Chapter 1 – The Ash-Horn Boy
Kael never meant to steal the horn.
He only wanted something to sell—anything, really. Something worth enough to buy a meal or a night without being chased. But now, his bare feet were slapping against the cold marsh ground, and the wind howled like it knew his name.
He ran, clutching the thing wrapped in his torn cloak. It pulsed with heat against his chest, faint like a heartbeat. The moon above was a pale slice, half hidden behind clouds, casting long shadows across the trees. Every step splashed mud on his legs. Every breath hurt.
Behind him, the marsh groaned.
He didn’t look back.
Two hours ago, he had been digging at the roots of an old twisted tree, deep where the fog never lifted. That’s where he found it. A horn, black as ash, with runes carved deep into the surface. Something about it felt wrong.
He touched it anyway.
The second his fingers wrapped around it, a voice spoke—not aloud, but inside his head. A deep, ancient voice that whispered: “Put it back.”
Kael did the opposite.
Now he was running, and he had no idea what the thing in his arms truly was. Only that it was important. Dangerous. Alive.
A shout stopped him.
"Oi! You there! Stop!"
Two guards emerged from the trees, torches raised, blades at their sides. They were older, tired-looking men with armor that barely fit. Kael slowed, then backed away quickly.
"You don’t want this," he said. "I swear, you don’t even know—"
The horn pulsed again.
A whisper crawled out from it, this time not in his head.
“Blood remembers.”
The flames of the guards’ torches spiraled unnaturally, twisting upward like snakes. One of the guards screamed and dropped his torch. The other turned and ran, disappearing into the dark.
Kael stared in horror. His hands were shaking. The horn had done that.
He turned and bolted. Again.
By the time he reached the broken watchtower near the town’s edge, his legs were cramping. He ducked inside, hiding beneath the collapsed stairs, wrapping himself in what was left of his cloak.
The horn sat beside him, resting on a patch of dry stone.
"You want blood?" he whispered. "Fine."
He took the knife from his boot, cut a shallow line across his palm, and let the blood drip. The horn absorbed it.
A moment passed. Then the runes shifted.
And it spoke again.
“Kael.”
He froze.
"That’s my name…"
He hadn’t said it aloud. No one here knew it.
From the shadows of the tower, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked, tall, leaning on a wooden staff twisted like black iron.
"You took it from the marsh," the man said.
Kael reached for his knife again, but didn’t draw it.
"I didn’t steal it," he said. "It called to me."
The stranger didn’t argue. He took a step closer. His voice was low, almost kind.
"Then it’s started."
"What is?" Kael asked.
The man raised his hand. Flames danced across his fingers—violet and gold. Not normal fire. Not fire of this world.
Kael’s eyes widened.
"You’re a wizard," he whispered.
The man gave a slight smile.
"The last one left. And if you keep that horn…" He tilted his head. "You’ll be next."
You must be logged in to post a comment.