Chapter 2 The grave pilgrim

Part II: The Grave Pilgr

They called him Kael the Hollow.

He wore no sigil, bore no name of house or kin. His armor was mismatched, scavenged from old battlefields and graveyards-pieces of rusted plate, blackened mail, and a helm with a crack that split it like a jagged wound. A broken blade hung at his side, its edge dull, its hilt wrapped in what might have once been a priest's sash. But what made Kael truly feared was the urn he carried, bound in leather cords, etched with runes long forbidden.

Within it, whispered voices never ceased.

---

Kael walked the Deadlands alone, where Velmoria's borders once stood proud. The land was twisted-trees with ash-colored bark and leaves like shriveled hands. Rivers ran sluggish and black, and the sky was a permanent bruise of twilight. The queen's curse had not stopped at her gates. It had bled outward.

Villages near the ruins still existed-pockets of desperate life. They offered Kael silence and wary glances. Some had seen his kind before-pilgrims of vengeance, fools seeking relics, cultists drawn by dreams. None returned.

But Kael was different. He didn't want to return.

He wanted answers.

---

In the shattered city of Whiterow, once known for its alabaster bridges and silver bell towers, Kael found his first trial.

The bells still rang.

No one rang them.

Drawn to the sound, he passed through an archway into the square, where robed figures stood motionless. Their faces were turned upward, mouths open, eyes hollow. They were statues of ash-but the ash breathed.

As Kael stepped closer, one turned its head.

Its voice was a rasp of stone: "You bear her mark. Why do you walk against it?"

Kael lifted the urn. "To bury it. To finish what she began."

The ash figure tilted. "And if she welcomes you, as one of her own?"

Kael paused. Beneath the helm, unseen, his lips curled in something not quite a smile. "Then I'll whisper in her ear as I drive my blade through her ribs."

The ground cracked. The bells screamed.

The ash-statues lunged.

---

Kael fought like a man who had already died. He didn't dodge. He let the creatures strike him, their hands burning through armor, as he shattered their brittle bodies with hammering blows. Each one he felled cried out a different name-names of old kings, lost children, priests who'd once served Elirya's court.

When the last fell, Kael knelt among their remains.

And from the urn, a voice spoke.

Not the whisper of the damned. Not the muttering of broken spirits.

A woman's voice, smooth as silk dragged through blood.

"Closer. You come so close, little flame. Why do you burn so cold?"

Kael said nothing. He stood, and walked on.

---

At the edge of the Velmorian Keep, the sky bled violet.

The gates were still sealed, not with stone, but with bone-a lattice of femurs and skulls fused by necromantic fire, pulsing like a heartbeat. Above, on parapets long abandoned, knights of rust and rot stood watch, unmoving, their empty helms turned toward him.

The urn grew heavy.

The voice in it wept, then laughed, then whispered: "She remembers you."

Kael pressed his hand to the bone-gate. It pulsed once.

The gate opened.

---

Inside, the throne still stood.

Queen Elirya sat atop it, her beauty preserved like a corpse's last blush. She was surrounded by the still-living dead-nobles with empty eyes, courtiers who swayed gently with no wind.

She smiled. "My knight returns."

Kael's helm hit the floor.

And for the first time in decades, Elirya faltered.

"You-"

"I remember," Kael said. "I was the one you left in the fire."

Her gaze narrowed. "I left you reborn."

Kael drew the broken blade. From the urn, light spilled-not white, but gold gone sick with green. The souls of the damned surged, not to serve, but to devour.

And then the Keep screamed.