The Blade Of Asher Storms

Chapter 5: Tempest’s Call

“You’re a dead man, Stormbearer,” the voice hissed, low and venomous, from the shadowed cleft of a cliffside cave overlooking Skalvir’s churning sea. “The Veilborn know your every step.”

Kael Dorian froze, his boots crunching on the gravel-strewn ledge, the Stormreaver Blade pulsing with a sickly green glow beneath its leather sheath. The speaker was hidden in the cave’s darkness, their words sharp against the storm’s roar and the waves crashing below. His hand hovered over the hilt, instincts honed by years of blood and betrayal screaming that this was no idle threat. The crescent-moon-and-thorn dagger, taken from the Veilborn assassins in Skalvir’s alleys, burned in his belt, its symbol a constant reminder of the hunters on his trail. He’d come to this secluded cliff to plan his route to the Ashen Peaks, seeking solitude after the ambush, but Skalvir offered no refuge. This voice knew his name, his purpose, and it wasn’t alone.

“Show yourself,” Kael called, his voice rough with sleepless nights, cutting through the rain’s hiss. His dark eyes scanned the cave’s mouth, rain stinging his face, the wind tearing at his cloak. The air crackled faintly, a spark of lightning dancing across his knuckles, unbidden, as the Stormreaver stirred. They’re close. Draw me. He forced the voice down, his jaw tight.

A figure stepped into the storm’s dim glow, a man in a tattered cloak, his face gaunt, eyes burning with a zealot’s fire. No moon-and-thorn clasp, but his stance—tense, ready—marked him as dangerous. “I’m not Veilborn,” he said, his voice steady despite the gale. “Name’s Gavren. I was one of them, once. Left when I saw what they truly want.”

Kael’s grip tightened on the hilt, the blade’s whispers growing louder, hungry. He lies. Strike him. He ignored it, studying the man. “And what’s that?” he asked, his tone low, dangerous. “What do the Veilborn want?”

Gavren’s eyes flicked to the Stormreaver’s glow, then back to Kael. “The end of the world as we know it. They think your blade and the princess’s blood will open the Celestial Gates, summon the old gods, and burn Valtheris to ash. A new kingdom, forged in divine fire, with them as its priests.”

Kael’s blood ran cold. The Veilborn’s motives had been shadows—fanatics hunting him and Serenya Nightfall for the Gates—but this was a clearer, darker vision. An apocalypse, a world remade through blood and chaos. The blood-sealed Royal Decree, tucked inside his cloak, burned against his chest, its command to wed Serenya a chain he didn’t want. The Stormreaver, forged from a slain god’s bones, was a curse, its hunger for blood a constant pull on his soul. He’d fought off three Veilborn in Skalvir’s alleys hours ago, their parchment warning—Stop the Stormbearer before he reaches the Peaks—proof of their reach. Now, Gavren’s words painted a picture of zealots driven not just by power, but by a divine madness.

“Why tell me this?” Kael asked, his voice steady despite the storm’s roar. Lightning illuminated the cliffs, the sea churning below. “What’s your stake?”

Gavren stepped closer, rain dripping from his hood. “Redemption. I spilled blood for their cause, believed their lies. They think the Gates will bring paradise, but I saw their rituals—sacrifices, blood runes, chants to wake the dead gods. They’ll kill you, the princess, anyone to make it happen.”

Kael’s jaw clenched. The blade’s whispers surged, its memories flickering—a god cloaked in storms, falling to a blade burning green, blood pooling on ancient stone. The curse’s price, clawing at his soul with every kill. “You’re saying they want to destroy Valtheris?”

“Not destroy,” Gavren said, his voice low, urgent. “Remake. They think the gods will reward their faithful, raise them above the ashes. Your blade’s a key, Stormbearer. Forged from a god, it’s part of their prophecy. And the princess? Her blood’s the lock.”

Kael’s mind raced. The decree bound him to Serenya, a princess he’d never met, her bloodline tied to gates he didn’t understand. King Valthar’s dying words echoed: Find her. Marry her. The Gates… only her bloodline. The Veilborn’s vision—a world burned and reborn—made the oath heavier, the blade’s curse tighter. “Where are they?” he demanded. “Their stronghold. Their numbers.”

Gavren shook his head. “Everywhere. Skalvir, the deserts, the Peaks. They’ve got spies in every tavern, every market. I left them in Varnholt, but their reach is long. You ride to the Peaks, you’re walking into their net.”

Kael studied him, the rain masking his features. Ally or trap? The Stormreaver didn’t care, its whispers urging him to strike. He forced them down. “Why should I trust you?”

Gavren’s lips twisted, a bitter smile. “You shouldn’t. But I’m your only chance. I know a path through the Glass Deserts, one they don’t watch. Follow me, or die.”

Kael’s grip tightened, the blade’s glow flaring. The Ashen Peaks were days away, through deserts of glass and mountains crawling with fire drakes. Serenya was there, hidden, her blood the key to a prophecy he didn’t trust. The Veilborn’s apocalyptic dream made his mission clearer, but no less dangerous.

“Lead on,” he said, his voice flat.

“But if this is a trick, you’ll meet the blade first.”

Gavren nodded, turning toward the cliff’s edge. “Keep up, Stormbearer. The storm’s no friend to either of us.”

They descended the cliff path, Kael’s black mare tethered below, her eyes wild but steady. He’d gotten supplies—a map, dried meat, a waterskin—from a wary merchant in Skalvir, but Gavren’s warning shifted his plans. The Veilborn weren’t just assassins; they were a cult, their rituals of blood and fire aimed at waking gods long dead. The parchment from the alley, the ambushes, their knowledge of Serenya—it all pointed to a network rooted deep in Valtheris’s fractured heart.

The storm raged as they reached the mare, rain lashing Kael’s face, lightning illuminating the scrubland beyond Skalvir’s cliffs. He mounted, checking the saddlebags, the decree a weight against his chest. Gavren led on foot, his cloak blending with the rain, guiding them to a narrow trail that snaked into the barren flats. The Glass Deserts loomed, their shards glinting like broken stars under the storm. Kael’s map showed a path through, but Gavren claimed a safer route, one the Veilborn hadn’t marked.

The mare’s hooves churned mud, the wind howling like a living thing. Kael’s mind churned too—the Veilborn’s vision, Serenya’s blood, the Gates’ power. The blade’s whispers were relentless, sated by the alley fight but hungry for more. They’re coming. Be ready. He scanned the horizon, lightning revealing distant shapes—rocks, or something worse. The decree bound him to a princess he didn’t know, a marriage he didn’t want, a destiny he couldn’t escape. Gavren’s words painted the Veilborn as more than fanatics—they were zealots willing to burn the world for their gods.

A shadow flickered in the distance, a rider keeping pace in the lightning’s glow. Kael slowed the mare, his hand on the hilt, the air crackling with static. “Gavren,” he called, his voice low. “We’re not alone.”

Gavren turned, his eyes sharp. “Veilborn. They’ve been trailing you since the docks.”

Kael’s pulse quickened, the blade’s whispers a deafening chorus. Kill them. Unleash me. He forced the voice down, drawing the Stormreaver, its green veins flaring. The rider approached, joined by two others, their cloaks black, moon-and-thorn clasps glinting. “Stay back,” Kael said, his tone dangerous, the mare pawing the ground.

The lead rider, a woman with a scarred face, raised a hand, her voice cutting through the storm. “Stormbearer,” she said, her eyes gleaming with zeal. “You carry the god’s blade. Give it to us, and the princess lives.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d trust a Veilborn?”

She laughed, a cold, brittle sound. “We don’t want her dead. Her blood’s too precious. The Gates need it to open, to wake the gods. You, though? You’re just a tool. Hand over the blade, or we’ll take it from your corpse.”

Gavren stepped forward, his hand on a dagger. “They’re lying,” he muttered to Kael. “They’ll kill her too, once they have what they need. Their rituals don’t spare the innocent.”

Kael’s grip tightened, the blade’s glow blinding. The Veilborn’s vision—a world burned and reborn—made his blood run cold. The storm roared, lightning illuminating the riders, and Kael urged the mare forward.

“You want it?” he said. “Come take it.”

The fight was chaos. The riders charged, their blades flashing in the lightning’s glow. Kael parried the woman’s strike, metal screaming, and slashed, the Stormreaver cutting through her cloak and into flesh. Blood sprayed, mixing with the rain, and a bolt of lightning arced from the blade, charring the ground as she fell. The second rider lunged, his sword aiming for Kael’s side, but the mare reared, hooves lashing, and Kael swung, the blade taking the man’s arm. He screamed, collapsing, and the third rider fled, vanishing into the storm.

Kael’s breath came hard, the blade’s whispers a roar. More. Feed me. His vision flickered with the god’s memories,storms raging, a god falling, blood pooling on ancient stone. He sheathed the blade, his hands trembling, not from the fight but from the curse’s grip. Gavren knelt by the fallen, searching their cloaks, and pulled out a parchment, its moon-and-thorn symbol stark against the blood.

“Same as before,” he said, handing it to Kael. Stop the Stormbearer before he reaches the Peaks.

Kael tucked it beside the decree, his mind racing. The Veilborn’s rituals,blood runes, sacrifices, chants to wake dead gods were no mere fanaticism. They believed the Gates would bring a divine reckoning, with Serenya’s blood and his blade as the keys. The Glass Deserts stretched ahead, their shards a maze of danger, and the Peaks loomed beyond, a crucible of fire and stone. Serenya was there, hidden, her bloodline the heart of a prophecy he didn’t trust.

Garen led the way, his steps sure despite the storm. “They’ll keep coming,” he said, his voice low. “Their priests are in the Peaks, preparing a ritual. If they get you or the princess, it’s over.”

Kael nodded, the rain lashing his face. “Then we move fast.”

They rode through the night, the storm unrelenting, the deserts’ glass shards glinting under lightning. Kael’s cloak snapped in the wind, the decree a weight against his chest. The Veilborn’s vision haunted him—a world of ash and bone, gods waking to judge the unworthy. He thought of Serenya, a princess he’d never met, her name whispered in tales of exile and power. Was she a savior, a pawn, or something else? The blade’s memories flickered, its whispers urging him to fight, to kill, to unleash the storm within.

The trail narrowed, the scrubland giving way to the deserts’ edge, where glass crunched under the mare’s hooves. Gavren pointed to a hidden path, barely visible in the storm.

“This way,” he said. “It’ll keep us off their routes. But it’s not safe.”

Kael didn’t answer, urging the mare forward. The Veilborn were everywhere, their spies in every shadow, their rituals a threat he couldn’t ignore. The Peaks were close, Serenya waiting, and the storm was only beginning.