The Shard-Bearer

Chapter 7- Chains of Fire

The stairs seemed endless. Each step groaned beneath our boots, the catacombs shuddering still with the echo of what I’d unleashed. Dust rained from the stone ceiling, and somewhere far below, the vault roared like a dying beast.

My legs shook, my breath ragged. The shard’s brand burned in my palm, a coal that wouldn’t cool. I flexed my fingers and watched faint crimson veins flare, dim, flare again. My body wasn’t mine anymore, it pulsed to a rhythm older than me, deeper than me.

Corin climbed ahead, every muscle tight, sword never sheathed. He glanced back often, but never for long. His eyes didn’t hold worry anymore. Only suspicion.

Behind me, Fennric scribbled by the dim glow of a fresh lamp, his hand shaking, his grin stretched wide. His muttering filled the stairwell. “Chosen, marked, vessel of fire… oh, the text was right, it was right…”

The whispers filled the cracks of my skull, louder now that the fight was over. A chorus hissing in unity.

He doubts you. He watches for weakness. He will betray you.

My eyes fell on Corin’s back, the sword across his shoulders, the scar that cut across his neck from some old fight. For a heartbeat, the image was clear in my mind: sinking my knife between his ribs, feeling the shard’s fire drink him dry.

I stumbled, clutching the railing, sweat slick on my brow. “Stop it,” I muttered under my breath.

Corin twisted at the sound. His voice was sharp, low. “What did you say?”

I swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. The shard wasn’t done.

The hunter would kill you to save himself. The scholar would use you till you’re hollow. Only we are true. Only we remain.

I shut my eyes against it, but the whispers didn’t fade.

The catacombs spat us out into night.

Cool air hit my face, sharp with smoke and damp stone. I sucked it down like a drowning man. Behind us, the cracked stairway groaned, stone dust drifting upward with every aftershock from below.

Drakemire’s streets were never clean, but now they looked wounded. Cobblestones split in jagged lines. Cracks ran up soot-darkened walls, and whole facades leaned like drunks ready to collapse. Lamps swung in their iron cages, fires guttering against the wind that carried whispers of panic.

People lingered in doorways, wrapped in rags, their eyes hollow. They watched us emerge from the underbelly like carrion crawlers. Mothers clutched children back inside. A dog barked once, then fled.

Above it all, a faint red glow still pulsed beneath the streets, bleeding through the cracks like the veins of some buried beast.

Corin swore under his breath. “The whole damn quarter saw that quake. Patrols’ll be crawling here before dawn.” His hand flexed on his sword. His gaze darted to me, then away, like he couldn’t decide whether to stand guard with me or against me.

Fennric was nearly dancing at my side, his journal already open, scribbles spilling across the page as his lips moved too fast to catch. “It resonates still… the shard doesn’t rest… magnificent…”

But I wasn’t listening to him.

Because the shard had found something else.

Bootsteps. The clink of armor. Shouts down the alley. A lantern’s glow swaying closer.

A patrol, six soldiers, Imperial colors catching the firelight. Their faces set hard, jaws tight as they scanned the broken street.

And the shard thrummed.

The brand in my palm lit faintly through the bandages I’d wrapped it in, a heartbeat that wasn’t mine. The whispers hissed and curled, eager, hungry.

Blood. Feed. They are yours to claim. Strike. Burn.

My throat went dry. My knife hand twitched at my side, a tremor I couldn’t still.

The soldiers hadn’t even seen us yet.

But the shard had.

The soldiers’ voices carried down the alley, low but firm. Boots struck in rhythm, lanterns bobbing closer.

Corin grabbed my arm, hard, his eyes burning into mine. “We run. Now. No fights, no noise. You hear me?”

Fennric barked a laugh, the sound jagged in the night. “Run? Hide like rats while the chosen vessel trembles with power? No, no, no. He doesn’t run, he stands. He burns.” His finger jabbed toward my branded hand. “The shard wants blood. Feed it.”

“Listen to yourself,” Corin snarled, shoving him back a step. “He’s not a weapon. He’s a man and it’s eating him alive!”

Fennric’s grin only widened, feverish. “No, it’s remaking him. Don’t you see? Every step, every mark, it’s prophecy fulfilled! Malrik isn’t dying, he’s ascending.”

Their words clashed like steel in my ears, but the shard roared louder.

He defies you. He fears you. End him.

The image came unbidden again, Corin’s throat bared, the knife sinking deep, the shard singing as it drank him hollow. My palm burned, light leaking faint through the bandage, begging for release.

Corin caught the glow. His jaw tightened. His grip on my arm turned from brotherly to wary, cautious, like I was a wild beast about to snap.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he said, low, almost a plea. “It’s whispering to you. Making you its puppet. Malrik, fight it. Fight him.” He jerked his head toward Fennric.

Fennric sneered. “Fight me? No, Corin. You’re the one choking him with fear. Let him breathe, let him burn.”

The patrol’s lantern light spilled at the end of the street now, shadows long and crawling.

And in that fragile heartbeat, with soldiers closing, my friends ready to tear each other apart, and the shard’s chorus urging me to kill them both…

…I didn’t know which voice was mine anymore.

“Hold!” The shout cut through the night.

The soldiers had spotted us. Lantern light flared, steel hissed from scabbards, boots thundered down the broken street.

Corin cursed, sword snapping up. “Run, damn it!”

But I didn’t run.

The shard pulsed hot in my palm, burning through the bandages. My veins lit crimson beneath my skin. The voices rose in a deafening chorus.

Take them. Drink them. Feed.

One soldier lunged first, blade flashing. My hand shot out before I thought, before I even breathed.

Crimson fire wrapped him whole.

He screamed once, the sound torn from his throat as his body seized. His armor blackened, flesh shriveling as though something inside him was being ripped out and drained. His eyes went red, then hollow.

In seconds, he collapsed into a heap of ash and steel.

The shard sang. My heart raced to match it. The taste of his life, his blood, his fear, it filled me, sweet and scorching. My lungs heaved, but not from strain. From exhilaration.

The other soldiers froze, horror twisting their faces. One crossed himself. Another stumbled back.

Corin stared at me, sword half-raised, his voice a ragged whisper. “Gods above… Malrik…”

Fennric, by contrast, was radiant, his eyes gleaming with fanatic fire. “Yes! Yes! The shard feeds through you! Living vessels! Oh, the texts never told the half of it.”

But I barely heard them. My hand still glowed, smoke curling from the brand. And in that glow, I felt the shard’s hunger deepen.

More. More. They are meat, nothing more. Feed.

My gaze snapped to the next soldier. His terror hit me like the scent of fresh blood.

And I didn’t know if I wanted to resist.

The soldiers broke, some stumbling back, others raising shields as though steel could stop what poured from me.

I staggered forward, hand still burning. Another whip of crimson lashed out, tearing across their ranks, slamming them into walls. Stone cracked. One man didn’t rise.

The shard screamed with delight inside me. I felt its pulse, hot, savage, a rhythm that wasn’t mine but carried my blood with it. Each heartbeat begged for more.

The air itself shuddered. A column of red light burst upward from my palm, ripping through the night sky.

The whole street went silent.

People watching from doorways dropped to their knees. Windows slammed shut. Somewhere, a child wailed.

Corin’s voice was hoarse, cracking. “You lit the godsdamn sky, Malrik… you’ve just called them all to us.”

Fennric’s laughter echoed off the stone. “Good. Let them come! Let them see the vessel of the shard!”

I clenched my hand shut, forcing the light to gutter out. My chest heaved, sweat soaking my shirt, my veins still glowing faint under the skin. The brand in my palm throbbed, alive, insatiable.

And far away, across leagues of shadowed land, the light had been seen.

In a citadel of glass that pierced the clouds, Emperor Ithros lifted his head from his throne of mirrors. His eyes caught the crimson flare in the distance, reflections dancing across the chamber like fire.

He rose slowly, a smile curling at his lips.

“The shard wakes,” he murmured, voice like glass cracking. “And it has chosen its bearer.”

Behind him, hunters stirred.

The hunt had begun.