THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD: THE DYING LIGHT
Chapter 3: The Road to the North
The road to the north was a wound in the earth.
Kaelen had walked it for three days, and already his boots were wearing thin, his legs were aching, his spirit was fraying. The cobblestones of the King’s Way had given way to packed dirt, and the dirt had given way to mud, and the mud had given way to frost-hardened earth that cracked beneath his每一步 like breaking bones.
The trees on either side of the road were skeletons—their branches bare, their bark peeling, their roots exposed like the fingers of drowning men. The sky above was the color of bruises, the clouds low and heavy, pressing down on the world like a lid.
He had not seen another living soul since leaving Valdris.
But he was not alone.
He could feel them watching him.
The shadows.
They moved at the edge of his vision—dark shapes that slipped between the trees, that followed him from a distance, that whispered in a language he could not understand. They had been with him since the first night, when he had made camp in the ruins of an old watchtower and woken to find his fire dead and his breath fogging in the air.
He had drawn the Duskblade.
The shadows had retreated.
But they had not left.
They were waiting.
On the fourth day, the road forked.
One path led west, toward the coast and the fishing villages that still clung to life. The other led east, into the mountains, toward the pass that would take him to the northern wastes.
Kaelen stood at the fork, the wind whipping his cloak, the Duskblade heavy at his hip.
The key in his pocket was warm.
He looked west.
He thought of Lyra. Of his father. Of the children with hollow eyes. He thought of the sea, black and still, and the boats that would never sail again.
He looked east.
He thought of the door.
The nightmares.
The hunger.
He turned east.
The mountains rose before him like teeth.
The pass was narrow, barely wide enough for a single traveler, the walls on either side sheer and dark. The wind howled through the gap, carrying ice and snow and the scent of something old. Something hungry.
Kaelen pulled his cloak tighter and walked.
The shadows followed.
He could see them now—not just at the edge of his vision, but clearly, plainly, unmistakably. They were human-shaped, but not human. Their limbs were too long, their fingers too many, their faces blank and smooth like masks of wax.
They did not speak.
They did not breathe.
They simply watched.
And waited.
On the fifth night, he found shelter.
A cave, set into the mountainside, its entrance half-hidden by a curtain of ice. The air inside was cold but still, and there was wood enough to burn—dead branches, carried by the wind, piled against the walls.
Kaelen built a fire.
The flames crackled, casting dancing shadows on the stone. He sat with his back to the wall, the Duskblade across his knees, and watched the entrance.
The shadows did not come inside.
But they lingered at the mouth of the cave, their pale faces illuminated by the firelight, their empty eyes fixed on him.
“Why are you following me?” he asked.
They did not answer.
He hadn’t expected them to.
He slept in fits, waking every few hours to check the fire, to check the entrance, to check the blade.
The Duskblade was different now.
It had been cold when the king first gave it to him—cold and heavy and dead. But as the days passed, it had begun to change. It was warm now, almost warm, pulsing gently, like a heartbeat. And when he held it, he could feel something—a presence, a will, a hunger.
Not his hunger.
The blade’s.
It wanted something.
He didn’t know what.
On the sixth day, he reached the summit of the pass.
The world spread before him—a vast, frozen plain, white and empty, stretching to the horizon. The sky was darker here, the clouds lower, the light dimmer. The sun, if it still existed, had not been seen in these lands for a hundred years.
The door was out there.
Somewhere.
Waiting.
Kaelen descended into the wastes.
The snow was deep, reaching to his knees, then his thighs, then his waist. He struggled through it, each step a battle, each breath a prayer. The cold seeped through his cloak, through his boots, through his skin. He could not feel his fingers. He could not feel his toes.
He kept walking.
The shadows followed.
They were closer now—close enough to touch. He could see the details of their faces: the smooth, blank skin; the hollows where eyes should have been; the thin, lipless mouths that never moved.
He wondered if they had once been human.
He wondered if they had once been like him.
He wondered if he would end up like them.
On the eighth day, he found the first marker.
A stone, standing alone in the snow, carved with symbols he did not recognize. It was old—ancient—worn smooth by centuries of wind and ice. But the symbols were still visible, faint but legible, and when he touched them, they glowed.
Not with light.
With darkness.
The shadows hissed.
Kaelen drew the Duskblade.
The blade blazed—not with fire, but with something else. Something cold. Something hungry. The shadows recoiled, pressing themselves against the snow, their blank faces twisted in what might have been fear.
Kaelen looked at the stone.
The symbols were changing.
Shifting.
Becoming words he could read.
THE DOOR LIES AHEAD.
THREE DAYS’ WALK.
THE GUARDIAN WAITS.
DO NOT TRUST HIM.
Kaelen stared at the last line.
Do not trust him.
Him who? The guardian? The king? Someone else?
The symbols faded.
The stone went dark.
The shadows crept closer.
Kaelen sheathed the blade and walked on.
On the ninth day, he saw the door.
It was not what he had expected.
He had imagined a gate—massive and ornate, carved with scenes of gods and heroes, guarded by statues of ancient kings. He had imagined something that would inspire awe, that would demand respect, that would make him feel small and insignificant.
This was not that.
The door was a crack.
A fissure in the ice, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through, leading down into darkness. It was unremarkable—easy to miss, easy to ignore, easy to forget.
But the shadows were afraid of it.
They had stopped following him.
They stood at a distance, huddled together, their blank faces turned toward the crack.
They would not come closer.
Kaelen walked to the edge of the fissure.
The cold was worse here—so cold that his breath froze in his lungs, that his tears turned to ice on his cheeks, that his blood seemed to slow in his veins.
He looked down.
Darkness.
Endless darkness.
And from the darkness, a voice.
Come, the voice said. Come and face your fate.
Kaelen gripped the Duskblade.
He stepped into the crack.
The darkness swallowed him.
He fell—not down, but sideways, through a space that had no direction, no time, no end. He felt the Duskblade pulsing in his hand, felt the key burning in his pocket, felt the shadows watching from somewhere far away.
And then he landed.
He was standing in a cavern.
Massive, ancient, carved from black stone that seemed to drink the light. The walls were covered in carvings—scenes of battles and bargains, of kings and gods, of doors opening and closing.
And at the center of the cavern, a throne.
Made of bones.
And on the throne, a figure.
A man.
Old—impossibly old—his skin gray and cracked like old parchment, his eyes black and depthless like the void between stars. He was wearing armor that had once been magnificent, now rusted and broken, and a crown that had once been gold, now tarnished and dull.
He was the guardian.
And he was dying.
“Kaelen of Dusk Hollow,” the man said. His voice was thin, reedy, like wind through dead leaves. “I have been waiting for you.”
“Who are you?”
“I am what you will become. The last king. The last guardian. The last hope.”
“You’re the one who guards the door.”
“I am the door. I am the lock. I am the key.” The man smiled. It was not a kind smile. “And I am failing.”
The man stood.
His bones creaked.
His armor clattered.
He walked toward Kaelen, his black eyes fixed on the Duskblade.
“You have brought it. The hunger. The blade of fallen stars. The thing that will save us or destroy us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t. But you will.” The man stopped in front of him. “The door is weakening. The nightmares are stirring. The gods are waking. And when they wake, they will demand a price.”
“What price?”
The man looked at the Duskblade.
At the hunger.
At the darkness.
“Your soul,” he said. “The blade will take it. The door will hold it. And you will stand here, like me, for a thousand years, watching. Waiting. Wishing for death.”
Kaelen’s blood went cold.
“There has to be another way.”
“There is always another way. But it requires a sacrifice you are not ready to make.”
“What sacrifice?”
The man leaned close.
His breath smelled of dust and decay.
“The death of hope,” he whispered. “The death of love. The death of everything you hold dear.”
Kaelen stepped back.
“I won’t do it.”
“Then the door will open. And the nightmares will come. And everyone you have ever loved will die.”
The man turned and walked back to his throne.
He sat heavily, his shoulders slumping, his eyes closing.
“You have three days,” he said. “Three days to decide. Three days to prepare. Three days to say goodbye.”
“To who?”
The man opened his eyes.
“To yourself,” he said. “The person you were. The person you will never be again.”
The cavern went dark.
Kaelen was alone.
He sat on the cold stone floor, the Duskblade across his knees, the key in his hand.
The shadows were gone.
The door was close.
And the guardian was waiting.
For his answer.
For his sacrifice.
For his soul.
Kaelen closed his eyes.
And for the first time in his life, he prayed.
Not to the gods.
To the darkness.
To the hunger.
To the blade.
Help me, he whispered. Help me find another way.
The blade pulsed.
Warm.
Hungry.
And Kaelen felt something stir in the depths of his heart.
Something he had never felt before.
Something that felt like hope.