CHAPTER 1537: STORY 1537: ASH DRAWS BLOOD

The Gate’s groaning did not fade. It echoed like a second heartbeat in the air, slow and relentless, shaking dust from the cracked stone. Every survivor felt it in their bones, an unspoken truth: the Unborn was listening.

But fear is louder than reason.

A man broke ranks first. His face twisted with terror, he charged at Elara, blade raised high. Kael moved faster. Steel clashed, a scream rang out, and the man fell to the ash, blood spilling into the dirt.

For a moment there was silence, horrified, brittle. Then it shattered.

Shouts rose, steel hissed free, and the fragile circle of survivors collapsed into chaos. Some hurled themselves at Kael, convinced he was shielding the curse that doomed them. Others swung at those attackers, desperation clawing into loyalty. The air filled with the savage sound of men and women turning on each other—the sound of survival stripped of mercy.

The scarred woman’s voice cut above the fray, her spear flashing as she struck down a man who faltered before her. “Kill the child and end this! It draws him closer with every breath!”

Elara pressed her back against the chains themselves, clutching the Ashborn Child so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her flame sputtered outward in feeble bursts, keeping blades at bay, her voice cracking as she cried: “Stop! Every strike feeds him! Every drop spilled binds us tighter to his will!”

But no one listened. Bloodlust and terror drowned her words.

Kael fought like a beast cornered. His jagged blade ripped through one attacker, then another, each kill cutting deeper into his soul. He had fought spawn, horrors from the fissures—but this was worse. These were his kin in survival, and now they were falling by his hand.

The scarred woman came for him, spear thrusting with brutal precision. Kael caught the blow on his blade, sparks bursting between them. For a heartbeat, they locked eyes, her fury burning against his defiance.

“You’ll damn us all, warrior,” she snarled.

“And you’ll slit the only throat that might still hold him,” Kael spat back, forcing her weapon aside.

Then the ground convulsed.

A fissure split wide near the base of the Gate, vomiting fire and molten rock. Survivors stumbled back, their brawl breaking into a silence thick with dread. From the rift crawled shapes unlike the spawn they had fought before. These were leaner, taller, their forms disturbingly human. Ember-fire smoldered in their hollow eyes, and their molten claws curled like talons.

They stepped forward, not skittering like beasts but striding like soldiers. Shadows of what humanity might have been, twisted into vessels of ash.

The survivors froze, torn between the enemies before them and the enemies within their own circle.

Kael staggered to Elara’s side, chest heaving, his blade dripping with blood both molten and mortal. The child whimpered faintly, its ember glow pulsing once—answering the Gate, echoing the chains.

The truth struck Kael like cold iron: the Unborn wanted this. Their blades, their rage, their blood—it was fuel.

And with every fracture, he was closer to breaking free.