The corridors of Vaelthas Hold stretch before Cael like the throat of some ancient beast, each doorway and passage promising secrets that have waited centuries to be disturbed. The air inside is thick with more than just dust and decay, carrying a weight that presses against his chest with every breath. His boots scuff against stone worn smooth by countless feet, the sound echoing strangely in the oppressive silence.
His torch throws dancing shadows on the walls, revealing faded murals beneath centuries of grime. The artwork depicts the Sundering Wars in graphic detail: gods walking among men, reality bending under the weight of divine magic, mortals caught between forces beyond comprehension. In one scene, a figure holds what looks like a crimson thread while bodies writhe around them, connected by lines of light. Cael's bloodline gift pulses uneasily at the sight.
The main hall opens before him like a cavern, columns marching in neat rows toward darkness his torch can't penetrate. He counts his steps as he moves deeper, a habit from years of needing to know exactly how far he is from the nearest exit. Twenty paces from the entrance. Forty. Sixty. The columns continue beyond the reach of his light.
His footsteps echo with a peculiar quality, sometimes returning multiplied as if a dozen men walk with him, sometimes swallowed entirely by the hungry dark. The floor beneath his boots shifts between smooth stone and sections where something has eaten away at the mortar, leaving gaps that could catch an unwary ankle. More than once he steps over dark stains that might be old water damage or might be something else entirely.
An hour into his exploration, Cael finds the first signs that he's not the only living thing to walk these halls recently.
The claw marks are carved deep into the stone walls, four parallel gouges that run from floor to ceiling. He runs his fingers along one groove, feeling the fresh stone dust that still clings to the edges. Whatever made these marks did so within the last few days, and it's large enough that its casual movement leaves scars in solid rock. The scratches follow the corridor like territorial markers, growing more frequent as the passage winds deeper into the hold's heart.
"Well, that's not promising," he mutters, adjusting his grip on his sword. The blade feels reassuring in his hand, though he's beginning to suspect it might not be enough for whatever calls this place home.
The trail of destruction leads him through a series of interconnected chambers, each one showing signs of violence. In what might have been a meeting room, a massive oak table lies in splinters, as if something had used it for a chew toy. Cael kneels beside the wreckage, examining the bite marks. Whatever did this has teeth the length of his fingers and jaws strong enough to snap wood like kindling.
Tapestries hang in shreds from the walls, their elegant designs reduced to ribbons. But it's the pattern of the destruction that makes him pause. This isn't random violence. The creature targeted specific tapestries while leaving others untouched. The destroyed ones all seem to depict the same thing: a ritual involving a crimson thread and multiple figures joined by lines of light.
More than once he has to step carefully around piles of bones that might once have been previous explorers. Or might be something else entirely. Some are old enough that they crumble at the slightest touch. Others still have scraps of cloth clinging to them, and those make his jaw clench. The fabric looks recently woven, the kind merchants in Millbrook sell to travelers heading north.
It's in what must have once been a grand dining hall that he finally sees the beast itself.
The room is vast, with a vaulted ceiling lost in shadows above. Long tables that once hosted feasts now lie overturned and broken. Chairs are reduced to kindling. And in the center of the destruction, coiled like a nightmare given form, lies the creature.
Cael freezes in the doorway, every muscle locked in place. His torch trembles slightly in his grip, making the shadows dance.
The thing is easily the size of a draft horse, but built along lines that speak of predatory purpose. Its body is covered in scales that shift from deep green to mottled brown even as he watches, natural camouflage that would make it nearly invisible in forest conditions. Along its spine runs a ridge of spines that glisten with some substance he doesn't want to identify. The claws that have left grooves in the stone floor are like curved daggers, designed for gripping and tearing.
But it's the head that makes his blood run cold. Too large for the body, with a jaw that could crush a man's torso in a single bite. The teeth visible even with its mouth closed speak of a creature designed to kill and consume anything it encounters.
It's sleeping. Or at least, its eyes are closed, sides rising and falling with steady rhythm. But something in its stillness suggests awareness, like a trap waiting to be sprung. As if it knows he's there and is simply waiting to see what he'll do.
Cael takes a careful step backward, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. His boot makes no sound on the stone. Another step. The creature doesn't stir, but one massive ear twitches, tracking movement it shouldn't be able to hear.
A third step, and his shoulder brushes against the door frame. The slight scrape of leather on stone sounds like thunder in the silence.
The creature's eye opens. Just one, rolling in its socket to fix on him with an intelligence that belongs to no mere beast. The pupil is slitted like a cat's, but the iris is that same deep crimson he'd seen in the forest creature's eyes. Recognition flickers there, as if it knows what he is. What bloodline runs in his veins.
For a heartbeat that lasts forever, predator and prey regard each other across the ruined hall. Then the eye closes again, dismissing him as either no threat or not worth the effort of moving.
Cael doesn't question his good fortune. He eases out of the doorway and chooses a different corridor, one that leads away from the dining hall and its sleeping occupant. His hands shake slightly as he adjusts his grip on both torch and sword. That thing could have killed him without effort, and they both know it. The fact that it didn't makes him wonder what game is being played here.
The passage he chooses is narrower, servant's quarters by the look of it. Less grand but also less likely to hold sleeping horrors. The walls here are plain stone without decoration, and the rooms opening off the corridor are small and functional. In one, he finds the remains of what might have been a kitchen, metal pots still hanging from hooks though whatever organic materials once filled the pantry have long since turned to dust.
He climbs steadily, following stairs that spiral upward through the hold's levels. The scholars' notes suggested that the most important chambers would be in the upper reaches, protected by elevation and defensive architecture. The steps are worn smooth by centuries of use, and more than once he has to catch himself as his boot slips on the polished stone.
It's in what must once have been a scholar's study that he finds the first real evidence of the recent expedition.
The door hangs askew on its hinges, forced open by someone who didn't care about preservation. Inside, chaos reigns. Books and papers litter the floor in drifts that reach his ankles, their pages yellow and brittle with age. Shelves that once held ordered collections now lean at dangerous angles, and more than one has collapsed entirely, spilling its contents across the room.
But among the ancient texts are newer additions. Fresh papers covered in a careful hand, ink still dark against clean parchment. Cael sets his torch in a wall sconce and kneels among the scattered documents, gathering the recent additions.
The first page makes his breath catch:
Day 3 - We've found it. The soul thread chamber is real, just as the old texts suggested. Energy readings are off the scale. Magnus wants to proceed immediately, but I've urged caution. Something about this place feels wrong. The guardian hasn't shown itself, but we all feel its presence. Watching. Waiting.
Cael flips to the next page, noting the way the handwriting grows less steady:
Day 5 - Lost Johnson last night. Something pulled him through the wall. Through solid stone. We found... pieces. Magnus insists we continue. Says we're too close to turn back now. The soul thread's energy signature is growing stronger. It knows we're here.
Another page, this one stained with what might be water but looks suspiciously like tears:
Day 7 - Only three of us left. The guardian isn't just one creature. It's many, or it can be in multiple places at once. Morrison swears he saw it in two different locations simultaneously. We're being herded toward the chamber. It wants us to find the thread. Why?
The final entry is barely legible, written in a shaking hand:
Must warn others. The thread isn't just an artifact. It's a trap. Binds souls together permanently. Old empire used them to create perfect servants, perfect spies. Two minds forced to share everything. Magnus touched it. He and Sarah... the screaming... their minds trying to occupy same space... tearing each other apart... must warn—
The entry ends mid-sentence, ink trailing off as if the writer lost consciousness or was interrupted. Dark stains on the page suggest the latter.
Cael sits back on his heels, mind racing. A soul thread that binds people together permanently. Lord Aldwin had mentioned artifacts related to bloodline magic, but this sounds like something else entirely. Something that turns two people into... what? The notes aren't clear, but the terror in that final entry is unmistakable.
He's so absorbed in the journal that he almost misses the sound from the corridor. Almost.
The low rumble echoes through the doorway, followed by the distinctive scrape of claws on stone. The beast from the dining hall, awake and investigating. The sounds grow closer with deliberate patience, as if the creature knows exactly where he is and sees no need to hurry.
"Of course," Cael mutters, shoving the most relevant pages into his pack. "Couldn't just let me read in peace."
He grabs his torch and moves toward the study's back entrance, but the doorway leads to a narrow balcony overlooking a drop that would break every bone in his body. No escape that way. The sounds in the corridor grow louder, accompanied by breathing that sounds like a bellows working overtime.
Cael turns back to the main entrance just as a massive head pushes through the doorway. Up close, the creature is even more terrifying. Its scales ripple with each movement, and this close he can see they're not uniform but arranged in patterns that seem almost deliberate. Like armor designed by a mad god.
Those crimson eyes fix on him with unmistakable intelligence. This isn't a beast operating on instinct. It's a hunter that's been watching him since he entered its domain, letting him go deeper before closing the trap.
"Nice monster," Cael says, backing toward the balcony. "Good monster. How about we discuss this like civilized beings?"
The creature's response is to push further into the room, massive shoulders squeezing through a doorway never meant for something its size. Stone cracks and crumbles as it forces its way in. Its mouth opens slightly, revealing rows of teeth that gleam like wet daggers in the torchlight.
Cael glances at the drop behind him, then at the advancing creature. Neither option appeals, but at least a fall might be survivable. Maybe.
The beast lunges.
Cael throws himself sideways, feeling claws whistle past his face close enough to part his hair. He rolls, comes up running, and vaults over a fallen bookshelf. The creature's bulk works against it in the confined space, forcing it to maneuver carefully while he can dodge and weave.
But it's learning his patterns, adjusting its attacks with each exchange. When he dodges left, it's already moving to cut him off. When he tries to circle right, those claws are waiting. It's not trying to kill him immediately, he realizes. It's herding him, just like it herded the scholars.
Toward the soul thread chamber.
The thought crystallizes as the beast makes another calculated attack, driving him toward the study's main entrance. Every move pushes him in the same direction, deeper into the hold rather than back toward escape. Whatever this thing is, it serves a purpose beyond simple predation.
Fine. If it wants him to find the soul thread, he'll oblige. But on his terms, not as helpless prey.
Cael shifts tactics, moving with the creature's herding rather than against it. The beast seems momentarily confused by his cooperation, crimson eyes narrowing as if reassessing his intelligence. He uses that moment to put distance between them, sprinting down the corridor in the direction it had been pushing him.
Behind him, the creature roars and gives chase, but its bulk slows it in the narrow passages. Cael runs like he hasn't since that night three years ago, when bloodline gifts and desperate speed were all that saved him from sharing his family's fate.
The corridors blur past as he follows some instinct deeper than conscious thought. His bloodline gift stirs, not fully activated but lending him just enough enhanced perception to navigate the twisting passages. Doorways flash by. Stairs appear and disappear beneath his boots. Always deeper, always toward something that pulls at the magic in his blood.
He rounds a corner and skids to a halt so suddenly he nearly falls.
The chamber before him is perfectly circular, carved from stone so black it seems to drink the light from his torch. Symbols cover every surface, writing that shifts and writhes when he's not looking directly at it. The air here is thick with power that makes his teeth ache and his bloodline burn like fire beneath his skin.
But it's what occupies the chamber's center that steals breath and thought alike.
A pedestal of the same light-eating stone rises from the floor. Resting on its surface, pulsing with inner radiance like a visible heartbeat, lies a single crimson thread.
It's beautiful. Beautiful in the way a perfectly balanced blade is beautiful. Beautiful in the way poisonous flowers are beautiful. Beautiful and absolutely wrong, because nothing should pulse with its own light in a place so steeped in death and ancient purpose.
The thread seems to notice him. Its pulsing quickens, light growing brighter with each throb. With the light comes sensation: warmth flooding his bloodline, recognition of something ancient calling to something equally old in his veins. It wants him to come closer. Wants him to touch it. Wants to fulfill whatever purpose has kept it waiting here for centuries.
Behind him, the creature's approach echoes through the corridors. But it's no longer charging. The sounds suggest it's moving carefully now, satisfied that its prey has reached the intended destination.
Cael approaches the pedestal despite every instinct screaming danger. This is what Aldwin wanted. What scholars died finding. What might hold answers about bloodline magic and ancient powers and why someone wanted every trace of the Xerion line erased from the world.
The thread pulses faster as he draws near, its light casting dancing shadows on the walls. The symbols seem to move with purpose now, forming patterns that almost make sense before dissolving back into chaos. And beneath it all, a sound like distant whispers, voices speaking in languages that predate human speech.
He reaches out, hand trembling slightly. Just to touch it. Just to understand what makes it worth so many deaths.
Movement in the shadows stops him cold.
Someone else is in the chamber. Has been all along, waiting in the darkness with patience that speaks of professional discipline. Waiting for him to focus entirely on the artifact, to let his guard down completely.
His hand moves toward his sword, but he already knows he's too late. You don't survive three years of being hunted without developing instincts for when the hunter has already won.
"Cael Xerion."
The voice comes from directly behind him, close enough that he can feel breath on his neck. Female, cold as winter wind, with the kind of control that comes from years of practice. He didn't hear her approach. Didn't sense her presence until she chose to reveal it. Professional. Lethal.
"I've been looking for you."
Steel whispers against leather as weapons clear their sheaths. He turns slowly, hand still on his sword hilt but making no move to draw. When hunting dangerous prey, sudden movements tend to end badly.
She stands between him and the chamber's only exit, positioned with a professional's eye for tactical advantage. Tall and lean, built like a hunting cat with the same predatory grace. Silver hair catches the thread's crimson light, and her features are sharp enough to cut glass. Beautiful in the way winter storms are beautiful: best appreciated from a safe distance.
An elf. The pointed ears and inhuman grace confirm it. But more than that, an assassin. Everything about her screams professional killer, from the matched daggers in her hands to the way she stands perfectly balanced for instant violence.
"Let me guess," Cael says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Someone paid you a lot of gold to find me."
"Someone paid me enough." Her eyes are the pale blue of deep ice, and about as warm. "Though I would have taken this job for free. Your bloodline has caused enough problems."
"My bloodline hasn't done anything except try to survive."
"Survival is often the greatest problem of all."
She moves without warning, transitioning from stillness to violence between one heartbeat and the next. Her blade whispers through air where his throat had been a moment before, close enough that he feels the wind of its passage.
Cael's sword clears its sheath as he stumbles backward, barely managing to deflect her follow-up strike. The impact jars his arm to the shoulder, and he realizes with sinking certainty that she's not just faster than him. She's stronger than her slim build suggests, and infinitely more skilled.
"Decent reflexes," she observes, circling him with liquid grace. "Your family's training wasn't completely wasted."
"Thanks for the assessment." He tries to match her movements, but she flows like water while he feels like he's fighting through mud. "Do I get to know who sent you before you kill me?"
"Does it matter? Dead is dead, regardless of who signs the contract."
She strikes again, and this time he barely manages to avoid disembowelment. Her daggers weave patterns in the air that force him to give ground, each exchange pushing him back toward the pedestal. The soul thread pulses brighter with each clash of steel, as if feeding on the violence.
He triggers his bloodline gift out of desperation, feeling heat surge through his veins. His reflexes sharpen, strength doubles, and for a moment he matches her speed. His counterattack actually forces her to take a step back, and he sees surprise flicker in those cold eyes.
"Bloodline magic," she notes with what might be approval. "At least you're not completely helpless."
"I'm full of surprises."
But the gift comes with a cost. He can't maintain it for long, and she seems to know that. She shifts tactics, no longer pressing hard but forcing him to maintain the enhancement. Making him burn through his reserves while she remains patient as winter.
The fight ranges around the chamber, neither able to gain decisive advantage. She has skill and experience, but the confined space limits her mobility. He has desperation and bloodline enhancement, but both are finite resources.
It's during one particularly vicious exchange that disaster strikes. Cael parries a thrust meant for his heart, but the force drives him backward. His heel catches on an uneven stone, and suddenly he's falling. She falls too, their momentum carrying them both toward the pedestal.
Toward the soul thread.
He sees her eyes widen in alarm, the first real emotion she's shown. Her hand shoots out, trying to catch herself, just as his does the same.
They touch the thread simultaneously.
Reality breaks.
Power floods through Cael like molten metal poured directly into his veins. But this isn't just energy. It's connection. Another consciousness crashes into his own with all the subtlety of a battering ram. Her thoughts, her emotions, her very self suddenly occupying the same space as his.
The violation is absolute. Every barrier he's built, every private corner of his mind, laid bare to someone who was trying to kill him moments ago. And worse, he's in her mind too, drowning in alien thoughts and cold professionalism and something underneath that might be fear.
Get out get out GET OUT—
He can't tell which of them is screaming, mentally or physically. Maybe both. Their separate selves blur at the edges, two people forced to exist in space meant for one. The sensation is beyond pain, beyond violation. It's wrongness on a fundamental level that makes his soul rebel.
The crimson thread flares bright enough to blind, then vanishes. In its place, something appears in the air before them: a translucent display of flowing text that writes itself in languages that shift and change but somehow remain comprehensible.
Soul Thread Binding - Complete
Bond Integrity: 100%
Status: Permanent
Warning: Severance by force will result in spiritual dissolution
"No."
Her denial comes out raw, scraped from a throat that's been screaming. Through their new connection—and gods, he can feel it, like a rope of fire between their minds—her horror washes over him in waves.
"This can't be happening."
She pushes herself away from where they'd collapsed beside the pedestal, but every movement echoes between them. When she shifts left, he feels the impulse to do the same. When he reaches for his sword, her hand twitches toward her daggers.
"What did you do?" She rounds on him, winter eyes wild with something beyond professional composure.
"Me? You're the one who attacked me!"
"You touched the thread!"
"So did you!"
They glare at each other across the chamber, but the anger feels strange when each can sense the other's emotions bleeding through their connection. Her fury mingles with his own until they can't tell whose rage belongs to whom.
"I'll kill you." She draws a dagger with shaking hands. "I'll find a way around whatever protection this gives you and I'll kill you slowly."
"Get in line." The bravado sounds hollow when she can feel his terror through their bond. "Though I'm pretty sure killing me kills you now too."
The truth of it hangs between them like a blade. The display had been clear: severance means spiritual dissolution. They're bound, permanently, two souls chained together by magic older than kingdoms.
Through their connection comes the sound of scales on stone. The guardian beast, drawn by the soul thread's activation. They both turn toward the entrance, movements unconsciously synchronized.
"We need to move," she says, professional assessment overriding personal crisis. "That thing won't be happy we took its toy."
"Together?"
The word tastes like ash, but practicality outweighs preference. They're bound whether they like it or not.
"Together," she agrees, making it sound like a curse. "But this isn't over. I'll find a way to break this binding, and when I do..."
"You'll complete your contract. I get it." He retrieves his sword, noting how she mirrors the motion with her daggers. "But until then, we survive. Deal?"
She doesn't answer, but when the guardian's roar echoes through the chamber, they move as one toward the exit. Not allies, not partners, just two enemies bound by magic and necessity.
The soul thread chamber fades behind them as they plunge into the hold's corridors, but its work is done. The binding is complete, permanent, and growing stronger with each shared heartbeat.
Whatever they were before—hunter and prey, assassin and target—they're something else now. Something neither chose nor wants, but must learn to live with or die trying.
The hunt has ended. Something far worse has begun.