TITLE:ASHES OF THE BLACKAN:

Episode 6:Title:GHOSTS OF THE PAST

Episode 6** of **"Ashes of the Blackan"**:

# Episode 6: **Ghosts of the Past**

The scrap of cloth burned in Kalen's gloved hand as he stalked through the twisting halls of the House of Maevryn.

The sigil stitched into it was unmistakable — a black spiral devouring a silver sun. It belonged to a brotherhood long thought dead.

His brotherhood. Before he became a monster. Before he became a Blackan.

Before **Mavora** — his wicked aunt — had twisted his loyalty into a weapon.

Now that past clawed its way back into the present.

And Kalen knew: **this was no accident**.

The message was simple, brutal: *"Come to the old catacombs beneath the East Wing. Alone."*

It reeked of a trap. But Kalen had no choice.

Not because he cared. Not anymore.

But because he needed to know **who** had dared drag the dead back to haunt him.

And because — though he hated to admit it — a part of him still remembered the oath he had once sworn.

To protect them. To never abandon them.

Even now, even after all the blood, betrayal, and death, that old vow whispered through his bones like a curse.

The catacombs beneath the East Wing were ancient — built long before the House of Maevryn claimed the land.

The air stank of mold and iron. Faint, flickering torchlight cast monstrous shadows along the crumbling walls.

Kalen moved like a phantom, silent and watchful.

He felt the magic humming in the stones — wards woven hastily, sloppily. Vera’s handiwork. She was clever, but not as clever as she thought.

He disabled the first two traps easily. The third — a snare designed to bind his mind in illusions — took longer, scraping painful memories against his nerves as he unraveled it.

Finally, he reached a circular chamber lit by a single hanging lantern.

And there — shackled to the far wall — knelt a figure.

Ragged. Bloodied. Barely conscious.

But unmistakable.

**Dren Valorin.**

Once, Dren had been Kalen’s closest friend. A brother in everything but blood.

Dren had taught him how to laugh. How to trust. How to hope.

Kalen thought he had buried those memories long ago.

But seeing Dren now — broken, beaten, abandoned — ripped the scabs from old wounds he thought long healed.

Dren lifted his head, one eye swollen shut, his voice a rasp:

"Kalen... is it really you?"

Kalen said nothing. Could say nothing.

Emotion warred with cold calculation inside him.

This was a trap. He knew it. Saving Dren would expose him. Cost him.

But walking away...

That would be the final betrayal. The one even Kalen Dravik might not survive.

Above, hidden in a chamber lined with enchanted glass, **Vera Moonfall** watched through her scrying mirror.

She leaned forward eagerly, fingers gripping the arms of her velvet chair.

"Choose, Blackan," she whispered. "Save him and fall... Or leave him and lose yourself forever."

Either way, Kalen would be hers to break.

In the catacombs, Dren sagged against his chains, coughing weakly.

"They said... they said you'd come," he croaked. "Said you still had a soul left... somewhere in there."

Kalen's hands shook.

No.

He had no soul. Mavora had carved it out of him years ago.

He was a blade. Nothing more.

Nothing—

*Then why did it hurt so much to see Dren like this?*

With a vicious snarl, Kalen moved.

He shattered the enchanted manacles with two brutal strikes of his dagger, catching Dren before he could collapse.

The instant the chains fell, the wards woven into them **exploded** — a surge of cursed magic blasting through the chamber.

Kalen staggered, gritting his teeth against the assault. Shadows clawed at his mind, dredging up every failure, every betrayal, every drop of blood he had spilled.

But he held on.

For Dren. For that flicker of humanity he could no longer deny.

When the smoke cleared, Kalen rose to his feet, supporting Dren's battered weight with one arm.

Above them, Vera cursed softly, her spell faltering.

Kalen had passed the first test. But the game was far from over.

Vera smiled grimly and whispered to her hidden allies, "Release the shades. Let's see if he can survive *this*."

A low rumble shook the catacombs.

From the blackest tunnels, **they came** — twisted figures born of nightmare and magic, shrieking with hunger.

Dren whimpered, too weak to fight.

Kalen shifted his grip, setting the wounded man gently against a wall. He drew his black-forged sword, its blade humming with deadly promise.

And as the first shade lunged, he struck.

The battle was savage.

The shades were fast — faster than anything mortal — but Kalen moved faster still. His blade danced, carving arcs of silver light through the darkness.

He fought like a force of nature — brutal, relentless, beautiful in his fury.

Every cut he made, every monster he felled, burned away a little more of the chains Mavora had placed on his soul.

Not just because he was fighting to survive.

Because, for the first time in years, he was fighting for something **other** than survival.

Fighting for someone. For Dren. For himself.

For the man he had been. For the man he might yet become.

When the last shade fell, the catacombs fell silent but for the ragged sound of Kalen's breathing.

He sheathed his sword and lifted Dren again.

"You’re not dying here," he growled, more to himself than to the broken man in his arms.

And with grim determination, he carried Dren out of the darkness.

**Far above**, Vera Moonfall leaned back in her chair, thoughtful.

The Blackan had chosen compassion over cold efficiency.

That made him vulnerable.

And she would exploit that weakness — soon.

But even Vera felt a flicker of something else.

Something like... respect.

**[End of Episode 6]**