CHAPTER 1539: STORY 1539: THE VOICE IN THE CHAINS

The word slithered through the ash like smoke, yet it pressed into every ear as though whispered at the nape of the neck. “My children...”

The battlefield stilled. Even the ember-wrought soldiers halted mid-stride, their molten forms quivering as the sound vibrated through them. The chains across the Cinder Gate blazed brighter, each link ringing as if struck by invisible hammers.

The survivors clutched their heads, groaning. Some dropped their blades, others fell to their knees, unable to shut out the voice that was not heard but felt—an echo in the marrow, in the soul.

Kael staggered, planting his sword into the ash to keep himself upright. The voice burrowed into his mind, prying at memories, twisting his doubts into barbs. “You fight. You bleed. Yet still you come to me. Why resist? You were forged for this.”

Elara cried out, clutching the child tighter. The glow in its chest pulsed violently, as though trying to answer the call. “No,” she whispered, though her voice was raw, torn. “You are not his. You are not...”

The child whimpered, ember eyes opening for a moment—reflecting chains, fire, and sorrow. “Father...”

The scarred woman dropped to one knee, her spear shaking in her grip. Blood streaked her face, but it was not battle that bowed her—it was submission clawing into her heart. The voice wrapped around her fury, promising release.

“You feel it too,” she gasped, teeth bared against the invisible weight. Her eyes burned with a dangerous clarity as she turned toward Kael. “We cannot fight him. But we can end his tether. Kill the child, and maybe the Gate stills.”

Her followers murmured in agreement, voices breaking, desperate. Some rose, blades wavering as the Unborn’s will slithered deeper into their cracks of fear.

Kael forced a roar through his clenched teeth, swinging his jagged blade wide, its edge catching the glow of the Gate. “Do not listen! It feeds on your fear—on your surrender!”

But even he felt the tug, the lure of laying down the burden, of dropping the blade and letting the chains snap. For one poisoned heartbeat, it felt like peace.

The ember-wrought soldiers moved again, but slower now, their steps in rhythm with the voice. They were not simply attacking—they were escorting, guiding, closing in to claim the child.

Elara pressed her forehead to the boy’s, flame trembling along her shoulders. Her voice broke into a sob. “Kael, I can’t hold him back much longer. If the child answers again...”

Kael’s grip on his blade bled, his knuckles raw. His eyes swept the survivors—half-turned to the child, half-broken by the voice—and the scarred woman, spear poised to strike either him or the ember-wrought.

The voice deepened, the chains thrumming in time with every syllable: “One chain breaks for every drop of blood. Give me the key... and I will end your war.”

The survivors froze between blade and surrender, salvation and doom.

And Kael knew the choice would not wait for dawn.