THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD : THE AWAKENING DARK
Chapter 5: The First King’s Awakening
The eyes that opened inside the sphere were not human.
They were black—blacker than the void, blacker than the door, blacker than anything Kaelen had ever seen. They were the eyes of something that had been sleeping for a thousand years and was finally, finally awake. And they were looking at him.
Kaelen did not lower the blade.
The first king’s lips moved.
You, he said. His voice was not a voice. It was the absence of voice. The silence between heartbeats. The emptiness between stars. You are the one who sealed my door.
“I am.”
You are the one who stole my power.
“I am.”
You are the one who will die for your insolence.
Kaelen raised the blade higher.
“I am the one who will end this. Tonight. Forever.”
The first king laughed.
It was a terrible sound—like bones breaking, like glass shattering, like worlds ending.
You cannot end me. I am eternal. I was here before the beginning. I will be here after the end.
“You’re not eternal. You’re a man. A man who made a mistake. A man who has been paying for that mistake for a thousand years.”
I am a god.
“You’re a prisoner. Trapped in your own nightmare. Feeding on the world because you’re too afraid to face what you’ve become.”
The first king’s eyes blazed.
You know nothing.
“I know enough.”
Kaelen swung the blade.
The Duskblade struck the sphere.
The sphere cracked.
Not a small crack—a large one, spiderwebbing from the point of impact, spreading across the surface like lightning across a stormy sky. The symbols flickered, dimmed, died. The light inside the sphere pulsed, once, twice, three times.
And then the sphere shattered.
The first king fell.
He landed on the dead grass, his body limp, his eyes closed, his hands still folded on his chest. For a moment, he looked almost human. Almost peaceful.
Then he opened his eyes.
And stood.
He was taller than Kaelen had expected. Taller than any man had a right to be. His skin was pale—the color of old bone—and his hair was black, streaked with silver. His eyes were black, depthless, hungry. His mouth was curved in a smile that held no warmth.
He was wearing armor. Black and silver, etched with runes that glowed faintly in the darkness. A crown of thorns rested on his head, the points digging into his skin, drawing blood that trickled down his temples and stained his cheeks.
He was beautiful.
He was terrible.
He was the nightmare.
You have freed me, he said.
“I have freed the world from you.”
You have freed me from my prison. And now I will show you what true freedom looks like.
He raised his hand.
Darkness shot from his fingers—not the passive darkness of the void, but a living darkness, a thinking darkness, a darkness that wanted to kill. It slammed into Kaelen’s chest, throwing him backward. He hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs, the Duskblade flying from his hand.
Elena ran to him.
“Get up,” she said. “You have to get up.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You must.”
She pulled him to his feet.
The first king walked toward them.
His footsteps left no prints on the dead grass.
You are brave, he said. Braver than most. But bravery is not enough. Not against me.
Kaelen reached for the Duskblade.
It was lying a few feet away, its glow flickering, its hunger screaming.
The blade cannot hurt me, the first king said. It was forged from my power. It is part of me.
“Then I’ll find another way.”
There is no other way. There is only surrender. Only submission. Only death.
Kaelen looked at Elena.
She nodded.
He understood.
He ran for the blade.
The first king raised his hand.
Darkness shot toward Kaelen.
He dove.
The darkness missed him by inches.
He grabbed the Duskblade.
And he swung.
Not at the first king. At the ground.
The blade struck the dead grass.
And the world exploded.
Light erupted from the point of impact—not the light of the sun or the moon or the stars. A different light. A light that came from somewhere deeper than the world. A light that was the heart.
The heart of the nightmare.
The first king screamed.
The light consumed him.
It consumed the darkness.
It consumed the dead field, the black sky, the crumbling trees.
And when it faded, Kaelen was alone.
He stood in the nothing.
The Duskblade was in his hand.
The key was in his pocket.
The blood in his veins was quiet.
And the door was gone.
Not sealed. Not closed. Gone.
The wound had healed.
The nightmare had ended.
The first king was no more.
Kaelen fell to his knees.
He was shaking.
He was crying.
He was alive.
Elena knelt beside him.
“You did it,” she said.
“We did it.”
“No. You. I just watched.”
“You showed me the way.”
“You walked it.”
Kaelen looked at the nothing.
At the darkness.
At the light.
“Is it over?”
Elena was silent for a long moment.
“For now,” she said. “The first king is gone. The nightmares are dying. The world will heal.”
“But?”
She looked at him.
Her ancient eyes were sad.
“But the door was not destroyed. It was transformed. The heart of the nightmare is still here. Still beating. Still waiting.”
“What does that mean?”
Elena stood.
She offered him her hand.
“It means that someone will always have to watch. Someone will always have to guard. Someone will always have to be ready.”
Kaelen took her hand.
She pulled him to his feet.
“That someone is you,” she said.