Rath opened his eyes to darkness and the slow creak of wood.
The wagon shifted under its own weight, canvas stretching and settling as the night wind passed over it. The smell inside was leather, oil, and old sweat—nothing burning, nothing warm. Just travel and wear. His hand moved by instinct, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.
The sword was already awake.
Its blade rested beside him, wrapped in rough cloth that did nothing to quiet the faint hum running through the steel. The markings along it were old—older than kings, older than roads --cut by hands from a forgotten age. A curse lay heavy on it still. No matter how far Rath went, no matter how many times he tried to leave it behind, the blade always found its way back to him.
Two other breaths shared the wagon with him.
"Thought you were dead for a moment," said Edrin quietly.
Edrin sat near the rear, one boot braced against a crate, hands busy checking the edge of his short sword by touch alone. He wore the look of a working mercenary—scarred knuckles, patched armor, no wasted movement. The kind of man who didn't ask why the world was cruel, only how to survive it.
Opposite him sat Lyessa, legs folded, fingers resting on a bundle of charms tied with twine. Bone, feather, carved wood—marks of pagan gods that still walked Sumaria in whispers and omens. She hadn't been sleeping. She rarely did.
"You were hearing them again weren't you?" she said.
Rath pushed himself upright, his joints stiff. "Sleep never takes me," he said. "Not anymore."
Outside the wagon, Sumaria lay silent. Dirt roads stretched unseen into the dark, winding between villages that prayed to different gods and bent knee to different kings. Six of them now, all clawing for control of the great island, each believing their faith would carry them to the top.
None of them looked down.
The world below stirred beneath the soil—a broken realm ruled by a fallen angel too proud to kneel and too hateful to forgive. His demons tore at each other endlessly, every one of them dreaming of being king of the world below.
Rath tightened his grip on his sword. The blade answered with a low pulse, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"We move at first light," he said.
Edrin nodded. Lyessa closed her eyes.
Morning passed and horses came next.
The sound reached them before the sight. hooves striking dirt, leather creaking, metal clinking with each step. Edrin stiffened at once, hand dropping back to his sword.
"Soldiers," he said, it's a patrol.
Lyessa's charms went still.
Rath turned toward the road. Shapes emerged from the fog—men on horseback, cloaks marked with stitched symbols, spearheads catching the faint light of dawn. Six riders in all. Well-fed horses. Clean armor. King's men.
They stopped a short distance away.
The one in front dismounted slowly, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His cloak bore a red sun split by black lines, the mark of King Halvar of the eastern marches, a ruler who claimed his god burned away corruption with fire and steel.
"What happened here?" the soldier asked.
His eyes flicked to the disturbed ground. The black stains soaking into the dirt. The air still carried the wrongness of the demon's passing.
Edrin spoke first. "Road demon. Came up just before light."
The soldier's mouth tightened. "That makes five reported this week."
Another man dismounted, younger, nervous. "Shouldn't be this close to the trade roads."
Rath said nothing.
The captain's gaze shifted to him, lingering on the sword at his side. Not fear. Not respect. Calculation.
"You three traveling alone?" the captain asked.
"For now," Rath said.
The answer earned him a look. "King Halvar has ordered all capable fighters to swear service. The gods demand unity. The island's bleeding."
Lyessa's voice was calm, but sharp. "Your king's gods aren't ours."
The captain smiled thinly. "All gods answer to steel in the end."
Rath stepped forward.
"We don't swear," he said. "We hunt."
The silence stretched. One of the soldiers tightened his grip on his spear. Another glanced at the blackened soil and swallowed.
Finally, the captain nodded once. "Then keep hunting. But if we find you trespassing in Halvar's lands without writ—"
"You won't," Rath said.
The captain mounted his horse. "The kings are moving. When they clash, monsters won't be the worst of it."
The riders turned and disappeared into the fog, the sound of hooves fading down the dirt road.
Edrin exhaled slowly. "Kings, demons, gods," he muttered. "World's tearing itself apart."
Rath rested a hand on his sword. It pulsed once. Slow. Patient.
Below the road, far deeper than dirt or stone, something listened.
A low tremor rippled through the ground, subtle enough to be missed if one didn't know how to feel for it. The blackened soil where the demon had fallen sank inward by a finger's width, then another, as if the earth were drawing a breath it wasn't releasing.
Lyessa noticed first. "Rath" she said quietly, this isn't done.
Edrin went back to the wagon, "The soldiers are already far gone"
"They only feel what they want," Rath replied with a smirk on his face.
Rath felt a pulse beneath his palm, it was fast as if it was a warning.
From the ruined ground came a sound like wet stone grinding against itself. Not a roar. Not a scream. Something forming instead of dying. The ground sank faster now, drawn downward, pulled into a widening crack in the earth that leaked cold air smelling of iron and rot.
Rath stepped forward before either of them could speak.
"Pack up," he said. "Quietly."
Edrin hesitated. "If that opens.."
"It won't wait for permission," Rath said.
The tremor deepened. Somewhere far below, something answered, and was listening with hunger. Whatever the demon had been, it had not come alone.
The ground split wider.
Not cleanly. It tore, like flesh pulled apart too fast, and the smell that came with it was wrong—old blood, damp stone, and something sweet underneath that made the back of the throat burn.
Lyessa backed away, whispering a prayer that didn't belong to any god the kings named. Her charms rattled softly, one of them cracking straight through.
Lyessa backed away, whispering a prayer that didn't belong to any god the kings named. Her charms rattled softly, one of them cracking straight through.
"That isn't something breaking through," she said. "It was already open."
Edrin had his sword out now, knuckles white. "Soldiers just left," he muttered. "If this breaks open–"
"They'll be dead before they hear it," Rath said.
The voice came then.
Not loud. Not clear. It slid into his head the way sleep used to, back when sleep still meant rest.
You feel it, it whispered.
Rath's jaw tightened. He did not answer.
The crack in the ground widened again, stones tumbling down into darkness that didn't reflect light. Something moved below, too slow to be a leap, too deliberate to be an accident. Claws scraped against buried rock. More than one monster.
Edrin took a step back, "How many?"
Rath watched the dark. "Enough."
The pulse beneath his hand throbbed harder now, eager in a way that made his skin crawl. The curse always knew. It was always wanted.
A shape pushed up through the crack, not fully formed, like a body being dragged into the world piece by piece. Black veins traced across gray flesh. Eyes opened to see what they shouldn't, all of them searching.
Lyessa gagged. "That's not a demon."
Rath stepped forward anyway.
"Doesn't matter," he said.
Behind them, far down the road, a horse screamed. Then another. The king's men had not gone far enough.
The thing climbing out of the crack tilted its head, as if listening to something Rath could not hear.
Its mouth split wider than its face should allow, not opening so much as unfolding. The sound that came out was wet and wrong, a breath dragged across broken teeth. "Bearer," it rasped, voice layered, as though more than one throat were trying to speak through it. "You walk above."
Lyessa stumbled back, nearly falling. "It knows you."
Rath didn't answer. His body was already moving.
The sword was in his hand before he remembered drawing it, the weight of it familiar and unwelcome. The pulse surged, no longer patient, dragging heat up his arm and into his chest. For a heartbeat, he thought about stopping—about choosing not to step forward.
His feet carried him anyway.
The demon's head snapped up as Rath closed the distance, eyes fixing on him with sudden clarity.
"Not alive," it hissed. "Not dead. You wield his sword as if it's yours."
Its claws dug into the dirt, joints cracking into place. "He marked you to walk where we cannot. To bleed where we no longer do." A wet, broken laugh followed. "Tell me, bearer do you still think the blade is yours?"
The demon lurched toward them, claws scraping furrows into the dirt, and the world narrowed to distance and timing. Rath met it halfway. His sword tore through the demon's flesh, and then it screamed, not in pain, but in rage, as if something precious had been taken from it.
The scream cut short as Rath drove forward, forcing the blade deeper. The demon reeled back, claws flailing, tearing chunks from the road as it tried to keep its balance. Its blood smoked where it hit the ground, eating into dirt and stone alike.
The sword moved like it knew the path better than he did, up, then down, then across. Carving through limbs that bent the wrong way and healed too fast. Every strike sent a shudder through his arms, not from resistance, but from release. The curse dug deep, and the pulse surged in answer.
The demon staggered, dropping to one knee. It looked up at Rath, what passed for a face twisting into something like a grin. "He feels this," it croaked. "Every cut. Every breath you take."
"WHO?" Rath said angrily
The word ripped out of him raw and sharp. His grip tightened without meaning to, the sword humming as if answering for the demon. The thing laughed again, wet and broken.
"You know," it said, choking on its own blood. "You've always known."
Its chest collapsed inward with a sound like cracking bone. Black veins flared once, then burned out. The demon convulsed, shrieking, not at Rath, but at something unseen, and then the ground pulled it down hard. Flesh blackened, split, and fell away into ash that sank back into the crack, the earth sealing over it in slow, grinding denial.
Rath stood where the demon had been, chest heaving, blood dripping from his jaw onto the dirt. The sword still throbbed in his hand, warm and satisfied. The voice did not laugh this time.
Somewhere far below, something had heard him ask the question.
Rath did not realize it during the fight.
He realized it after.
The bodies were gone—not dragged away, not burned, just… absent. Demons did that sometimes. The world below reclaimed its own fast when it wanted to hide the cost. The road was empty again, dirt smoothed over by wind and passing time, as if the ground itself was ashamed.
Edrin was asleep near the wagon, exhaustion finally winning. Lyessa sat a little farther off, back to a wheel, charms laid out in a careful circle that trembled even while she slept.
Rath sat alone. The sword lay across his knees.
He hadn't drawn it since the last thing died. He hadn't needed to. The curse still hummed under his skin, slow and steady, like something breathing through him instead of beside him.
He stared at his hands, they were steady now.
That was the first wrong thing.
After battles like that, his hands usually shook for hours. Sometimes days. Sometimes not at all, which was worse. But tonight—nothing. No tremor. No crash of feeling. Just a hollow calm, like the moment after you realize the pain is permanent.
He loosened his grip, The sword did not fall.
It never did.
Rath frowned and opened his fingers completely.
The blade stayed where it was, resting against his palms as if held there by something else. By habit, maybe. Or memory. Or intent.
He swallowed. "Get off," he muttered.
Nothing happened. A thought crept in then, unwanted and slow, like rot spreading under skin.
When was the last time I put you down?
Not leaned you somewhere. Not slept with you close. Truly put you down. He couldn't remember.
That was when the voice came—not whispering this time. Not teasing, just present.
You never did.
Rath's breath hitched. "I didn't ask."
You never ask, it replied. You take. You survive. You endure.
Images pressed against his mind, fast, sharp flashes.
The village. Fire. His mother's hands shoving him toward the door. The weight of the sword in hands too young to hold it, but holding it anyway.
Not finding it. Being given it.
"You could've cursed anyone," Rath said quietly. "Kings. Warpriests. Butchers."
A pause. Long enough to feel deliberate.
They would have broken.
The words landed heavier than any blow.
"You chose me." No, the voice said. I watched you.
Rath's jaw clenched.
"I was a child."
You were still standing. The truth of it sank deep and ugly.
The curse didn't cling to him because he carried the sword.
He carried the sword because the curse knew he would not let go.
Not out of greed. Not hunger. Out of stubborn, bleeding refusal to die.
Rath laughed once, sharp and empty. "So I'm just a path back."
You are a door, the voice said gently. One that walks.
The sword pulsed. Not eager, but satisfied.
Rath closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the flat of the blade.
"I won't kneel," he said.
The voice did not argue.
You never have.
And somehow, that frightened him more than anything else.
The crack sealed shut with a final shudder, dirt settling as if nothing had ever torn it open. The road lay still again, quiet in a way that felt wrong, too careful, too practiced. Even the fog seemed to hesitate before drifting back in.
Rath didn't move.
The sword's pulse slowed, but it didn't fade. It lingered, steady and watchful, like a hand resting on the back of his neck. His ears rang with the echo of the demon's last words, with the way it had said you know as if it were a kindness.
Behind him, Lyessa swallowed hard. "Rath," she said, soft, cautious. "We need to go. Now."
Edrin glanced down the road, where the screams had come from earlier. Nothing stirred there anymore. That was worse than noise. "If more of them come up," he said, "or if the soldiers come back and see this"
"They won't matter," Rath said.
The words slipped out before he thought about them. He turned slowly, his face streaked with drying blood, eyes dark and distant. For a moment, neither of them recognized him.
Lyessa hesitated. "What did it mean? What it said."
Rath looked past her, past the wagon, past the road itself. The answer pressed at the back of his skull, heavy and unwelcome, like a name you refuse to say because saying it makes it real.
"It meant," he said quietly, "this wasn't a hunt."
The air shifted.
Not wind. Not sound. Just a pressure, subtle but absolute, like the world holding its breath. Rath felt it settle deep in his chest, older than fear, older than anger. Somewhere far below, far beyond stone and fire and bone, something had heard him ask who.
And it smiled.
Rath tightened his grip on the sword, not because he wanted to fight, but because letting go was no longer an option.
"Pack up," he said. "We're not staying on this road."
Lyessa nodded, already moving. Edrin followed, casting one last look at the place where the ground had opened.
None of them saw the faint line beneath the dirt begin to glow, slow and patient, marking a path that would not close again.
They moved fast.
The wagon creaked as Edrin hauled it back onto the road, hands shaking despite the effort to hide it. Lyessa gathered what she could, leaving half her charms behind rather than risk the time. The fog thinned as the sun climbed, but the light did nothing to make the world feel safer. It only showed too much—tracks where there shouldn't be any, dents in the dirt where bodies had vanished.
Rath walked ahead, leading the horse by the reins. He didn't look back. Every step felt measured, counted, as if the road itself were keeping score. The pulse in his hand matched his stride now, no longer a warning, just a rhythm. When he blinked, he thought he saw eyes watching from the hedgerows—gone the instant he turned his head.
They reached a bend where the trees closed in, branches clawing over the road. Rath stopped there.
"Listen," he said.
They did. At first, nothing. Then—far off—metal rang against stone. A shout. Another. Too faint to place, but close enough to matter. Soldiers again, or something wearing their shapes. Either way, it wasn't for them.
Lyessa's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's following us."
"No," Rath said. "It's measuring."
The thought didn't feel like his own, but it fit too well to deny. He loosened his grip on the reins and felt the sword tug, subtle, patient, pointing not down the road but into the trees.
Edrin saw it. "That way?" he asked.
Rath nodded once. "Off the road. Now."
They cut into the undergrowth, thorns tearing at cloth and skin. The forest swallowed them quickly, sound dampened, light broken into slivers. Behind them, the road waited—empty, innocent, already forgetting they had ever been there.
Deep beneath roots and stone, something marked their passing and adjusted its plans.
They did not look back.
The trees closed behind them, branches knitting together until the road was nothing but a memory. The forest swallowed sound, then light, until only the scrape of boots and the slow breath of the horse remained. Even that faded as they went deeper, each step carrying them farther from anything that could still be called safe.
Rath walked at the front, the sword heavy at his side, no longer a tool but a presence. It did not pull now. It did not urge. It simply waited, as if certain the path ahead would lead where it wanted.
Above them, the world went on—kings moving pieces, soldiers riding orders they didn't understand, gods listening to prayers they would never answer.
Below, something far older than crowns or borders took note of a question asked in anger.
And it remembered who had asked it.
The forest breathed.
The road forgot them.
The curse did not.