Date: April 15, 542
The air in the chambers of the central Barrow of the Dead Mire was thick with the acrid, bitter smell of healing ointments and burnt herbs. Thin streams of bluish smoke rose from the censers, weaving into intricate patterns beneath the ceiling, resembling the outlines of enormous wings. The silence here was not peaceful — it was heavy, leaden, as if space itself held its breath, afraid to disturb the rest of the man lying on a bed of furs.
Prince Kazai opened his eyes. The first thing he felt was not pain, but weight. His own body felt as if it were cast from pig iron. Moving even a single finger required a conscious effort, as if he were trying to shift a mountain. His chest, shoulders, and arms were tightly bandaged with clean linen, through which yellowish stains of medicinal compounds showed in places.
He slowly sat up, ignoring his muscles' protesting groan. His inner heat — his essence — no longer resembled a raging fire or the torn flame of battle. Now it was a deep, measured hum. Kazai listened to his Vessel. After absorbing the Orled's essence and the extreme strain of two Sin Spirits, his energy channels had not simply recovered — they had become wider and stronger. The density of his radiance was now such that he felt the vibrations of the Barrow's walls without effort. The Pillar rank had become too narrow for him. The boundary separating him from the Harbinger step had become a thin, transparent veil, needing only a slight push to cross.
"You are awake, my Prince."
Khlis's voice came from the door. The Adept entered soundlessly, but Kazai had sensed his approach long before the floorboard creaked. Behind Khlis, frozen in a bow, stood three Harbingers and several elders of the Dead Mire, their bodies covered in ritual scars.
Kazai did not bother to dress — his current state, clad in bloodstained bandages, inspired more awe than any crown. He sat upright, his pale, unmutated face in the semi-darkness of the hall like a mask of an ancient deity.
"Report, Khlis," Kazai said. His voice, still hoarse, had gained a new, metallic depth.
The Adept knelt. In his eyes was no longer paternal concern or a shadow of doubt. Only absolute devotion.
"The Dead Mire has been fully sworn in," Khlis began, not raising his head. "The Patriarch and his Council of Seven have recognized your will as the sole law. Their stores and warriors are now at your disposal. But that is the least of the news."
Khlis paused, and the hall grew even colder. The Harbingers standing behind him dared not even breathe.
"Word of your battle with the Orled has spread through the Cursed Tribe like wildfire," the Adept continued. "Tales of how a Prince of Pillar rank alone pierced the heart of a Harbinger have made even the most hardened skeptics tremble. Those clans that once whispered about your 'youth' and 'unblemished face' now send messengers first, begging to join your banner. The Rotten Kin are wiped out, the Dead Mire is conquered... the Shadows of the Graveyards and the Bone Hills Tribe have already declared their loyalty. They fear you, my lord. But more than that, they believe in your potential."
Kazai listened, and a faint, cold smile appeared on his lips. His Spirit of Pride, hidden deep within his Vessel, responded to these words with a quiet, approving hum. His will, tempered in the Harbinger's blood, now felt like an unshakeable spine upon which reality itself was threaded.
"The Cursed Tribe has been a scattered pack of cripples for too long," Kazai slowly rose, leaning on Khlis's arm. Each of his steps on the bone floor of the Barrow echoed with a dull vibration. "We taught the world to see us as victims or a nuisance. But now... now they will see us as a sentence."
The prince walked to the window. Outside, in the swamp's fog, hundreds of warriors of the Dead Mire stood frozen, awaiting his appearance. He felt their collective fear, mixed with reverence. This was the fuel that strengthened his resolve to go further.
"What do the healers say?" Kazai asked, looking at his bandaged hands.
"Your channels are recovering at an alarming rate," Khlis handed him a goblet of strengthening brew. "The density of your essence already exceeds the norm for a Pillar several times over. One more such push... and you will step onto the Harbinger step yourself."
"It will happen soon," Kazai drained the goblet and set it aside. "But rank is just a form. My goal is not simply to become stronger. My goal is to forge from this Tribe a blade that will cut through the old laws of this world. We will build a Better World for the Cursed. A world where no one dares to call our energy 'black' or 'corrupted.' It will be called the Power of Conquerors."
He turned to his subordinates. His piercing, icy gaze made the Harbingers lower their heads even further.
"Khlis. Prepare the march east. We have united the swamps; now it's time to look to the Gray Gorges. If they do not bow to my name, they will bow to my Wrath. The time for hiding in the shadows is over."
Kazai straightened to his full height. The bandages on his chest stretched, emphasizing the power of his recovering muscles. He felt within him the pulsing power of two Sins — Pride and Wrath — ready at the first call to tear the heavens. His path was clear, and every drop of spilled blood only made his steps firmer.
That evening, there were no stars over the Dead Mire. But the black radiance emanating from the central Barrow was brighter than any celestial body. Prince Kazai had taken possession of his destiny, and soon the entire continent, from the Iron Maw to the Golden Hold, would feel the weight of his shadow.