber.

  Iridia was standing nearby, her arms crossed as she watched him. “Rough night?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” Alric muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

  Iridia studied him for a moment before nodding toward the horizon. “The scouts came back while you were resting. They found something you need to see.”

  Alric followed her without question, his legs aching as they climbed higher into the mountains. The trail was narrow and treacherous, winding between cliffs that dropped into shadowy ravines.

  When they reached the summit, Alric stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat.

  Below them, nestled in a hidden valley, was a massive encampment. Hundreds of soldiers moved among the rows of tents, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. At the center of the camp stood a towering banner bearing Mordain’s sigil—a black wolf’s head on a crimson field.

  Iridia’s voice was quiet but grim. “That’s his vanguard. They’ve already mobilized. If they move on us now, we won’t stand a chance.”

  Alric stared at the encampment, his mind racing. The ambush on the supply convoy had slowed Mordain’s forces, but it hadn’t stopped them.

  “We need to do something,” he said. “We can’t let them march unchallenged.”

  Iridia shook her head. “We don’t have the numbers for a direct attack. If we try to fight them head-on, we’ll be slaughtered.”

  Alric clenched his fists, his frustration boiling over. “Then we don’t fight them head-on. We draw them into the mountains, force them into terrain where their numbers won’t matter.”

  Iridia raised an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to do that?”

  Alric turned to her, his eyes hard. “We give them something they can’t ignore. Me.”