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Eternal Fracture
The Burden of Blood

The Burden of Blood

The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating everything in their path. Aethren felt his heart race, his mind struggling to grasp the full weight of the figure's words. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but his grip was shaky. The man—if he could still be called that—stood before him, a decaying relic of a once-living being, but his words held a truth that chilled Aethren to his core.

"The blood of the First Kings?" Aethren echoed, his voice hoarse. "What do you mean?"

The figure's hollow eyes locked onto his with an intensity that felt too piercing, too knowing. "You are the one, aren't you?" The man’s voice was slow, deliberate. "The prophecy speaks of a warrior with the blood of the kings. A bloodline long hidden, lost to history. You—" he paused, his skeletal hands clutching at the tattered robes he wore, "you bear it. I can see it in your eyes. The mark of the First Kings, the last hope to control the key.”

Aethren staggered backward, the revelation hitting him like a physical blow. "I... I don’t know what you're talking about. I’m no king. I’m just a soldier."

The figure let out a hollow laugh, though it was laced with sadness. "You may not know it, but the blood runs deeper than you think. It was hidden, erased from history to protect you—and to protect the world. The bloodline of the First Kings was cursed, their power too great, too dangerous. But now, in this age, it calls to you."

Elyra stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "If what you say is true, then why didn’t anyone tell him? Why hide it?"

The man’s ghastly smile twisted. "Because the key—this key—is not just a weapon. It is a burden. The one who wields it must bear the weight of the darkness it contains. The First Kings sealed away more than just an ancient evil—they sealed away a part of themselves, a part of the world’s very soul, so that it would never again rise. And now that seal is weakening."

Aethren’s mind reeled. Bloodline? A king’s blood? The weight of it all was unbearable, and yet something deep inside of him—something primal, ancient—stirred. It was as though he had always known this truth, buried in the back of his mind, waiting for the right moment to resurface.

The figure’s voice was faint, like the last whispers of the dead. "The key is bound to you. The prophecy has begun. You will find the city. You will enter. And you will face what is left of the First Kings' legacy."

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Aethren took a step back, his pulse quickening. "I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be part of some prophecy. I’m just trying to stop the darkness from consuming everything."

Rhael, who had been silent until now, spoke up, his voice cutting through the tension. "So what does this mean? How does he wield this power?"

The figure’s gaze shifted to Rhael, and for a moment, Aethren could see something—recognition, perhaps—a deep understanding of the way the world was woven. "It’s not about wielding power. It’s about containing it. The key isn’t a weapon you use—it is a force you control. But to control it, you must understand the cost."

Elyra’s voice was steady, though her concern was clear. "What cost? What happens to him?"

The man’s eyes closed briefly, as if savoring the bitterness of his words. "You will face the darkness. Not just as an enemy, but as part of yourself. The power of the First Kings comes with a price. The longer you hold the key, the more of your own soul you will lose. It will consume you, as it consumed all those who came before you."

Aethren shook his head, disbelief mingling with the terror curling in his gut. "No... I won’t let that happen. I’ll find a way."

"You cannot escape it," the figure replied, his voice turning almost mournful. "That is why the key was hidden. That is why the bloodline was erased. Because once the key is found, the cycle begins again. The darkness stirs, and the one who holds the key must face it. There is no victory—only delay."

The figure’s body began to fade, dissolving into the mist like a wisp of smoke. His voice echoed one last time, a fading warning.

"Beware, warrior. The key is more than just a symbol of power. It is a symbol of your fate."

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The Fog of the Marshes

Aethren stood in stunned silence, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and dread. The figure’s words echoed relentlessly in his head, taunting him, warning him. The bloodline of the First Kings? The key? The prophecy? He had never asked for any of it, never wanted to be tied to a legacy that seemed to carry so much danger, so much darkness.

But as much as he wanted to deny it, as much as he wanted to walk away and leave this cursed place behind, a part of him—the same part that had driven him to fight, to survive—knew that he could not. The darkness was coming. And whether he liked it or not, he was the only one who could stop it.

"We need to move forward," Elyra said softly, breaking the silence. Her voice was laced with understanding, but also with a heavy sense of urgency. "We don’t have much time. If the key is tied to you, then we need to find it—before the darkness finds us first."

Rhael looked at Aethren, his expression unreadable. "This is bigger than us. But if you say you're ready to face it, then we’ll follow you. We’ve always followed you."

Aethren turned toward the mist, his resolve hardening like steel. He didn’t know what the future held, or what the cost of this journey would be. But one thing was clear: he couldn’t stop now.

The City of Lost Souls awaited. And with it, the key that could either save the world—or doom it forever.