Chapter 34
CAIN
The Cenite Deadlands lived up to their name.
Here, the wind didn't just blow; it screamed, tearing across the jagged black cliffs with the sound of a thousand dying souls. There was no vegetation, only twisted, petrified wood and stone that looked like broken teeth jutting from the earth.
I stood at the edge of the illusion, the wind whipping my coat around my legs like a banner of war.
In my left hand, Aemelia’s orb pulsed with a furious, blinding white light. It was a searing heat against my palm, struggling to tear through the veil Malathor had woven.
In my right hand, I held my sword.
The blade was not made of steel. It was forged from star-metal and quenched in the blood of the first Void-Beasts. It hummed in my grip, a low, thrumming vibration that matched the murderous cadence of my heart.
"Find them," I whispered.
Beside me, Rhana was a shadow made flesh. Her fur was bristling, her lips pulled back to reveal fangs the length of daggers. She let out a sound that was less of a growl and more of a tectonic rumble.
I raised the orb.
"Break."
I didn't ask the magic to work; I commanded it. I poured my own power—the heavy, suffocating weight of the Death Touch—into the delicate crystal.
The reaction was violent. The orb flared, shooting a beam of pure clarity into the empty air ahead.
The air shattered.
Like a mirror cracking, the empty landscape splintered and fell away, revealing the truth hidden behind the Obscurer’s curtain.
A fortress.
It was a monstrosity of black stone and iron, perched precariously on the cliff edge, surrounded by swirling vortexes of grey mist. Malathor’s lair.
"Kill them all," I said to Rhana. "Leave Malathor to me."
We moved.
We didn't run; we struck.
The first line of defence was a unit of mercenaries stationed at the gate. There were ten of them. Heavily armoured, weapons drawn, looking confident in their numbers.
They didn't stand a chance.
I didn't even slow down. I reached the first male, a big specimen wielding knives. He swung. I sidestepped, moving faster than humanly possible, and placed my hand on his forehead.
The Death Touch needed skin contact to work. That and intent.
I turned the dial to max.
The metal of his armour turned grey instantly. The male inside didn't even have time to scream. His life force was ripped from him in a violent abyss, his body withering, turning to ash inside his suit. He collapsed, a pile of empty armour and dust.
The others hesitated. That was their mistake.
My sword sang.
I became a whirlwind of ruin. I severed heads, limbs, and their weapons with efficient, brutal grace. I wasn't fighting; I was cleaning. I was removing obstacles that stood between me and Ophelia, all while consuming the pain I inflicted.
Rhana was a blur of violence beside me, tearing throats out, her shadow-form allowing her to slip through guards like smoke and solidify only to kill.
We breached the heavy doors of the estate, Rhana’s armoured shoulder slamming into the timber with a bone-shaking crunch that turned the ancient wood to shrapnel.
The main hall was vast, lit by floating torches that burned with a cold, blue flame.
And there, waiting for me, was the barrier.
It wasn't a wall. It was a field of distorted gravity and solidified shadow—Obscurer magic of the highest order. It rippled across the center of the hall, separating me from the grand staircase that led to the upper levels.
And behind it, standing on the landing, was Malathor.
He looked unbothered. Arrogant. He held a glass of wine in one hand, his other resting on the railing. Perched on his shoulder was his familiar—Evar. His cursed raven, the size of an eagle, its feathers shimmering with an oil-slick iridescence, its eyes burning with intelligent malice.
"You are louder than I expected, Cain," Malathor called out, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the hall. "I thought you preferred the shadows."
"I am the shadow," I replied, my voice calm, dead. "And I have come to swallow you whole."
I stepped toward the barrier.
"You can try," Malathor sneered. "These are Ancient Wards, Cain. Woven with—"
I swung my sword into the field.
The impact sent a shockwave through my arm that rattled my teeth. The blade sparked, the star-metal screeching against the magic. It didn't break. The barrier held.
"You cannot cut through it," Malathor laughed. "It feeds on kinetic energy. The harder you hit, the stronger it gets."
He took a sip of his wine. He raised a hand, and the room tilted.
The staircase vanished. The floor melted into a pool of black oil. The pillars elongated, twisting like snakes.
Obscurer magic. He was warping my perception, trying to make me doubt the ground beneath my feet.
"She screams prettily, by the way," Malathor’s voice echoed from everywhere at once, disembodied. "Your little Aenite whore. She is quite vocal when she thinks you aren't coming."
The world went red.
The rage that exploded in my chest wasn't hot; it was absolute zero. It was the end of all things.
"Open it," I roared.
"Make me."
I dropped the orb. It rolled across the stone floor.
I didn't need Aemelia’s light anymore. I needed darkness.
I plunged my sword into the stone floor, anchoring myself against the vertigo. Then, I reached out with both hands, digging my fingers into the magical fabric of the barrier—the only thing in the room that felt real.
The pain was excruciating. The magic burned my gloves, searing the skin of my palms. It felt like grabbing a lightning bolt.
I ignored it.
I accessed the core of my power—the Death Touch. But I didn't use it to kill a person. I used it to kill the magic itself.
"Everything dies," I snarled, the veins in my neck bulging, the shadows around me expanding until they filled the hall, snuffing out the torches one by one. "Even your spells."
I poured necrotic energy into the ward. I drained it. I sucked the life out of the weave, turning the vibrant, purple energy into grey sludge.
The illusions flickered. The staircase reappeared. The oil solidified back into stone.
Malathor’s smile faltered. He stepped back, the wine glass slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.
"Impossible," he whispered.
With a final, primal scream of effort, I tore the barrier apart.
It exploded outward, blasting the stone pillars and sending debris raining down. I didn't wait for the dust to settle. I snatched my sword from the ground and launched myself up the stairs.
"Evar!" Malathor screamed.
The raven launched.
It didn't fly like a bird; it flew like a dart, faster than sound. It aimed straight for my eyes.
Rhana intercepted.
She leapt from the ground floor, a massive arc of black fur. She collided with the raven in mid-air.
Evar was fast, and vicious. The bird’s talons, enchanted and razor-sharp, raked across Rhana’s flank, tearing through her shadow-hide. Bright, crimson blood sprayed onto the stairs.
Rhana yelped, a sound that tore at my heart, but she didn't let go. She twisted in the air, her massive jaws snapping shut around the raven’s wing.
There was a sickening crunch of hollow bones.
Evar shrieked—a sound of utter agony—and plummeted to the ground, Rhana landing on top of him. She didn't hesitate. She ripped the bird apart, feathers and magic dissipating into the air.
I reached the landing.
Malathor was backing away, his arrogance replaced by genuine fear. He raised his hands, summoning a cloud of blinding, choking fog.
"You cannot see me!" he yelled, his voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere.
"I don't need to see you," I said, closing my eyes. "I can smell your fear."
I sensed the displacement of air to my left, and I swung my sword.
The blade connected with something hard—magic shielding—but the force of the blow shattered it. Malathor cried out as the impact threw him across the room, crashing into a heavy oak table.
I walked toward him. My boots were heavy on the floorboards.
He scrambled up, blood trickling from his nose. He tried throwing something at me.
I caught it.
I caught the magical lie in my left hand, the Death Touch absorbing the energy, neutralising it instantly.
"Is that it?" I asked, stepping closer. "Is that the power you thought made you worthy of her? Lies and deceit?”
Malathor’s eyes were wide, frantic. He looked around for an exit, for help. There was none. The hallway was empty. No other acolytes. No guards. Just me.
He pulled a dagger from his sheath—a pathetic, desperate move.
He lunged.
I dropped my sword. I didn't need it for this.
I caught his wrist mid-air.
The snap of his radius was loud in the silence.
Malathor screamed, dropping the knife.
I didn't stop. I grabbed his throat with my other hand and lifted him off the ground. I slammed him against the stone wall, my fingers digging into his windpipe.
"Where is she?" I roared, shaking him.
"She... she..." He clawed at my hands, his face turning purple. "She is... broke... en..."
The lie—or the truth, I didn't know—sent me over the edge.
I placed my hand—the Death Hand—over his heart.
But I didn't kill him.
I used the touch like a scalpel. I pushed the necrosis past his skin, past the muscle, and wrapped it around his ribcage. I made his bones rot.
Slowly.
"AAAAHHHHRRRGGGHHH!"
His scream was a symphony. It was the most beautiful sound I had heard all day.
"Do you feel that?" I whispered, leaning in close, my eyes burning into his. "That is your marrow turning to dust, Malathor. I can do this to every inch of you. I can make your blood turn to acid. I can make your eyes wither in their sockets."
I dialled the power up. Just a fraction.
His skin began to grey, flaking off like parchment. He thrashed, convulsing, his bladder emptying in terror.
"Please!" he shrieked. "Please! Kill me! Just kill me already!”
"Kill you?" I laughed, and it was a sound Void of sanity. "No. Death is peace. You don't get peace. You touched what was mine."
I moved my hand to his shoulder. I rotted the joint instantly. His arm went limp, hanging by a thread of dead muscle.