The God's killer

Ashes of the Forgotten

Chapter 1: Ashes of the Forgotten

The village of Darn Hollow clung to the edge of the Blackwilds like moss to stone—forgotten by kings, untouched by war, and avoided even by travelers who had the sense to fear the trees. Fog lingered year-round in the gnarled woods beyond, and the old stories said something ancient slept beneath the roots. The villagers never dared to find out what.

It was here, on a night of crimson sky and crackling thunder, that the child was born.

His mother arrived out of nowhere—a pale woman cloaked in rags, barefoot, belly swollen, eyes dazed as if she had walked through a dream. She collapsed at the temple steps, whispering a name no one understood before she slipped into unconsciousness. By dawn, she was dead, and the child she left behind was unlike any the village had seen.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t blink. He simply stared at the world with eyes so black they seemed to consume light. Some said it was just shadow. Others muttered of old curses.

They named him Kael, though the name was given more from necessity than affection.

The temple raised him out of obligation. High Priest Enric, a cautious, scholarly man, ensured Kael was fed, clothed, and educated in the faith of the Nine. But he never touched the boy unless he had to. None of them did. They couldn’t explain it, but being near Kael was like standing too close to the mouth of a cave where something ancient breathed.

Years passed. Kael grew strong—taller than most by twelve, his body lean but hard as if carved from stone. He never showed pain, nor joy. When other boys bruised their knuckles in fights, Kael stood still, watching. When they played at swords, he walked away, uninterested.

But the dreams came. Night after night.

Fire.

Screams.

A throne carved from bone and gold.

A name that echoed in the darkness.

Arkan.

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On his fifteenth name-day, Kael stood atop the cliffs behind the temple, staring into the woods. Wind pulled at his long, white hair—unusual even among the pale-haired northern folk. Below him, the trees writhed in mist. He felt them watching.

“I saw it again,” he said quietly.

Behind him, the priest Enric stepped carefully over the rocks. “Another nightmare?”

Kael didn’t answer at first. His voice was deep for his age, steady and calm, but distant—like he was only half present.

“It wasn’t a nightmare. It was… familiar. A battle. I was there.” He looked down at his hands. “And I was not afraid.”

Enric swallowed, uneasy. He’d heard stories from old seers of children touched by gods or demons, marked by fate. But Kael… Kael unsettled him.

“I think perhaps you need rest. No more books of war, no more myths.”

Kael turned to him, and for a brief moment, Enric faltered. Those eyes—they weren’t human. They were wells of something endless.

Kael spoke again. “There were voices in the fire last night. They knew me. They feared me.”

A sudden gust of wind tore through the air, scattering birds into the sky. Somewhere in the woods, something howled—a low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to any known beast.

Enric muttered a prayer under his breath.

Kael didn’t hear him. He was staring at the horizon. Something was pulling at him from beyond the trees—calling softly, like an echo through time.

He didn’t know what waited out there. But part of him—a deep, ancient part—remembered.

Not yet. But soon.

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