The Blade Of Asher Storms

Chapter 6: Whispers of the Gods

Kael Dorian halted, his black mare snorting as shards of glass crunched beneath her hooves, the Stormreaver Blade pulsing with a sickly green glow under its leather sheath.

“You carry death, Stormbearer,” the voice rasped, thin and brittle, from the crumbling shrine’s shadowed altar, its words slicing through the storm’s howl on the Glass Deserts’ edge.

“The Veilborn will never let you keep it.”

The speaker was barely visible, a hunched figure draped in tattered robes, standing before a cracked stone altar etched with faded runes. The shrine, half-swallowed by sand and time, stood alone in the desolate expanse, its walls scarred by wind and lightning. Kael’s cloak snapped in the gale, rain stinging his face, his hand hovering over the hilt.

The crescent-moon-and-thorn dagger, taken from the Veilborn assassins in Skalvir, burned in his belt, a reminder of the hunters trailing him. He’d left Skalvir with Gavren’s warning ringing in his ears—the Veilborn’s apocalyptic vision of a world remade through blood and fire—and this shrine was no sanctuary.

“Who are you?” Kael called, his voice rough with exhaustion, barely rising above the storm’s roar. His dark eyes scanned the shrine, the air crackling with static as the Stormreaver stirred. They’re here. Draw me. He forced the voice down, his jaw tight, the blade’s whispers a constant pull on his soul.

The figure shuffled forward, their robes dragging in the sand, revealing a woman, old and withered, her eyes milky but sharp with knowing.

“I’m no one,” she said, her voice like dry leaves.

“Once a priestess of the old gods. Now just a ghost, watching the Veilborn weave their madness. They know you’re coming, Stormbearer. They know what you carry.”

Kael’s grip tightened on the hilt, the blade’s glow flaring. The Stormreaver, forged from a slain god’s bones, was a curse, its hunger for blood clawing at his mind. The blood-sealed Royal Decree, tucked inside his cloak, bound him to Serenya Nightfall, an exiled princess in the Ashen Peaks, her bloodline the key to the Celestial Gates. Gavren, the ex-Veilborn who’d guided him from Skalvir, had revealed their motive—a divine reckoning, a world burned and reborn through Serenya’s blood and his blade. Now, this priestess’s words hinted at deeper truths.

“What do they want with the Gates?” Kael asked, his tone low, dangerous.

The priestess’s lips cracked into a smile, revealing missing teeth.

“Power. Salvation. They believe the Gates will wake the gods, purge Valtheris of its sins, and crown them as divine stewards. They carve blood runes, spill lives in their rituals, all to summon a storm that’ll remake the world. Your blade’s their relic, forged from a god’s death. The princess’s blood is their key.”

Kael’s blood ran cold. The Veilborn weren’t just fanatics—they were architects of an apocalypse, their rituals a twisted prayer to dead gods. He’d fought them in Skalvir, their parchments warning Stop the Stormbearer before he reaches the Peaks, their ambushes relentless.

“Why tell me this?” he asked, stepping closer, the mare pawing the glass-strewn ground. “What’s your stake?”

The priestess tilted her head, her milky eyes glinting.

“I served the gods once. Saw their wrath. The Veilborn twist their will, but they’re not wrong about the Gates. They’re real, tied to the girl’s blood. I tell you because you’re marked, Stormbearer. The gods’ bones chose you, and you can’t outrun their call.”

Kael’s jaw clenched, the blade’s whispers surging. She speaks truth. Draw me. He forced them down, memories flickering—a god falling, storms raging, blood pooling on stone. The curse’s price, clawing at his soul with every kill.

“I’m no one’s chosen,” he said. “Just a mercenary with an oath.”

The priestess laughed, a dry, rattling sound.

“Oaths don’t bind the gods. The Veilborn know you’re headed to the Peaks. Their priests are there, chanting over altars of bone, spilling blood to wake the Gates. They’ll kill you, her, anyone to finish it.”

Kael’s mind raced. The decree’s weight grew heavier, King Valthar’s dying command to wed Serenya a chain he couldn’t break. The Veilborn’s rituals—blood runes, sacrifices, a world of ash and fire—made the oath a crucible.

“Where are they?” he demanded. “Their stronghold.”

The priestess pointed a gnarled finger toward the horizon, where the Glass Deserts shimmered under lightning. “Deep in the Peaks, near the volcanic craters. Their altars are hidden, guarded by drakes and worse. You’ll find them, or they’ll find you.”

Kael studied her, rain masking her withered features. Ally or trap? The Stormreaver urged him to strike, but he held back, the decree anchoring him. “If you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”

She cackled, stepping back into the shrine’s shadows. “The gods don’t lie, Stormbearer. But they don’t save, either. Ride fast, or the Peaks will be your grave.”

Kael turned, mounting the mare, her eyes wild but steady. The storm roared, lightning illuminating the deserts’ glassy expanse, the Ashen Peaks a jagged scar beyond. Gavren waited at the trail’s edge, his cloak soaked, his dagger ready. “What was that?” he asked, his voice low, wary.

“Trouble,” Kael said, urging the mare forward. “The Veilborn are deeper than we thought. Rituals, altars, blood. They’re not just hunting us—they’re preparing.”

Gavren nodded, his face grim. “I saw their rites in Varnholt. Knives on altars, blood in bowls, chants that chilled the air. They think the gods will raise them above the ashes.”

Kael’s grip tightened on the reins, the blade’s whispers a constant drone. They come. Be ready. The deserts stretched ahead, their shards crunching under the mare’s hooves, the storm unrelenting. He’d left Skalvir with supplies—a map, dried meat, a waterskin—but the Veilborn’s reach was a shadow over every step. Serenya was in the Peaks, hidden, her bloodline the key to a prophecy he didn’t trust. The decree bound him to her, a marriage he didn’t want, a destiny he couldn’t escape.

The trail wound through the deserts, glass glinting like broken stars under lightning. Kael’s cloak snapped in the wind, the priestess’s words echoing—blood runes, altars of bone, a world remade. The Veilborn’s vision was clearer now, their fanaticism rooted in a belief that the Gates would bring divine judgment, with them as its heralds. He thought of Serenya, a princess whispered of in tales of exile and power. Was she a savior, a pawn, or something else? The blade’s memories flickered—a god’s scream, a sky split by storms—its curse tightening with every kill.

A shadow moved 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 said, his voice low. “We’ve got company.”

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

Kael drew the Stormreaver, its green veins flaring, the storm roaring louder as if answering its call. Three riders approached, their cloaks black, moon-and-thorn clasps glinting. The leader, a woman with a scar across her cheek, raised a hand, her voice cutting through the rain. “Stormbearer,” she said, her eyes gleaming with zeal. “The blade belongs to the gods. Give it up, and the princess might live.”

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

She laughed, cold and sharp. “We don’t want her dead. Her blood’s too precious. The Gates need it to open, to wake the gods’ wrath. You’re just a tool, Stormbearer. Hand over the blade, or we’ll carve it from you.”

Gavren stepped forward, his dagger ready. “They’re lying,” he muttered to Kael. “They’ll spill her blood too, once the Gates are open. Their rituals don’t spare the living.”

Kael’s grip tightened, the blade’s glow blinding. The Veilborn’s vision—a world burned, gods waking—made his blood run cold. “You want it?” he said, urging the mare forward. “Come take it.”

The fight erupted. 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 Gavren darted in, his dagger catching the man’s wrist, twisting until he screamed. Kael swung, the Stormreaver taking the man’s arm, and he collapsed, blood pooling in the glass.

The third rider hesitated, fear in his eyes, but the woman’s voice—still alive, clutching her wound—barked, “Finish him!” He charged, his dagger darting for Kael’s throat. The mare reared, hooves lashing, and Kael slashed, the blade’s glow blinding as it cut the man down. The woman crawled away, vanishing into the storm, her laughter a fading echo.

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 on stone. He sheathed the blade, his hands trembling, not from the fight but from the curse’s grip. Gavren searched the fallen, pulling a parchment with the moon-and-thorn symbol, its message unchanged: Stop the Stormbearer before he reaches the Peaks.

“They’re relentless,” Gavren said, tucking the parchment away. “Their priests are in the Peaks, preparing. If they get you or the princess, their rituals will finish.”

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

They rode through the deserts, the storm unrelenting, glass crunching under hooves. The Peaks loomed, a jagged scar on the horizon, where Serenya hid, her bloodline the key to a prophecy Kael didn’t trust. The Veilborn’s rituals—blood, fire, chants to dead gods—were a shadow over every step. He thought of the priestess’s words: The gods don’t save. The blade’s curse was proof of that, its hunger a noose tightening with every kill.

The trail twisted, the deserts giving way to rocky foothills, the Peaks closer now. Lightning illuminated a shape ahead—a stone circle, its slabs etched with runes, glowing faintly in the storm. Kael slowed the mare, his hand on the hilt. “Gavren,” he said, his voice low. “What’s that?”

Gavren’s face paled. “A Veilborn altar. They’ve been here.”

Kael dismounted, approaching the circle, the blade’s whispers surging. Blood was spilled here. The runes pulsed, their glow matching the Stormreaver’s, and Kael felt a chill unrelated to the rain. Bloodstains marked the stones, fresh enough to gleam. The Veilborn were close, their rituals active, their vision of a remade world driving them to kill.

“We can’t stay,” Gavren said, his voice tight. “They’ll sense the blade.”

Kael nodded, mounting the mare. The Peaks were near, Serenya waiting, the storm raging. The Veilborn’s apocalyptic dream was a fire spreading through Valtheris, and Kael was its heart. He rode on, the blade’s curse a constant pull, the oath to a dying king his only guide.