Into the Mist

The Spire was collapsing. The disruption of the ritual had destabilized the foundation. Great shards of glass rained down from the ceiling.

Kaelen didn't look back at the screaming god. He ran.

He burst out of the great hall, down the steps, Noa tucked tight against his chest. The ground shook beneath them, the mountain rejecting the temple.

They didn't stop running until they reached the tree line of the dead forest, miles away.

Kaelen collapsed against a blackened stump. He gasped for air, his lungs burning.

He looked down. Noa had stopped crying. She was gripping his finger again. Her eyes reflected the smoke rising from the ruin of the Spire in the distance.

Kaelen looked at his hand.

The sigil was still there. But it had changed. The black lines were now a scar of shimmering silver.

The contract wasn't gone. It was breached. He was in default.

Malakor wasn't dead. He was just delayed. And the War God who wanted Noa’s body was still hungry.

"We can't stay here," Kaelen whispered.

He stood up. He checked his armor. He checked his sword.

He looked at the vast, grey expanse of the Ashen Corridor stretching out before them. He didn't know where to go. There was no safe harbor for a man who had cheated a god.

But he looked at Noa, and for the first time in a decade, he didn't feel the crushing weight of purposelessness.

"We have a long walk, little one," he said.

He stepped onto the road, rocking the baby gently as he walked into the mist, a soldier with a new war, and a father with a world to fight.