When he opened his eyes, the leaden sky had vanished. The mounds of corpses were gone.
In their place were soot-blackened wooden beams and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The scent filling his nostrils was not that of blood and pus, but of resin, charred wood, and a sharp, medicinal ointment.
Kaelen attempted to draw a deep breath, but the pressure in his chest forbade it. His ribs throbbed beneath the tight linen bandages wrapped around his torso. Every inhalation felt like a rusted nail driven into his lungs.
Do not move, a deep, raspy voice commanded. Your ribs were on the verge of puncturing your lungs. If you loosen those wrappings, you will drown in your own blood.
Kaelen turned his head.
The cabin was dim. In the corner, a dying fire crackled in a stone hearth. Beside the fire sat an elderly man on a crudely hewn stool. He was broad-shouldered, his hands calloused and his face a map of battle scars earned over many years. He wore a weathered leather vest; an old guild tattoo on his left shoulder had been partially obscured by a deep burn scar.
The man was whittling a branch with a knife. He was calm. Yet this was a calm born not of peace, but of a long-standing familiarity with danger.
By reflex, Kaelen's hand reached toward his side. His fingers grasped only empty air.
Panic spread faster than the pain in his chest.
The sword... he growled, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. Where is it?
The old man set aside the branch and jerked his chin toward the doorway.
GRIEF was there. It leaned against the wall. The wrappings around its scabbard had been renewed, but the metal itself retained its sinister blackness and the faint runes upon its surface.
I could not touch it, the man said, fixing his gaze on Kaelen. I intended to take it when I carried you here to clean your wounds. But the moment I gripped the hilt, it seared my hand. Not with heat, but with cold.
Silas stood up. He walked with a limp—an old war wound.
That thing... it is not merely a piece of iron, lad. It is a cursed relic that chooses its master.
Relieved, Kaelen let his head fall back onto the sack filled with herbs that served as a pillow. The sword was near. His missing piece was there.
Where is this place? he asked. Who are you?
The man ladled a scoop of soup from a pot on the hearth and handed it to Kaelen.
This is the Grey Forest. It sits on the edge of the valley where the city's sewers drain. My name is Silas. I was a soldier once. Now, I am just an old man who wishes to forget.
Kaelen took the cup with trembling hands. As the warm liquid slid down his throat, his stomach cramped.
Why did you save me?
Silas sat back down on his stool, his eyes drifting into the fire.
You were lying on the edge of the pit. You wore the cloak of Gravekeeper Groth. For years, no one could fell that massive creature... that gravedigger. I thought someone who could kill him did not deserve to rot in the mud.
He paused, studying Kaelen's face, particularly the black veins in his neck.
Besides... your blood. It ran black. It withered the grass where it fell. You are no ordinary man. Are you a Witcher? Or one of those monstrosities the alchemists create in their towers?
Kaelen tightened his grip on the cup.
I do not know, he said honestly. Kaelen. That is all I know. And the voice in my... He stopped. He did not want to speak of the Voice.
And the noise in your mind, Silas finished. I see it in your eyes, lad. Your gaze is not here. It is as if you are watching someone else's nightmare.
Silas leaned forward, the firelight illuminating his aged face. He examined Kaelen's features carefully.
And those eyes... he whispered. Your left eye is brown. It looks human. It knows fear, and pain. But your right eye... Silas instinctively pulled back. It is pitch black. No pupil. No white. When I look there, I do not see the reflection of the fire. I see only a void. It is as if I am not the one looking, but death itself is staring back at me.
Kaelen touched his right eye. The skin there was cold. When he looked through that eye, the colors of the world faded, leaving only the grey flow of energy.
Is it a curse? Kaelen asked.
In this world, there is a thin line between a gift and a curse, Silas replied. Whatever you see with that eye, that is your destiny.
Kaelen nodded. The memory of Groth... the snowy hill, the dying girl... it still played in a corner of his mind like a faded film. And that right eye was the one that had seen Groth's final breath.
This place... Kaelen said, wishing to change the subject. The pit... why was I cast there?
Silas sighed deeply.
They call it the Pit of Failures. The city above... Nihil... it exists in layers, Kaelen. At the very peak, in stone palaces above the clouds, live the Alchemists and Mages. To them, life is an experiment. Below, amidst the smoke and soot, live the rest of us... the common folk.
Silas drove his knife hard into the wood.
Sometimes... their experiments fail. Sometimes the things they create do not obey as they wish. Then, they flush them down like waste into the valley. You are likely one of them. A broken toy.
Kaelen ground his teeth. I am not broken.
For now, you are, Silas said harshly. But if you could fell Groth with that sword, perhaps those who cast you out made a mistake.
That night, the cabin fell into silence.
Kaelen could not sleep. As he stared at the embers of the fire, he searched for that familiar, crackling sensation in the depths of his mind. That whisper.
...here...
The voice was very faint. Like the howling of the wind.
...above... you must come...
Kaelen closed his eyes. Who are you? he asked in his mind. Where are you?
There was no answer. He felt only an indescribable pull in his chest, drawing him upward toward the peak of that stone city. It was as if an invisible fishing line were hooked into his heart, and someone was winding the reel.
When morning came, Kaelen stood up despite the pain. Leaning against the wall, he made his way to Grief. When he took the sword in his hand, instead of the coldness Silas had described, he felt a familiar warmth. The black blood in his veins greeted the metal.
Silas appeared at the door, holding a dead rabbit.
Are you leaving?
You know I cannot stay, Kaelen said. If I remain here, those voices will drive me mad. I need answers, Silas. And they are in the city on the hill.
Silas nodded. He set the rabbit aside and drew a crude but sturdy leather map from an old chest.
You cannot enter the city through the main gate. The guards would strike down someone like you the moment they saw you. But there are old channels... forgotten paths.
He traced a complex route on the map with his finger.
From here, you will ascend to the Rust District. It is the city's gut. Thieves, smugglers, mercenaries... you can lose yourself among them. But be careful, Kaelen...
The old warrior placed a hand on Kaelen's shoulder. His eyes were sorrowful.
I feel you carrying Groth's burden. Your eyes hold that man's weariness. This sword... it tears a piece of the soul from those it kills, does it not?
Kaelen nodded silently.
Then be careful, Silas said. If you kill too much, you will cease to be yourself. One day, when you look in the mirror, you will see only a graveyard.
Kaelen adjusted his cloak. He slung Grief across his back. Its weight no longer cut into his shoulder; it belonged there.
Perhaps I already am, he said.
As he stepped out of the door and into the grey, misty forest, he did not look back.
The objective was clear: Up. To the heart of that cursed city.
And to the source of the whisper in his mind.