Night had fallen by the time the rebels returned to Dranholt. The victory over the convoy brought more than just much-needed supplies—it brought whispers of hope. Word of their success spread quickly, and the villagers who had once eyed Alric with suspicion now watched him with a mixture of curiosity and cautious respect.

  But hope was a fragile thing, Alric knew. It could turn to doubt in an instant.

  He stood on the edge of the village, staring into the firelight as rebels celebrated their hard-won triumph. Iridia had insisted they rest and eat before discussing their next move, but Alric found no comfort in the revelry. His thoughts were too heavy, his body too tense.

  Kaelion materialized beside him, leaning casually against the frame of a nearby hut. “Why so glum, boy? You won. Enjoy it while you can.”

  Alric shot him a sidelong glance. “We lost people today. I saw them die. And for what? A few wagons of food and steel? Mordain won’t even notice.”

  Kaelion snorted. “Mordain will notice. Trust me. It doesn’t matter how small the victory—it’s a crack in his armor. You’ve made him bleed. Now you make the crack wider.”

  Alric sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is simple,” Kaelion said. “It’s just not easy. There’s a difference.”

  Alric fell silent, staring into the flames as he tried to quiet his thoughts. But before he could speak again, a chill washed over him. The air seemed to grow heavier, and the faint hum of whispers brushed against his mind.

  “Alric…”

  The voice was back—the same cold, insidious whisper that had haunted him since the tavern.

  Kaelion’s form tensed, his golden eyes narrowing. “They’re here again.”

  Alric gritted his teeth, gripping the hilt of the dagger at his side. “Who are they? Why do they keep—”

  Before he could finish, the world around him seemed to shift. The village faded, replaced by a vast, shadowy expanse. The air was thick and cold, and the ground beneath him was smooth and reflective, like black glass.

  And then he saw them.

  Figures began to take shape in the darkness, their forms vague and shifting like smoke. They surrounded him, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of whispers.

  “You cannot escape us, prince…”

  “We are your blood…”

  “Your power is ours to claim…”

  Alric spun in place, his heart racing. “Show yourselves!” he shouted. “Stop hiding in the shadows!”

  One of the figures stepped forward, its form solidifying into a man clad in dark robes. His face was pale, almost skeletal, and his eyes burned with a cold, crimson light. He smiled, his teeth gleaming like polished ivory.

  “You’re bold to demand anything from us,” the figure said, his voice smooth and mocking. “But I’ll humor you.”

  Kaelion’s voice rang in Alric’s mind, sharp with warning. “Careful, boy. This one is dangerous.”

  Alric’s hand tightened on the dagger as he faced the robed figure. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

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  The man tilted his head, his smile widening. “I am Maltheron, the Keeper of Secrets. And I want what you’ve already begun to give.”

  Alric frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Maltheron said, taking a step closer, “that every time you draw on our power, every time you summon one of us, you give us a little more of yourself. Your strength. Your will. Your soul.”

  Alric’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to stand firm. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” Maltheron said, his tone almost playful. “Tell me, prince—have you felt it yet? The weight in your mind? The pull you can’t quite resist? That’s us. That’s me. And the more you rely on us, the less of you there will be.”

  Kaelion stepped forward, his spectral form blazing with golden light. “Enough of your poison, Maltheron. You’ve had your say. Leave the boy alone.”

  Maltheron chuckled, his crimson eyes flicking to Kaelion. “Ah, Kaelion the Bold. Still playing the noble warrior, I see. Tell me, how long do you think you can keep him from the truth?”

  Kaelion growled, his hand resting on the hilt of a spectral blade. “Get back, Maltheron. Now.”

  Maltheron raised his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish. But remember this, prince.” He turned his burning gaze back to Alric. “We are bound to you, just as you are bound to us. And in the end, the blood will always claim its own.”

  The shadowy figures began to dissolve, their whispers fading into silence. The cold, dark expanse flickered and disappeared, and Alric found himself back in the village, standing in the firelight with Kaelion beside him.

  Alric staggered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “What… what was that?”

  Kaelion’s expression was grim. “That was Maltheron. One of the Echoes you awakened. He’s an ancient blood mage—powerful, cunning, and dangerous. You’d do well to ignore his whispers.”

  Alric swallowed hard, his pulse still racing. “He said I’m giving you my soul. That the more I use your power, the more I lose myself.”

  Kaelion hesitated, and that hesitation told Alric everything he needed to know.

  “It’s complicated,” Kaelion said finally. “Our power comes at a cost. That much is true. But you’re stronger than you think. You can hold onto yourself—if you’re careful.”

  Alric shook his head, his frustration boiling over. “You should’ve told me this from the start. How can I trust you if you’re keeping things from me?”

  Kaelion’s golden eyes burned. “Because you don’t have a choice! You think you can survive without us? That you can take back your throne on your own? You’d be dead already if it weren’t for me.”

  Alric opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. Kaelion was right. Without the Echoes, he would’ve been killed a dozen times over.

  But that didn’t make the truth any easier to swallow.

  “Fine,” Alric said quietly. “But no more secrets. If there’s something I need to know, you tell me. Agreed?”

  Kaelion’s expression softened slightly. “Agreed.”

  The next morning, Alric met with Iridia and the other rebel leaders in a makeshift war room—a crude map of the region spread across a rickety wooden table. Iridia stood at the head, her arms crossed as she addressed the group.

  “Our scouts report that Mordain’s forces are regrouping,” she said. “They’ve established a forward camp in the valley to the east, and they’re mobilizing for a counterattack.”

  “How many men?” one of the rebels asked.

  “Too many for us to face head-on,” Iridia replied. “But if we can disrupt their supply lines and weaken their defenses, we might stand a chance.”

  Alric studied the map, his mind racing. The fight with the convoy had been a small victory, but this… this was a real challenge. If they failed, it could mean the end of the rebellion.

  “I’ll lead the next attack,” Alric said, his voice firm.

  The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. Iridia raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes,” Alric said. “If the rebels are going to follow me, I need to show them I’m willing to fight alongside them. And I have an idea.”

  Iridia’s expression softened slightly, and she nodded. “Let’s hear it.”

  Alric leaned over the map, tracing a path with his finger. “We’ll strike at night, under the cover of darkness. I’ll take a small group to infiltrate the camp and sabotage their supplies. If we can cripple their food stores and set their weapons cache ablaze, they’ll be in no shape to fight.”

  The rebels murmured among themselves, some nodding in agreement. Iridia studied Alric for a long moment before giving a single, sharp nod.

  “All right, prince,” she said. “You’ve got your chance. Don’t waste it.”

  Alric straightened, determination hardening in his chest. The road ahead was dangerous, but he wouldn’t back down.

  Maltheron’s words still lingered in his mind, a shadow that refused to be banished.

  The blood will always claim its own.

  Alric didn’t know how much of himself he could afford to lose. But for now, the rebellion came first.

  And so, as the sun rose over Dranholt, Alric prepared to lead his first true strike against the empire.