The bells of Haven tolled at dawn, deep and slow, a sound that seemed to vibrate in Kael's chest more than in his ears. He stood with the others in the courtyard before the Wall of Guardians, watching as the people came one by one to place stones, feathers, or etched tokens at the base. The name Arath the Cloud shone faintly in the firelight.
Every race came. Elves in their green-grey cloaks. Dwarves with chisels strapped to their belts. A giant who knelt so low his shadow blanketed half the square. Even demons, their horns curving back, their eyes dark but clear. They bowed their heads to the same name, and Kael realized Arath had been more than his mentor. He had been a bridge.
Vale's voice rose behind him. "He fought with us when others fled. He taught us to see more than walls, more than blood, more than pride. Haven will remember."
Kael bowed his head. He had not spoken since the night before. Not because he had nothing to say, but because the words inside him felt like stones that could not yet be lifted.
When the gathering ended and the candles dimmed, Vale touched his shoulder. "Come with me. There is something you must see."
They walked through tunnels carved into the cliff; their walls etched with faint runes that shimmered like breath. The air grew cooler, heavier. Kael carried Arath's staff, each step echoing as if the old seer walked beside him.
Vale's voice was quiet, but steady. "You know the tales of your father. That he was a general of the Demon-King. That he betrayed him. That he vanished. But what you do not know is what came after."
Kael's chest tightened. "What do you mean?"
"Your father founded us," Vale said simply. "The Rebellion was his dream. Not against demons, not against the Holy Land, but against corruption itself. He believed the world needed a fire to burn away rot. Arath joined him. Others followed. When your father fell, the dream did not. We carried it, waiting for his bloodline to rise again."
Kael stopped. The staff dug into the stone floor as he leaned on it. "He abandoned me. Abandoned my mother. He left us to burn."
Vale's eyes met his, steady and unwavering. "He left because if he had stayed, you would not be alive. The Demon-King would have found you before you could walk. Your father gave his life so your path could continue."
Kael wanted to shout, to deny it, to demand proof. But some part of him had always wondered why he lived when so many had died. Why his father's shadow lingered in whispers and not in chains.
"Why are you telling me this now?" Kael asked hoarsely.
"Because the world will not wait for you to be ready. And because there is something he left for you."
The tunnel opened into a cavern. At its heart lay a circle of graves, carved into the stone floor, each marked with runes glowing faint blue. At the center, raised above the rest, stood a single slab.
Upon it rested a sword.
It was long, its hilt wrapped in dark leather, its cross guard shaped like wings folded in. The blade itself was buried in the stone, only half visible, and runes crawled along its length like living fire. The air around it hummed, as if the blade itself breathed.
Kael felt it before he saw it. The pull, the recognition, the whisper in his blood that told him this was his.
Vale spoke, his voice echoing in the cavern. "The blade of your ancestors. Forged in the days before the Demon-King, when your bloodline swore to guard the gates of the world. It has slept here for generations, waiting for its heir."
Kael stepped forward, his chest tight, his heart hammering. He reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the runes flared. Heat shot through his arm, not burning but searing with memory. He saw flashes, not his own, but of others before him. Warriors standing against darkness. A man whose face mirrored his own, lifting the sword to strike at the Demon-King. His father.
Then the blade rejected him.
A surge of force threw him back across the chamber, slamming him against the wall. The runes dimmed, and the cavern fell silent.
Kael groaned, pushing himself up. Blood ran from his palm where the hilt had cut into him. He looked at Vale, his chest burning with shame. "It does not want me."
Vale's gaze was calm, unpitying. "It does not want half of you. The sorcery of your mother, the strength of your training, they are not enough. This sword was forged to answer the truth of your bloodline. It will only yield to the demon inside you."
Kael's breath came hard, his hands trembling. "I have spent ten years fighting it. Controlling it. If I let it out, I do not know what I will become."
"Then that is the burden of your line," Vale said. "To master not only power, but the choice of how to wield it."
Kael turned to the sword again, the glow of the runes faint now, but steady, waiting. It was his, but only if he embraced the very thing he feared most.
He closed his bleeding hand around Arath's staff, steadying himself. "Not yet," he whispered. "Not until I choose the day."
Vale's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Then train. Grow. And when the time comes, you will face not only the world, but yourself."
As they left the cavern, Kael looked back once. The sword glimmered faintly in the dark, patient, alive. He felt it whisper to him, not in words but in hunger.
It would wait.
But not forever.
The days in Haven became weeks, and the weeks turned into months. Time did not pass in silence as it had on the road. In Haven, time moved in circles, in routine and rhythm. Morning bells called for training. Midday filled with the clamor of markets and forges. Evening belonged to song, debate, or quiet conversation in the courtyards.
Kael had never known such peace. It unsettled him at first. He had grown up in hiding, in forests shadowed by fear, in ruins where survival was a coin flipped each dawn. Haven was different. Here, a demon child could chase a wolf pup without being stoned. Here, an elf could teach a dwarf boy to read the runes of rivers. Here, Kael's demon eyes did not mark him as a monster, though suspicion lingered at the edges.
He spent every spare moment at his mother's side, watching her slow recovery. She still slept more often than not, but her color returned, and sometimes her lips moved as though she whispered names in her dreams. The healer told him healing was not just of the body, but of the soul, and souls needed longer to remember how to be whole.
When he was not with her, he was on the training grounds.
Selena Vale proved herself both patient and relentless. She fought with the clarity of a spring stream, her movements smooth, her sorcery sharp. Where Kael's magic came like a storm, violent and raw, Selena's was a scalpel.
"You throw power like a hammer," she told him one morning as they sparred. She deflected his burst of wind with a precise ward that shimmered like glass. "But sometimes what you need is a needle."
Kael clenched his fists, sweat dripping down his brow. "Needles do not stop demons."
"No, but they open the way to the heart," she replied, stepping in close, her blade at his neck before he could blink. She pulled back, her expression calm. "Control is as much a weapon as strength."
He bristled, but her words stuck. Over time, he began to refine his casting, shaping his wind magic into smaller, sharper bursts, learning to weave sorcery with focus rather than fury.
Their conversations often drifted beyond training. At the edge of the field, as they drank water, Selena would speak of her dreams for the world.
"I want Haven's way to spread," she said one evening as the sun dipped low. "Not just as a hidden refuge, but as an example. Proof that the world does not have to divide itself into races and greed."
Kael listened, unsure if such a world could ever exist outside these walls. But her belief planted something inside him, a seed he did not yet know the name of.
Galen Cassian Jr. was less gentle.
He sparred with Kael often, but never without venom. "Your strength is not yours," Galen said during one duel, their blades clashing. "It belongs to the demon inside you."
Kael pushed back hard, the clang echoing. "Then I will make it mine."
Galen shoved him away with a shoulder. "Or it will make you its."
Their rivalry burned hot. Kael's blood surged whenever Galen spoke, not just with anger but with the sting of truth. Yet every time Galen challenged him, Kael grew sharper. Every insult forced him to push harder, every strike to stand taller.
The tension between them became its own kind of training. And though Galen Cassian never admitted it, Kael noticed his rival's eyes sometimes flicker with grudging respect.
The brothers Far fall brought chaos wherever they went, and Haven loved them for it.
Finnick fell in love at least twice a week. Once, during a sparring match, he stopped mid-swing because an elven girl passed by with a braid of wildflowers in her hair.
"Marry me!" he shouted, dropping his weapon.
The girl laughed, Galen smacked him flat with a practice blade, and Finnick groaned from the dirt, still smiling. "Worth it."
Joren's gambling was no less dramatic. He once bet a pair of boots, a pouch of coins, and, somehow, the right to sit on his favorite bench. He lost all three, then tried to gamble them back, only to lose again.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" Thrain asked, exasperated, as he hauled Joren out of a tavern.
Joren shrugged, blood on his lip, grin crooked. "Because one day I will win, and the story will be worth more than the debt."
For all their antics, the brothers proved themselves in training. Finnick was quick with twin daggers, moving like a shadow, his jokes replaced by deadly silence when blades gleamed. Joren fought with raw force, a heavy club that shattered practice dummies in one swing. Together, they moved with surprising coordination, like two halves of a storm.
Kael found himself laughing more around them than he had in years. They reminded him of the world's absurdity, and of why it was worth saving.
The others grew too.
Thrain, for all his gruffness, took Joren under his wing, teaching him how to hold his weapon properly, how to stand without wasting strength. "A club is not for swinging wildly," he said, smacking Joren's knuckles until he got it right. "It is for ending fights in one blow."
Mira sparred often with Selena, their styles clashing. Mira's magic was jagged, fueled by anger, while Selena's was smooth and calm. Their debates during training became arguments, then grudging respect.
"You trust too easily," Mira snapped once.
"You trust no one," Selena replied. "Neither of us is wrong, but together, perhaps we are stronger."
Elandor watched Kael quietly, offering wisdom in small doses. When Kael stumbled, Elandor would simply say, "Balance." When Kael grew frustrated, Elandor would murmur, "Breath." Slowly, Kael realized the elf was filling the void Arath had left, not by replacing him, but by guiding in silence.
Despite the progress, Kael's nights were restless.
He dreamed of the sword. Always the sword.
Sometimes he stood before it in the cavern, its runes glowing, calling. Other times it was in his hand, its blade shining with power. But in those dreams, his reflection in the steel showed red eyes, horns curling from his brow, and claws at his fingertips.
In one dream, he struck down demons and vampires, only to see his allies lying among the bodies, cut by the same blade. He woke in a cold sweat, the echo of the sword's hum still in his chest.
He whispered into the darkness, "Not yet. Not until I control you."
But the sword whispered back, though without words. It wanted him. It wanted the demon.
Between training and dreams, Kael walked the city. He saw Haven for what it was: fragile, but alive.
Children of different races played in the markets. Merchants traded openly without fear of cheating. Disputes were settled not by swords but by debates in the square. Haven was proof that peace could exist, even if only behind hidden walls.
One evening, Vale stood beside him on the balcony overlooking the city. "Do you see?" he asked.
Kael nodded slowly. "It is what the world could be."
Vale's voice was heavy. "It is what the world once was."
During one night's patrol, Selena walked beside Kael.
"You carry your grief like armor," she said softly. "It protects you, but it also keeps you from feeling the warmth of those around you."
Kael's jaw tightened. "If I let it go, I will forget him."
"You will not forget," Selena said, her gaze steady. "But you must live enough for both of you. Otherwise, his sacrifice is wasted."
Another evening, Galen surprised Kael by speaking honestly after a duel. "My hatred of you is not only for your demon blood. I watched my uncle torn apart by demons when I was a boy. Every time I see your eyes glow, I see that moment. Do not expect me to trust easily."
Kael met his glare and nodded once. "Then I will not ask. I will earn it."
For a moment, Galen's stare softened before he turned away.
Finnick, sitting nearby, ruined the tension by sighing loudly. "Beautiful. Rivals by day, brothers by war. I can already see the ballads. I'll need a lute."
"Or a gag," Joren said.
Months passed. Kael grew faster, sharper, more precise. He could weave wind into blades that cut stone. His fists struck with the strength of his demon blood, though he fought to keep the red glow from consuming him.
Yet every attempt at the family sword failed. The runes rejected him. The blade remained in the stone, waiting, patient.
On the last night of the season, Kael stood again before the sword. His reflection in the steel wavered between human and demon. He whispered, "I will wield you. But on my terms."
The sword hummed faintly, as if amused.
Above him, Haven's bells rang, and the city slept in peace. Kael knew it would not last.
But for now, he trained. He waited. And he carried the weight of both grief and hope.
Kael's mother slept for months. Her body healed, her breath steadied, yet her mind wandered far. To the world, she seemed lost in silence. But inside, her dreams burned with visions.
In the first, she stood on a hill of green. The air was sweet with blossoms, the rivers shone clear as mirrors. Below her stretched a plain where armies of many races had once gathered, but now the plain was scattered with tents, markets, and music.
Humans in simple robes traded openly with elves whose hair shimmered silver. Dwarves carved their names into stone pillars that marked treaties of friendship. Giants raised halls that reached the clouds, not for war but for feasts. Even wolves padded through the camps, not as predators, but as guardians.
It was the world after the Demon-King's fall.
Peace was not a dream then. It was real. For the first time in centuries, the races lived as one. The Demon-King had been banished; his fortress reduced to rubble. The swords of the victors had been planted into the ground, and over time, flowers grew around them.
Kael's mother walked through this memory, her heart heavy with longing. She saw her husband there, his back broad, his hair dark as storm clouds, his demon eyes softened by resolve. He stood beside Arath the Cloud, the seer's cloudy gaze clear with purpose. Together they had helped forge that peace, fragile but radiant.
Yet peace never lasted.
The vision shifted. The blossoms wilted. The rivers darkened.
She stood now in the Holy Land, its towers of white stone shining too brightly, as if to blind. The rulers sat upon thrones of silver, their robes embroidered with gold, their words sweet but sharp.
Behind closed doors, she saw them bargain.
Demons knelt before them, not as prisoners but as partners. Contracts signed in blood, sealed with curses. The Holy Land had claimed to be humanity's salvation, but in truth, they had become something else: greedy, corrupt, drunk on power. They no longer spoke of unity, but of control.
The leaders whispered, "Peace is weakness. Order requires fear."
Kael's mother reached for them, tried to cry out, but the vision pulled her further still.
Now she stood at the gates of shadow. A throne of flame rose in the dark, and upon it sat the Demon-King, vast and terrible. His form was smoke and fire, his crown jagged bone, his eyes pits of endless hunger.
But he was not alone.
At his side stood Malakar, the commander, sworn to clear the path for his return. And behind them, cloaked in deeper shadow, a figure half-seen, Kael's uncle, his father's brother, whose betrayal would one day shake the world.
The throne trembled as the Demon-King spoke. "The boy is the key. My return is written in his blood."
Kael's mother's chest burned with fear. She saw Kael as a child, small and crying, his sisters shielding him, her own arms wrapping him in the forest. She saw the demon raid that had taken her daughters, the shadow that had dragged her away.
Then she saw him older, grown tall, his eyes glowing, the sword of their bloodline in his hands. The visions flickered; one moment, he was a savior, his blade shining as he led armies of every race. Next, he was a destroyer, the sword dripping blood as cities burned.
The visions would not choose. His fate wavered between light and ruin.
She dreamed further still.
Her own family appeared before her: sorcerers of old, her ancestors who had been born with the gift of sealing. They had been guardians, chosen to bind what could not be destroyed. One by one, they spoke, their voices echoing like wind.
"You carry the power of binding. Your line exists to close the gates."
"You gave that gift to your son."
"But he is also the child of destruction."
She fell to her knees, clutching her chest. "Then what will he be?"
The voices answered together, cold and final.
"What he chooses."
Her dreams grew darker. She saw the present world outside Haven. Elves arguing in their council chambers, half calling for war, half for seclusion. Dwarves are splitting into clans, some preparing weapons, others preparing to lock their gates. Giants ringing their mountain bells, unwilling to march. Vampires gathering in blood feasts, wolves hunting to protect border villages, humans struggling in poverty outside the Holy Land's gilded walls.
The world was broken again, just as it had been before the Great War. And Kael stood at its center, whether he wanted to or not.
When she stirred in her bed, the visions still burned in her chest. Her lips moved as though whispering names. Sometimes, Kael thought he heard fragments when he sat beside her. Words like "unity," "chains," and "blood."
One evening, Selena found Kael there, his mother's hand in his.
"She dreams loudly," Selena said softly.
Kael looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I can feel it in the air. Old sorcery moves when she sleeps. Perhaps they are only dreams. Perhaps they are warnings."
Kael glanced at his mother, her face pale but peaceful. "I do not know if I want to hear them."
Selena sat beside him. "Then perhaps you are not meant to. Perhaps you are meant to live them."
Kael looked at the staff resting at his side, at his mother's faintly glowing hand, and felt the truth in Selena's words. His mother's dreams were not only memories. They were maps.
And every map pointed to him.