Chapter7:The Mark of The Fallen
1178 Words
The ruins bled memory.
Kaelin knelt among the shattered marble, fingers brushing ancient glyphs nearly lost to time. The once-great Sanctuary of El’duran had fallen into decay long before the Crimson Dominion ever rose, but the weight of centuries still lingered in the air—thick with spirits and power. Trees coiled through stone columns, sunlight pierced through crumbling domes, and whispers echoed in the broken bones of the temple’s altar.
Ren stepped beside him, sword strapped across his back, eyes wide. “This place… I can feel it humming.”
“You should,” Kaelin murmured. “This was once a place where the Flame of the Old Masters burned brightest. Before the last war. Before betrayal scorched it to ash.”
Ren ran his fingers over a pillar, eyes lingering on a faded mural of a cloaked figure wielding flame and shadow in both hands. “Was this you?”
Kaelin didn’t answer. The silence held its own weight.
Instead, he turned toward the center of the sanctuary, where the altar lay cracked but intact. Scorched symbols ringed its base—new marks, not ancient. Dominion runes.
He stood, voice cold. “They’ve been here recently.”
Ren’s brows furrowed. “Why here? There’s nothing left.”
Kaelin looked skyward. “Not true. Power sleeps in places like these. Old places. The Dominion seeks to awaken something… or suppress it.”
A sharp gust sliced through the trees. The hum Ren had mentioned earlier sharpened into something tangible—like pressure building behind the eyes. Kaelin’s eyes narrowed. The air was too thick, too still.
“We’re not alone,” he muttered, drawing his blade.
From the shadows, a low growl echoed.
Ren turned just as the ground behind the altar split open. Black flame erupted in a violent burst, and from it rose a figure cloaked in smoke and steel—armor etched with Dominion markings, face obscured behind a horned mask, red eyes glowing with unnatural fire.
Kaelin’s hand clenched around his sword. “A Hollow Knight.”
Ren took a step back. “What’s that?”
“Remnants of the Last War. Souls twisted by Dominion rites—undead and bound to serve forever.” He raised his blade, now flickering with a faint blue aura. “It should not be here. Not unless…”
The Hollow Knight stepped forward, dragging a jagged blade along the stone. Each footstep echoed like a funeral bell.
Ren’s throat dried. “Do we run?”
Kaelin shook his head. “No. We cleanse.”
The Hollow Knight lunged.
Kaelin moved faster than Ren could track, intercepting the blow in midair with a crash of metal. The impact threw dust in all directions. Kaelin's body shimmered with a pale glow, the residue of the master’s rebirth energy rippling in waves.
Ren watched, frozen, as Kaelin danced around the undead warrior—parrying, slashing, moving with a fluid grace Ren couldn’t fathom copying. But then he remembered Kaelin’s words:
You’ll only learn by standing in the fire.
He gritted his teeth, drew his own blade, and charged in.
The Hollow Knight’s blade caught his side—too fast to dodge entirely. Pain flared, but he bit it back and ducked under a follow-up s***h. His counterstrike missed, but it gave Kaelin an opening. A glowing sigil burst to life at Kaelin’s feet, and with a roar, he drove his sword through the Hollow Knight’s chest.
The creature screeched, black fire bursting from its wounds as it staggered back. Kaelin spoke an incantation—ancient and furious—and thrust his hand forward. A lance of searing light pierced the Knight’s helm.
Silence.
Then the body collapsed, smoking, to the ground.
Ren fell to his knees, panting. “You didn’t tell me we’d be fighting monsters today.”
Kaelin approached him and knelt, checking the wound. “You didn’t ask. And this—” he gestured to the ashes—“was just a taste. Dominion commanders are experimenting with old magicks. Twisting the dead to their will.”
Ren winced. “I thought you said this place was safe.”
“I said it was sacred. Sacred doesn’t mean safe.” He stood, gaze turning hard. “This confirms it. They’re hunting the sanctuaries. One by one. They want to erase all memory of the Masters.”
Ren glanced at the remains of the Hollow Knight. “Why go through all this trouble?”
“Because even dead Masters leave behind tools too powerful to ignore.”
Kaelin gestured toward a scorched stone beneath the altar, now glowing faintly. He knelt and placed his palm over it, whispering something in the old tongue.
The stone pulsed. Then cracked.
A compartment hissed open. Inside: a dagger forged of blue crystal, humming softly, wrapped in cloth.
Kaelin lifted it reverently. “I thought this was lost.”
Ren leaned in. “What is it?”
“A blade known as Whisperfang. Forged by the First Flamebearer. It binds to the soul of its wielder and reveals truths they’ve buried.”
Ren blinked. “That’s… a lot for a knife.”
Kaelin offered a wry smile. “You’ll learn most weapons are more than just metal.”
He wrapped it again and slid it into his belt.
Then his eyes turned dark.
“They’re preparing something. Reawakening old tools. Raising Hollow Knights. That means the General is moving.”
Ren stiffened. “The Masked General?”
Kaelin nodded.
“They’ve sent warnings before. Burned villages. Assassinations. But this—this was an attempt to provoke. To test.”
Ren frowned. “So what now? We go after him?”
“No,” Kaelin said. “We go south. To Aeralis. There’s someone there who knows the General’s next step.”
“Who?”
Kaelin hesitated. “An old friend. One who betrayed me once.”
Ren raised an eyebrow. “And you trust him?”
“No,” Kaelin said softly. “But I trust what he fears.”
They moved quickly after that, leaving the sanctuary behind. But as they vanished into the forest, something stirred in the ashes behind them.
A crow.
Its feathers were pitch black, eyes glowing crimson.
It let out a shrill cry, then burst into flames.
Far away, in a tower of black steel, the Masked General turned from the window.
A soldier stood beside him. “The Hollow Knight failed.”
The General said nothing. He lifted a gauntlet and placed it over his masked face. The steel shifted, and the mask opened briefly to reveal a sliver of twisted, scorched flesh—marked with a sigil identical to the ones in the sanctuary.
He spoke, voice hollow and metallic. “It was never meant to succeed. Only to wake the flame.”
The soldier bowed. “And the next move?”
The General turned to a map laid across a long obsidian table. Cities marked in red. Sanctuaries marked in blue.
He pointed to a single mark near the coast.
“Aeralis.”
- Writer
