Khaemon had lost count of the days.
Somewhere between Ptah-Ankhara and the disputed territories, time had become a meaningless abstraction—marked not by sunrises and sunsets but by miles traveled, dangers avoided, and the slow accumulation of exhaustion that had settled into his bones like sedite. The ash-grey sky remained constant, offering no variation to distinguish one day from the next. Only the changing landscape served as evidence that he was actually moving, actually making progress toward his destination.
The caravan he had joined midway—a merchant convoy heading north with textiles and metalwork—trundled along the final stretch of road leading to Ankh-Serel. The Duchy's famous ruins were visible in the distance now, ancient structures rising from the hills like the bones of some vast creature that had died in an age before memory. Pre-Sundering architecture, the merchants had told him with reverent whispers. Structures that had stood for three thousand years, surviving the cataclysm that had shattered the old world.
Khaemon found he could not appreciate the view.
His head ached with a dull, persistent throb that had been his constant companion since the incident four days ago. Or was it five? The days blurred together, indistinguishable, each one carrying him further from the life he had known and deeper into territory that was as unfamiliar to his spirit as it was to his eyes.
He had killed a man.
The memory surfaced unbidden, as it had a hundred times since that night. The thieves had attacked the caravan at a narrow pass—not the first such attack, nor the second, but the third—and this time they had been more desperate, more numerous, more willing to die for their chance at plunder. The battle had been chaotic, confusing, a blur of shadows and shouting in the darkness.
And then the man had been there, knife raised, eyes wild with the particular madness of one who had nothing left to lose. Khaemon had reacted on instinct, his Ka-Tool manifesting in his hand before conscious thought could intervene. The blade had found the man's throat with terrible precision.
But it was what happened next that haunted him.
As the thief died—as the light faded from his eyes and his body crumpled to the ground—Khaemon had felt something. A rush of energy, of essence, of something that flowed from the dying man into himself. It had happened in an instant, too fast to resist, too fast to even understand. One moment he was standing over a corpse; the next, he was staggering backward, his shadow-mark burning beneath his sleeve, his knife pulsing with new intensity.
The Umbral power had fed.
He had not intended it. Had not known it was possible. But the shadow within him had recognized the opportunity and seized it, consuming the thief's Ka—his essence-soul, the fundamental energy of his being—without asking permission or offering warning.
And Khaemon had grown stronger.
His knife now bore two golden stripes instead of one. The shadow-mark on his wrist had spread further up his forearm, its writhing darkness more defined, more present. He could feel the increased power in both paths, sense the greater depth of connection to abilities that had been newly awakened only weeks ago.
Second level on both paths. Advancement that should have taken months or years, achieved in days through an act of inadvertent vampirism.
I was supposed to learn control, he thought bitterly, watching the ruins of Ankh-Serel grow larger through the caravan's dusty haze. I fled my family, abandoned my name, traveled hundreds of miles to find techniques that would help me manage my powers. And instead, I've only made things worse.
The imbalance between his dual paths had stabilized somewhat—the concurrent advancement keeping them in rough equilibrium—but the overall pressure had increased dramatically. He could feel it now, a constant weight behind his eyes, a sense of forces straining against the boundaries of his mind. The headache was merely a symptom of a deeper problem, one that meditation and rest had failed to address.
He needed proper training. Needed masters who understood the nature of what he was facing. Needed answers that the scrolls in his pack could not provide.
He hoped Ankh-Serel would offer such things. If not…
He chose not to complete that thought.
—————
The Duchy's main gate rose before them, ancient stone carved with symbols that predated the current age. Guards in grey livery examined the caravan's documentation, their eyes lingering on Khaemon with the particular attention that strangers received in places accustomed to secrets.
"Purpose of visit?" one asked, his tone bored but his gaze sharp.
"Scholarly pursuit." Khaemon handed over the papers his mother had arranged—documents identifying him as a minor noble's son seeking to study the Duchy's famous archives. The identity was fabricated but professionally so, the forgery good enough to pass casual inspection. "I have letters of introduction for House Serel."
The guard examined the papers, then waved him through with a grunt of dismissal. "Report to the Serel compound within the day. They don't like being kept waiting."
Khaemon nodded and urged his horse forward, entering the Duchy proper for the first time.
The streets of Ankh-Serel were unlike anything in Ptah-Ankhara. Where the Khemric capital sprawled with the confidence of an empire's heart, this place felt… layered. Ancient ruins served as foundations for newer construction, which in turn had been built upon by subsequent generations. The result was a city that seemed to exist in multiple times simultaneously, each era bleeding into the next like watercolors on wet paper.
And the smell—
Khaemon became suddenly, painfully aware of his own condition. Days on the road with minimal opportunity for proper hygiene had left him in a state that would have been unthinkable in his former life. His clothes were stained with dust and sweat and the particular grime of extended travel. His hair hung lank and unwashed against his collar. His skin felt grimy, his body odorous, his entire presentation a embarrassment to the noble training he had received since childhood.
He had been a third son of House Osirath—or so he had believed—raised in comfort and privilege, attended by servants who ensured he was always immaculately presented. Now he was a fugitive with falsified papers, riding a tired horse through unfamiliar streets, smelling like something that had crawled out of a stable drain.
How far I have fallen, he thought, and was surprised to find the observation carried more amusement than bitterness. Or perhaps—how far I have risen. The old Khaemon would never have survived this journey. This new one… this one might yet survive what comes next.
The Serel compound occupied a prominent position near the Duchy's center, built around and into a particularly impressive set of pre-Sundering ruins. The architecture was a fascinating blend of ancient and modern—weathered stone columns supporting newer wooden structures, ancient foundations bearing the weight of contemporary additions. It spoke of a house that understood the value of the past while remaining firmly grounded in the present.
Guards at the compound's gate examined his documentation with more thoroughness than the city guards had displayed. They sent runners ahead to announce his arrival, then directed him to wait in a small courtyard where a fountain of surprising elegance provided the soothing sound of flowing water.
Khaemon dismounted carefully, his legs protesting after so many hours in the saddle. He was acutely conscious of his appearance—the road-worn clothes, the unwashed state, the general air of desperation that he was unable to entirely conceal. If the Serels rejected him, if they saw through his fabricated identity or simply decided he was not worth their hospitality…
He pushed the fear aside. He had no alternatives. This was his path now, and he would walk it regardless of the obstacles.
The fountain's water called to him with almost irresistible temptation. He imagined submerging himself in it, washing away the accumulated filth of his journey, emerging clean and renewed. But such behavior would be unacceptable—would mark him as uncivilized, unworthy of the reception he was hoping to receive.
He contented himself with splashing a handful of water on his face, the cool liquid doing little to address his fundamental condition but providing at least the illusion of improvement.
"Lord Khaemon?"
The voice came from behind him—female, cultured, carrying the musical quality of one trained in formal speech. He turned to find a servant in grey livery approaching, her expression professionally neutral despite what must have been a rather unfortunate first impression.
"I am he."
"Lady Ankharet will receive you in the eastern hall. If you would follow me?"
Lady Ankharet. The name was unfamiliar—his mother's briefings on the Duchy had been comprehensive but not exhaustive. Presumably a member of House Serel, given the context, but her exact position remained unclear.
Khaemon followed the servant through corridors that wound between ancient stone and modern timber, past rooms that held artifacts of obvious antiquity and halls that buzzed with the activity of a functioning noble house. The Serel compound was larger than it had appeared from outside, the internal spaces expanded by the clever use of the pre-Sundering ruins that formed its foundation.
They emerged into a hall that took his breath away.
The eastern hall was a cathedral of ancient architecture, its original structure preserved with obvious care and reverence. Columns of black stone rose to a ceiling that had somehow survived three millennia of history, their surfaces carved with symbols that might have been writing or might have been mere decoration. Light filtered through windows of actual glass—a luxury beyond price in the current age—casting the space in shades of grey and silver that seemed almost supernatural.
And at the far end, seated on a chair that had clearly been positioned to take advantage of the hall's dramatic aesthetics, waited a young woman who could only be Lady Ankharet.
She rose as he approached, and Khaemon's first thought was that she moved like water—fluid, graceful, utterly natural in a way that spoke of either exceptional training or exceptional bloodline. Her features were fine without being delicate, her dark hair arranged in a style that suggested practicality over ostentation. She wore robes of grey and silver that complemented the hall's coloring, and at her back—
A bow.
A Ka-Tool, he realized after a moment's inspection, its lines elegant and purposeful. Two golden stripes ran along its length, marking her as a second-level Ka-Forger who had manifested a ranged implement rather than the melee weapons that dominated his experience.
"Lord Khaemon of…" She paused, consulting a document in her hand. "House Meritah? I confess I am unfamiliar with the name."
The fabricated identity. His mother's creation, designed to be obscure enough to avoid easy verification while respectable enough to warrant attention.
"A minor house, my lady. Based in the southern provinces of the Dominion, far from the centers of power." The lie came easily—he had rehearsed it often enough during the journey. "My family has little influence but great interest in scholarly pursuits. When I expressed a desire to study the famous archives of Ankh-Serel, they arranged what introductions they could."
Lady Ankharet's eyes swept over him, taking in his road-worn condition with an expression that betrayed nothing of her thoughts. He felt suddenly, acutely aware of every speck of dust on his clothing, every strand of unwashed hair, every trace of the journey that clung to him like a second skin.
"You have traveled far," she observed. "The roads are not kind to solitary travelers, I understand."
"I joined a merchant caravan at the border. Safety in numbers." He resisted the urge to explain further, to make excuses for his appearance. Such explanations would only highlight his discomfort. "I apologize for my condition. The journey offered few opportunities for proper accommodation."
To his surprise, she smiled—a warm expression that seemed genuine rather than performative.
"You are honest about your circumstances. That is… refreshing." She gestured to a servant who had been waiting unobtrusively near the wall. "Please, sit. Varath will bring refreshments, and we can speak more comfortably while you recover from your travels."
Khaemon settled into the indicated chair—a piece of furniture that was considerably more comfortable than anything he had experienced in weeks—and felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Lady Ankharet took her own seat, her bow resting against the arm of her chair in easy reach.
A warrior, then, he thought. Not merely a noble playing at scholarship. She keeps her weapon close even in her own hall.
"The weather has been mild for the season," Lady Ankharet began, her tone shifting to the careful neutrality of diplomatic small talk. "We were blessed with light rains last week, which settled the dust from the roads. I trust your final approach was not too unpleasant?"
"The conditions were favorable," Khaemon agreed, falling into the familiar patterns of noble conversation. "Though I confess the landscape itself was more striking than any weather. The ruins visible from the road are… remarkable."
"Pre-Sundering architecture. The Duchy was built upon what scholars believe was a major administrative center of the old world." A hint of genuine enthusiasm crept into her voice. "The structures here survived the cataclysm that destroyed so much else. We study them constantly, but their secrets remain largely impenetrable."
"I have read accounts of the Sundering War, but seeing the evidence of what came before…" Khaemon shook his head. "It puts the current age in perspective."
"It does indeed." Lady Ankharet accepted a cup of tea from the servant who had silently provided refreshments, gesturing for Khaemon to do the same. "Tell me, Lord Khaemon—what specifically brings you to our archives? Your letters of introduction mention scholarly interests, but they are somewhat vague regarding your particular areas of study."
The question was inevitable, and he had prepared for it. The truth was impossible—he could not explain that he sought ancient knowledge about controlling dual-path cultivation without revealing what he was. But a plausible alternative had suggested itself during the long days of travel.
"I am interested in the period immediately following the Sundering," he said carefully. "Specifically, in how the current structure of the paths emerged from the chaos of that era. The historical records in the Dominion are… limited, regarding those early centuries."
"A fascinating topic." Lady Ankharet's eyes held a spark of interest that seemed genuine. "And one that touches on certain subjects that our archives are uniquely positioned to illuminate. The Duchy has preserved texts that were lost elsewhere—copies of copies, in some cases, but still valuable for their age and their content."
"That is precisely my hope."
They continued in this vein for some time—discussing the Duchy's scholarly resources, the protocols for accessing the archives, the various houses and factions that made up the local political landscape. Khaemon found himself relaxing into the conversation despite his exhaustion and discomfort. Lady Ankharet was an engaging conversationalist, intelligent and well-informed, her questions probing but not intrusive.
But beneath the pleasant surface of their exchange, he could sense something else.
Calculation.
House Serel had not achieved its position in the Duchy through naive hospitality. Every question Lady Ankharet asked, every observation she made, was designed to extract information while appearing to offer welcome. She was assessing him—his background, his resources, his potential value as an ally or a liability.
And Khaemon, trained since childhood in the subtle arts of noble maneuvering, recognized the dance for what it was.
They want something, he thought as he responded to her questions with carefully calibrated honesty. They're interested in me not despite my obscurity but because of it. A minor noble with scholarly interests, alone and far from home, dependent on their hospitality…
Such a person could be useful. Could be cultivated, shaped, guided into serving interests that were not his own. The Serels were offering shelter and access to their archives, but they would expect something in return. The only question was what—and whether Khaemon could afford to pay the price.
"The hour grows late," Lady Ankharet said eventually, her tone shifting to signal the conversation's end. "You must be exhausted from your journey. I will have quarters prepared for you—modest accommodations, I fear, but comfortable enough for a scholar more interested in books than luxury."
"Your hospitality is more than generous, my lady. I am grateful for any consideration you offer."
She rose, and he followed suit, feeling the weariness settle back into his bones as he stood. The brief respite of civilized conversation had been pleasant, but it had not erased the fundamental exhaustion that traveled with him like a shadow.
"The archives will be available to you beginning tomorrow, once you have had time to rest and… recover from your journey." The slight hesitation before the last phrase was pointed but not unkind. "My steward will explain the protocols and restrictions. I hope you find what you are seeking, Lord Khaemon."
"As do I, my lady."
She smiled once more—that warm, genuine expression that seemed at odds with the calculation he had sensed beneath her words.
"We will speak again soon. There is much to discuss, I think, once you are properly settled. The Duchy welcomes scholars, but we are always curious about the people behind the scholarship."
The dismissal was clear, and Khaemon bowed in the formal style of the Khemric Dominion before following the servant who appeared to guide him to his quarters.
—————
The room was small but clean—a bed, a desk, a window overlooking an internal courtyard, and most importantly, a basin of water with cloths for washing. Khaemon stood in the center of the space after the servant departed, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him.
He had arrived. Had secured, at least temporarily, the shelter and access he had sought. The Serels had their own agendas, their own calculations, but for now their interests and his aligned enough to permit cooperation.
The bath called to him with irresistible force, and he did not resist.
An hour later, finally clean, finally free of the road's accumulated filth, Khaemon sat on the edge of his bed and examined his hands. The knife lay beside him, its two golden stripes gleaming in the lamplight. Beneath the sleeve of his fresh clothing, the shadow-mark pulsed with patient hunger.
He had come here to learn control. To find techniques that would help him manage the impossible burden of dual-path cultivation. The archives of Ankh-Serel supposedly contained knowledge lost elsewhere, fragments of pre-Sundering wisdom that might hold the answers he sought.
But as he stared at the evidence of his unwanted advancement—the second stripe on his knife, the expanded shadow on his arm—Khaemon wondered if any amount of ancient knowledge would be enough.
He was growing stronger. Faster than he could have imagined, faster than he could control. The man he had killed on the road had fed his powers against his will, accelerating a process that was already dangerously swift.
How long before the next advancement? he wondered. How long before the imbalance becomes unbearable? How long before I become one of the mad ones, consumed by powers I cannot master?
The questions had no answers. Not yet.
But somewhere in the archives of this Duchy, buried among the pre-Sundering texts and the accumulated wisdom of millennia, there might be something that could help.
He had to believe that. Had to hope.
Because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
Khaemon extinguished the lamp and lay back on the bed, letting exhaustion claim him at last. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—navigating the political currents of House Serel, accessing the archives he had traveled so far to reach, searching for knowledge that might not exist.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he would sleep in a clean bed with a full stomach and a measure of security.
It was enough. For now.