The Blade Of Asher Storms

Chapter 3: Shadows of the Past

“Careful, mercenary,” a voice snarled from the alley’s gloom, low and venomous, slicing through the howl of the wind battering Skalvir’s salt-crusted streets. “That blade on your back makes you a target.”

Kael Dorian stopped cold, his boots grinding into the wet cobblestones, the Stormreaver Blade pulsing with a sickly green glow beneath its leather sheath. His hand hovered over the hilt, fingers twitching with the instinct of a man who’d survived too many ambushes. The speaker was hidden in the shadows of a leaning tavern, but the words carried a weight that wasn’t idle. Not like the sailor’s taunt on the pier. This was a threat, deliberate and sharp, from someone who knew exactly who he was. The Veilborn’s dagger, tucked in his belt from that earlier encounter, felt heavier now, its crescent-moon-and-thorn symbol a silent accusation. Whoever this was, they weren’t here to talk.

“Step into the light,” Kael said, his voice rough as gravel, steady despite the storm’s roar. “Or I’ll come find you.”

A low chuckle answered, cold and deliberate, like a blade scraped across stone. “Bold for a man with a noose around his neck.” A figure emerged from the alley’s mouth, a woman in a black cloak, her face half-hidden by a hood. Her eyes burned with a zealot’s fire, and a silver clasp at her throat glinted with the moon-and-thorn mark. Two shadows moved behind her, their blades catching the flicker of a swinging lantern. Veilborn. Kael’s pulse quickened, not from fear but from the old thrill of a fight he couldn’t dodge. The Stormreaver hummed, its whispers clawing at his mind. Draw me. Spill their blood. He forced the voice down, his jaw tight.

“You know my name,” Kael said, shifting his stance, his cloak snapping in the wind. “Care to share yours?”

The woman tilted her head, a smile curling her lips. “Names are for the living, Stormbearer. You’re already dead to the Veilborn. That blade doesn’t belong to you. Hand it over, and you might see another dawn.”

Kael’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. The blade’s whispers grew louder, a seductive hiss. Kill them. Let the storm rise. He’d carried the Stormreaver for years, its steel forged from a slain god’s bones, its curse a living thing that fed on blood and chaos. Every swing cost him a piece of himself, and the weight pressed heavier now, in Valtheris, where its legend was born. “You want it?” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Come take it.”

The alley exploded into motion. The two assassins lunged, their blades flashing like lightning in the gloom. Kael drew the Stormreaver, its green veins flaring as it cleared the sheath, the air shuddering with static. He parried the first strike, metal screaming, and sidestepped the second, the wind roaring louder, as if answering the blade’s call. The Stormreaver moved like an extension of his arm, slicing through the first assassin’s cloak and into flesh. The man gasped, collapsing in a spray of blood, and a bolt of lightning arced from the blade, charring the cobblestones. The second assassin faltered, fear flickering in his eyes, but the woman barked a command, and he attacked again.

Kael spun, the Stormreaver a blur, cutting the man down in a single stroke. Blood pooled on the stones, the blade’s whispers a deafening chorus. More. Feed me. His vision flickered with images not his own: a god cloaked in storms, falling to a blade burning green, its bones forged into the weapon he held. The memories came unbidden, a curse’s price, carving deeper into his soul with every kill.

The woman stood unmoving, her eyes locked on him, unflinching despite the carnage. “You can’t control it,” she said, her voice steady, almost pitying. “It’s eating you, Stormbearer. Every swing pulls you closer to ruin.”

Kael’s breath came hard, his hands trembling, not from the fight but from the blade’s hunger. “Walk away,” he said, pointing the Stormreaver at her. “Last chance.”

She laughed, a brittle sound that cut through the wind. “You think this ends with me? The Veilborn are legion. You’ll never reach the princess. Not with that curse in your hands.”

The words hit like a blade to the chest. She knew about Serenya Nightfall. The blood-sealed Royal Decree, tucked inside his cloak, burned against his skin. He’d gotten her location from the border guard hours ago: the Ashen Peaks, where the exiled princess hid with loyalists, in a land of fire drakes and worse. The decree bound him to her, a marriage ordered by a dead king to unlock the Celestial Gates—portals he didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. The Veilborn, fanatics obsessed with those gates, were already steps ahead.

Before Kael could speak, she flung a vial at his feet, glass shattering in a burst of black smoke. It stung his eyes, burned his throat, and he swung the Stormreaver blindly, its glow slicing through the haze. When the smoke cleared, she was gone, her laughter echoing in the gale.

Kael sheathed the blade, his chest tight, the whispers softer but never silent. He knelt by the fallen assassins, searching their cloaks. A crumpled parchment bore the moon-and-thorn symbol, with a single line: Stop the Stormbearer before he reaches the Peaks. His blood ran cold. The Veilborn weren’t just hunting him; they were organized, their network sprawling deeper than he’d feared.

He stood, tucking the parchment beside the decree. The Ashen Peaks were days away, through deserts of glass and mountains crawling with danger. Serenya was there, a princess he didn’t know but was sworn to protect. The Stormreaver hummed, sated for now but hungry for more. Kael glanced at the sky, where clouds churned like a living thing, lightning flashing on the horizon. The storm was closing in, and he was its heart.

The alley led to a wider street, where Skalvir’s taverns glowed with lamplight, their noise muffled by the wind. Kael moved quickly, his cloak snapping, the blade’s weight a constant pull. He needed a horse, supplies, a map to the Peaks. But first, he needed to know who else was watching. The Veilborn’s parchment suggested spies in every shadow, and Skalvir was no safe haven.

A tavern door swung open ahead, spilling light and laughter. A figure stumbled out, reeking of ale, but their eyes met his with a clarity no drunk could fake. Kael’s hand drifted to the hilt, the blade whispering softly. Another. Take him. He ignored it, turning down a side street, the wind at his back. The figure didn’t follow, but the weight of their gaze lingered.

Kael’s mind churned as he moved. The Veilborn knew too much—his name, his mission, Serenya’s hiding place. The guard’s warning echoed: You’re a beacon to them. He’d fought for coin, for survival, for the ghosts of his past, but this was different. This was a prophecy he didn’t believe in, a princess he didn’t know, and a blade that wanted to own him. The decree was a chain, the Stormreaver a noose, and Valtheris was a crucible that would either forge him or break him.

He stopped at a stable on the town’s edge, where a grizzled ostler leaned against a post, chewing a wad of tobacco. “Need a horse,” Kael said, tossing a coin onto the barrel beside him. The man caught it, eyeing the Stormreaver’s glow with suspicion.

“Trouble follows you,” the ostler muttered, spitting into the dirt. “Heard the talk. Stormbearer, they call you.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “Just get me a horse.”

The man shrugged, leading him to a stall where a black mare pawed the straw, her eyes wild. “She’s fast. Sturdy. Won’t spook at storms.” He glanced at the sky, where lightning cracked. “You’ll need that.”

Kael paid for the mare, a saddle, and a map scrawled on cracked leather. The ostler watched him mount, his expression unreadable. “Peaks are a death trap,” he said. “Drakes. Bandits. Worse. Whatever you’re chasing, hope it’s worth it.”

Kael didn’t answer. He urged the mare forward, the wind tearing at his cloak as he rode out of Skalvir. The storm was closer now, rain spitting from the sky, the sea roaring against the cliffs below. The Stormreaver’s whispers were a constant drone, softer after the fight but never gone. They’ll come again. Be ready. He clenched the reins, forcing the voice down.

The road ahead stretched into darkness, the cliffs giving way to scrubland that would soon become the Glass Deserts. The Ashen Peaks loomed beyond, a jagged scar on the horizon. Serenya was there, hidden, her bloodline tied to the Celestial Gates. Kael didn’t know what the Gates held—power, destruction, or something worse—but he’d sworn an oath to King Valthar, and oaths were all he had left. The Veilborn’s parchment burned in his mind: Stop the Stormbearer. They’d try again, and soon.

As the mare galloped, the storm broke, rain lashing his face, lightning illuminating the path. Kael felt the blade’s hunger stir, its memories flickering: a god’s death, a sky split by storms, blood pooling on ancient stone. The woman’s words haunted him: It’s eating you. He wanted to deny it, but each fight, each swing, brought the curse closer to his core. He wasn’t just fighting the Veilborn. He was fighting himself.

The road curved, and a shadow moved in the distance—a rider, cloaked, keeping pace. Kael’s hand drifted to the Stormreaver, the blade humming eagerly. Friend or foe, he’d find out soon enough. The storm raged, and Kael Dorian rode into it, a man bound by oath, cursed by gods, and hunted by shadows.