Ashes of the Forsaken

Kieran kept his expression unreadable, though every muscle in his body remained taut, ready. Varian Drake had always been dangerous.

It wasn't his strength—though he was trained, and a veteran of duels. It wasn't his rank—though his name carried weight within the noble courts.

It was his mind.

Varian had always been three moves ahead of everyone else. Even now, standing in the doorway of Lord Edgar Valtheris's study, he was already planning his next step.

And Kieran had walked straight into his hands.

The noble let out a soft chuckle, his gaze flicking to the broken wax seal in Kieran's hand. "I see you've been busy."

Kieran rolled his shoulders, feigning ease. "You know me."

"Better than most." Varian stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. "And yet, I have to admit—I didn't expect to see you alive."

"Neither did I."

Varian hummed in amusement. "Then tell me, Kieran—why exactly are you here?"

Kieran watched him carefully, searching for the trap hidden beneath the noble's pleasant tone. Varian wasn't surprised enough.

He had known.

Or at the very least, he had expected something like this.

Kieran exhaled slowly. "I could ask you the same thing."

Varian smirked. "You could."

A silence stretched between them. The estate walls seemed closer than before, the candlelight dimmer.

Varian's fingers drummed against his forearm. "You were always too stubborn to stay dead. But now that you're here, I'll ask again—what are you looking for?"

Kieran considered his answer carefully.

He could lie. But Varian would see through it.

He could remain silent. But Varian would fill in the blanks himself.

So instead, he tilted his head slightly and played along. "What do you think?"

Varian's gaze flickered. "Answers."

Kieran said nothing.

Varian let out a soft sigh. "You always were predictable."

"That's an interesting take," Kieran mused. "Considering I was executed before I could be predictable."

Varian chuckled. "And yet here we are."

Kieran took a slow step forward, rolling the parchment between his fingers. "I have to admit, Varian, you're handling this remarkably well. I'd expect most people to be shocked to see a dead man standing."

"Trust me," Varian said dryly, "I'm screaming on the inside."

Kieran huffed a quiet laugh.

But the tension remained.

Because behind the ease in Varian's tone, behind the amusement in his gaze—he was watching Kieran carefully.

Measuring. Calculating.

Kieran leaned against the desk, exhaling through his nose. "Since we're being honest, I have a question."

Varian gestured loosely. "By all means."

Kieran lifted the parchment. "Why does this letter say that my execution was planned long before my trial?"

Varian's smile didn't falter. "Because it was."

The casual response sent a slow, cold weight settling into Kieran's chest.

Varian didn't even try to deny it.

Kieran's fingers curled around the parchment. "So you knew."

"Of course."

Kieran stared at him. "You watched me die."

Varian sighed, tilting his head slightly. "I did."

Kieran's grip tightened.

Varian met his gaze, unreadable. "Do you remember it?"

A headache pulsed behind Kieran's eyes.

The memory was fractured, just like the others.

The crowd's roar.

The cold bite of iron shackles.

The gleaming blade of the executioner's axe.

And Varian—standing in the front row, watching with perfect indifference.

Kieran's breath hitched.

Varian's lips curled slightly. "You don't, do you?"

Kieran forced the memory back, locking it away before it could drag him under. "Why did you let it happen?"

Varian exhaled. "Because I had to."

"That's not an answer."

"No," Varian admitted. "But it's the only one you're getting."

Kieran's jaw clenched. Varian was still playing his games.

But Kieran had played this game before.

And he wasn't going to lose.

Kieran crossed his arms, studying the noble. "You had me executed, but now you're here, handing me answers. What changed?"

Varian gave a slow shrug. "Maybe I'm curious."

Kieran arched a brow. "About what?"

Varian's smirk deepened. "How you came back."

Kieran didn't respond.

Because the truth was—he didn't know.

The last thing he remembered was dying.

The world had ended in fire and shadow. But when he had opened his eyes again, it was as if it had never happened.

And now, standing in this room, Varian watching him like an unsolved puzzle, Kieran couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.

Varian took another step forward, dropping his voice. "Kieran. If you're going to chase this ghost, you'd better be ready for what you find."

"I don't have a choice."

Varian sighed. "Then let me give you something."

He reached into his coat.

Kieran's muscles tensed. His fingers twitched toward his belt—only to remember he was unarmed.

But Varian didn't pull a dagger.

Instead, he held out a folded piece of parchment.

Kieran stared at it. "What is this?"

"Your next step."

Slowly, Kieran took it and unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the neatly written names.

Names he recognized.

Men who had vanished the night he was arrested.

At the bottom, a final note.

"One remains."

Kieran's breath slowed.

Someone was still alive.

Someone who might have the answers he needed.

Varian watched his reaction carefully.

Kieran exhaled. "Why are you helping me?"

Varian smirked. "Who said I was?"

Then he turned, stepping back toward the door. "Try not to die before you make things interesting."

And just like that—he was gone.

Kieran remained in the study, the list of names burning in his grip.

One remains.

His pulse quickened.

There was still someone alive who knew the truth.

And now, he had a lead.

The study was silent, save for the faint crackle of candlelight flickering against the stone walls. Kieran stood motionless, the list of names in his hand burning in his grip far more than the parchment should have allowed.

One remains.

The words were simple. Terrifying in their implication.

Kieran had spent the past few days crawling through the shadows of the city, piecing together scraps of his past, trying to understand the game that had already been played before he ever returned. But now he had something real. A living piece of that puzzle.

A man who had survived the purge.

Someone who knew what happened that night.

Kieran exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. His ribs still ached from the earlier fight, his limbs still sluggish from a body that didn't yet feel like his. But it didn't matter.

He had work to do.

The city had grown colder in the hours since he had entered the estate. Mist curled through the slums, swallowing the lanterns that barely kept the streets illuminated. The cobblestone beneath his boots was slick with condensation, the scent of damp wood and stale ale clinging to the air.

Kieran moved with purpose, keeping to the narrow alleys where the city guard rarely tread. His cloak billowed slightly as he passed through the backways and abandoned corridors of the city, slipping into the underbelly where whispers held more weight than gold.

The name at the bottom of the list was familiar.

Renald Marrow.

A minor noble. Someone who had never held real power but had always hovered at the edges of greater men's ambitions. If the others had vanished or been silenced, why had Renald been spared?

Kieran intended to find out.

He approached a small dockside tavern, its wooden beams sagging under the weight of time. The sign above the door had long since lost its paint, the name faded beyond recognition.

Kieran stepped inside.

The stench of salt, sweat, and spilled ale greeted him first. The kind of air that never truly cleared, no matter how many doors were left open.

The tavern was nearly empty—a few sailors gambling in the corner, a hooded figure nursing a drink at the far end of the bar, and a man seated alone near the back.

Kieran's gaze flicked toward the lone figure.

Renald Marrow.

He was thinner than Kieran remembered. His once-rich clothing had been reduced to a threadbare coat, his noble rings gone, his hair unkempt.

A man who had fallen far.

Kieran approached the table without hesitation, sliding into the seat across from him.

Renald looked up, bleary-eyed, his fingers tightening around the cup of cheap liquor in his grasp.

Then he saw Kieran's face.

And his entire body went still.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Renald licked his lips, his breath unsteady. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no. You're dead."

Kieran smiled slightly. "Not quite."

Renald shoved himself backward, nearly tipping his chair over in his attempt to escape. His hands trembled as he clutched at the wooden table, his breath ragged.

Kieran didn't move.

He let the silence settle.

"Sit down, Renald." His voice was quiet, measured. "You and I need to talk."

Renald looked ready to bolt. His gaze darted toward the tavern entrance—calculating the distance, the likelihood of making it outside before Kieran stopped him.

Kieran exhaled and leaned forward slightly. "If you run," he said, "I won't chase you."

Renald hesitated.

Kieran tilted his head. "But someone else might."

That did it.

Renald's panic didn't fade, but it shifted—no longer just fear of Kieran, but fear of something else entirely.

Something bigger.

Renald swallowed, then slowly, shakily, sank back into his seat.

Kieran watched him carefully.

Good.

Renald's hands still trembled as he reached for his drink. He took a deep swallow, coughing slightly as the liquor burned his throat. His eyes flicked toward Kieran's face every few seconds, as if he expected him to disappear like a specter in the dark.

"You shouldn't be here," Renald muttered.

Kieran arched a brow. "Why not?"

Renald let out a hollow laugh. "Because you're dead."

"Clearly, that's not the case."

Renald's expression twisted. "No. It should be."

Kieran didn't respond. He let the words settle.

Renald exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I don't know what you want, Kieran. I don't know how you got out, and frankly, I don't want to know." His fingers curled against the wood. "But if you're smart, you'll leave before they find you again."

Kieran studied him. "Who?"

Renald went silent.

Kieran leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "You were there that night. The night I was arrested. You and the others. But you're the only one still breathing. Why?"

Renald's jaw tightened.

Kieran tapped the parchment against the table. "This list says you're the only survivor."

Renald closed his eyes. "You think that makes me lucky?"

Kieran didn't answer.

Renald let out a bitter laugh. "The others? They were erased. Not just killed—erased. Their families disappeared. Their estates burned to the ground. Every trace of their existence was wiped away." His voice was barely a whisper. "But me? They let me live."

Kieran narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Renald swallowed, his face pale. "Because I did what they asked."

Kieran went still.

Renald's gaze flickered toward him, something like shame flashing behind his eyes.

"I gave them what they wanted." His voice was barely audible now.

Kieran's breath slowed. "What did you give them?"

Renald hesitated. Then, finally, he whispered:

"Your name."

Kieran's pulse hammered in his ears.

He had expected betrayal. He had expected secrets.

But not this.

Not the possibility that his own name—his existence—was the key to whatever conspiracy had buried him.

Renald's fingers dug into the wood, his breathing shallow. "I don't know what it means," he admitted. "I don't know why they wanted it. But they said… they said you were dangerous."

Kieran exhaled slowly.

He stood.

Renald's shoulders tensed. "That's it?"

"For now." Kieran adjusted his cloak. "Enjoy your drink, Renald."

The man let out a shuddering breath as Kieran turned and left the tavern, stepping back into the mist-covered streets.

The city loomed ahead of him, endless and dark.

Kieran clenched his fists.

He wasn't just an enemy of the crown.

He wasn't just a pawn in noble games.

Something bigger was at play.

And his name was the key.