---
Kael didn't leave a note.
He didn't need to.
Riven would know.
The moment he woke up and found Kael's bed cold, his gear gone, and his pendant left on the table—he'd understand. Kael was chasing something.
Or someone.
---
The streets of Aerenthal were silent before dawn. Kael slipped through alleys with practiced ease, cloak drawn, hood low. He moved like someone who had been hunted before.
Because he had.
Once.
A long time ago.
Before he met Riven. Before the Ashborn had pulled him from the gutter and given him purpose.
Back when he still believed he could protect someone.
Back when he still had a sister.
---
Her name was Lyra.
Ten years younger.
Smart. Small. Always humming songs she didn't know the words to. She had been taken by slave-takers from the west—Kael had fought, and lost. Badly.
He'd sworn to never stop looking.
Even if it meant breaking that promise to Riven.
---
He reached the Crimson Hollow, an old tavern in Aerenthal's lower ring. It was built from rotting shipwood and smelled like sweat and secrets.
A man waited for him there.
Bald. Tall. One eye.
Vernas. A name Kael hadn't spoken in years.
"You're late," Vernas growled.
"You're lucky I came," Kael replied.
Vernas grinned, revealing two gold teeth.
"I found her."
Kael's heart stopped.
"Alive?"
"Aye. Not whole, but breathing."
"Where?"
Vernas slid a note across the table.
Kael scanned it. Coordinates. Caravan routes. A buyer's name.
Then something else.
"Why is the Eclipse Order mentioned?"
Vernas raised an eyebrow. "You think you're the only one chasing ghosts? Your sister's being transported through a ritual zone. Experimental blood-magic. Order-owned."
Kael stood. "When?"
"Two nights. Ashen route."
Kael hesitated.
"I can't bring Riven."
"No. You bring him, and you won't find a girl—you'll find a crater."
---
By midmorning, Riven sat on the palace steps, staring at the pendant Kael had left behind.
It was simple—black iron strung on worn leather.
Not valuable.
But personal.
Seris stood behind him, arms crossed.
"He left?"
"Yes."
"Will he return?"
"I don't know."
She nodded once. "Then you'll need a new sword."
Riven didn't answer.
His silence said enough.
---
That night, Kael crossed into the southern wastes under darkness, following the caravan route from Vernas's note. The land grew dry, cracked, scorched by old magic.
Crows followed him.
But not crows.
Scouts.
He recognized the pattern—drifting feathers, angled flight, always one watching from a branch just out of reach.
He was being herded.
---
At midnight, he found the caravan.
Twenty armored riders. Two cages. Hooded prisoners.
He crouched in the dark, drawing his daggers.
But then he saw her.
Not in the cage.
In the lead.
Draped in a crimson robe.
Eyes cold.
Hair white.
And her voice—once a song—now a command.
"Move," Lyra said to her soldiers. "We make camp by the salt cliffs."
Kael staggered.
That wasn't a prisoner.
That was a Warden.
---
He waited until the camp was asleep—then crept close.
Close enough to hear.
"Report to the Obsidian Mirror," Lyra told a subordinate. "The seal fragment is en route. The Ashborn is not to be harmed—yet."
The soldier bowed.
Kael almost screamed.
He retreated, shaking, retreating into the night with his chest collapsing inward.
She was alive.
But she was Order now.
---
Back in Aerenthal, Riven stood over a map, staring at troop movements.
Lucen paced nearby, smirking.
"You miss him."
Riven didn't reply.
"He's not dead. Just... torn."
Still nothing.
Lucen's grin faded.
"He's not your shadow, you know. He bleeds too."
Riven's voice came soft.
"I know."
But he also knew this:
If Kael was making a choice between blood and brotherhood…
There was no winning.
---