THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD : THE DYING LIGHT
Chapter 2: The King’s Demand
The great hall fell silent.
Not the silence of respect—the silence of fear. The courtiers pressed themselves against the walls, their silks rustling, their jewels glinting in the dim light. The guards at the doors shifted their weight, their hands moving to the hilts of their swords. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.
Kaelen stood before the throne, his heart pounding in his chest, the king’s words echoing in his ears.
The last of the old blood. The last of the magic. The last king of Emberwyld.
He didn’t understand.
He couldn’t understand.
“I’m a fisherman’s son,” Kaelen said. “I have no blood. No magic. No kingdom.”
The king laughed.
It was a hollow sound, dry and brittle, like bones rattling in a coffin.
“You think blood is about birth? You think magic is about power? You think a kingdom is about land?” The king shook his head. “You are more naive than I thought.”
“Then explain it to me.”
The king turned away.
He walked to the window, his black robes trailing behind him, his crown catching the faint light of the dying moon. Outside, the city of Valdris sprawled below—a maze of towers and bridges and canals, all of it sinking into shadow.
“Once, there was a man,” the king said. “He was not a king. He was not a lord. He was not even a soldier. He was a farmer. He lived in a small village on the edge of the world, and he tended his fields, and he loved his family, and he was happy.”
“What happened to him?”
“The Blight came. The crops failed. The children sickened. The old ones died. And the farmer watched it all, helpless, hopeless, alone.”
Kaelen felt a chill run down his spine.
“That farmer was you.”
The king turned.
His eyes were old—older than his face, older than his years, older than the kingdom itself.
“That farmer was my father,” the king said. “And the village was Dusk Hollow.”
Kaelen’s breath caught in his throat.
“Dusk Hollow?”
“Your village was not always a backwater. Once, it was the heart of the kingdom. The seat of the old kings. The place where the first of our bloodline drew his first breath.”
“What happened?”
“The Blight. The same Blight that is killing your crops and starving your children. It started there. In Dusk Hollow. A hundred years ago. And it has been spreading ever since.”
Kaelen’s mind reeled.
He thought of the empty fields, the dying trees, the black sea. He thought of the children with hollow eyes and the old women who had stopped smiling.
“You’re saying Dusk Hollow caused the Blight?”
“I’m saying Dusk Hollow is the source. The Blight was born there, in the soil, in the water, in the air. And it will end there—or it will end everything.”
The king walked back to his throne.
He sat heavily, his shoulders slumping, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.
“The old stories speak of a bargain,” the king said. “A bargain made between the first king of Emberwyld and the gods. The king promised to protect the land. The gods promised to keep it fertile. And for a thousand years, the bargain held.”
“What broke it?”
“The king. Not the first—the last. My grandfather. He grew proud. He grew greedy. He grew afraid. And he broke his oath.”
“How?”
The king looked at the window. At the darkness. At the nothing.
“He tried to become a god himself.”
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Kaelen felt the weight of them, heavy and cold.
“What did he do?”
“He opened a door,” the king said. “A door that should have remained closed. A door to the place where the gods sleep. And when he opened it, something came through.”
“What?”
“Death. Decay. The Blight.” The king’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The gods did not wake. But their nightmares did.”
Kaelen’s hands were shaking.
“How do we close the door?”
The king was silent for a long moment.
“We don’t,” he said. “The door cannot be closed. It can only be guarded. And the guardian must be of the old blood. The blood of the first king. The blood that runs in your veins.”
Kaelen stared at him.
“I don’t have—”
“You do. Your grandmother was the last daughter of the last true king. She fled to Dusk Hollow when the palace fell. She changed her name. She hid her blood. She thought she could escape.”
“But she couldn’t.”
“No. None of us can.”
Kaelen felt the world shifting beneath his feet.
Everything he had known—his family, his village, his life—was a lie.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the guardian is dying. The door is weakening. And if it opens fully, the Blight will consume everything.”
“What do you want me to do?”
The king leaned forward.
His eyes burned.
“Take your place,” he said. “Become the guardian. Protect the door. Save the world.”
“I’m not a king.”
“You are the last of the old blood. The last of the magic. The last hope.”
Kaelen shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You must. There is no one else.”
“What about you? You’re the king. You have the blood.”
The king smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“My blood is tainted. My grandfather’s sin runs in my veins. If I try to guard the door, it will consume me. And then it will consume everything.”
“So you want me to sacrifice myself instead.”
“I want you to live. The guardian does not die. The guardian endures. You will stand at the door for a hundred years, a thousand years, as long as it takes. And you will watch. And you will wait. And you will protect.”
Kaelen felt the weight of a thousand years settle onto his shoulders.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No one does.”
The king stood.
He walked to a small chest against the wall—iron-bound, ancient, covered in symbols that Kaelen didn’t recognize. He opened it and pulled out a sword.
The blade was black—blacker than night, blacker than the void, blacker than anything Kaelen had ever seen. It seemed to drink the light, to pull the shadows toward it, to hunger.
“This is the Duskblade,” the king said. “Forged by the first king from the heart of a fallen star. It was made to guard the door. It was made for you.”
Kaelen stared at the blade.
“I don’t know how to use it.”
“The blade will teach you. It has a will of its own. A hunger. A purpose.”
“What purpose?”
The king met his eyes.
“To protect the door. To destroy the nightmares. To keep the gods asleep.”
He held out the sword.
Kaelen reached for it.
His fingers touched the hilt.
And the world screamed.
The vision came without warning.
Kaelen was standing in a field of ash, the sky burning above him, the ground cracking beneath his feet. The door stood before him—massive, ancient, carved from stone that seemed to weep. And from behind the door, something was scratching.
Something was trying to get out.
He saw faces in the darkness. Faces he knew. Lyra, her red hair tangled, her eyes wide with fear. His father, lying in his bed, his breath rattling in his chest. The children of Dusk Hollow, their hollow eyes, their thin limbs, their cough that never went away.
He saw them die.
One by one.
And he saw himself, standing at the door, the Duskblade in his hand, watching.
Watching.
Watching.
For a thousand years.
The vision faded.
Kaelen was back in the great hall, the sword in his hand, the king watching him.
“You saw,” the king said.
“I saw.”
“Do you understand now?”
Kaelen looked at the blade.
At the darkness.
At the hunger.
“I understand,” he said.
“Then go. The door is in the north, beyond the Iron Mountains, in the place where the first king made his bargain. The journey will take months. You will face dangers you cannot imagine. You will be tempted. You will be tested. You will want to give up.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. But you will keep going. Because that is what the blood does. It endures.”
The king reached into his robes and pulled out a key.
It was old—bronze, tarnished, worn smooth by centuries of use.
“This is the key to the door. It has been in my family for a thousand years. Now it is yours.”
Kaelen took the key.
It was warm.
“Go,” the king said. “The world is dying. And you are its only hope.”
Kaelen turned.
He walked out of the great hall, through the silent courtiers, past the guards at the door, into the cold night air.
The stars were gone.
The moon was fading.
And somewhere in the north, the door was waiting.
He left Valdris before dawn.
The guards at the gate let him pass without a word. The road stretched before him, dark and empty, leading into the mountains. He walked alone, the Duskblade at his hip, the key in his pocket, the weight of a thousand years on his shoulders.
He thought of Lyra. Of his father. Of the children with hollow eyes.
He thought of the door.
And the nightmares behind it.
And the hunger that would never be satisfied.
He walked.
And the world grew darker.