A Hunter's Legacy: Rise of the Fallen
Chapter 29: whispers and graves

Chapter 29: whispers and graves

The morning breeze carried the scent of herbs and dew, but Kael couldn’t focus on any of it. His body felt... off. Not in pain—if anything, the opposite. He was lighter, sharper, like the fatigue that had weighed down his limbs for days had vanished overnight.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength in them. Subtle. Precise. As if his body had undergone a quiet upgrade while he lay unconscious.

He rose from the bed, barefoot against the wooden floor, and moved to the center of the room. A heavy stool stood nearby, carved from dark timber and solid enough to break bones if thrown. Without thinking, Kael lifted it—then paused. It felt too light. Lifting it had required no effort at all.

He set it down slowly, frowning.

Was it adrenaline? Leftover surge from whatever that burn had triggered in him? Or...

His thoughts trailed off as he stepped toward the window, just as a soft knock interrupted him.

"You’re up early," Gondor said, pushing the door open with his usual gruff presence. He was drying his hands with a cloth, likely returning from the apothecary table where he’d been treating herbs for Will.

Kael nodded. "Didn’t feel like sleeping."

Gondor’s gaze fell to Kael’s arms, lingering for a second longer than usual. "You’re recovering faster than I expected. That burn on your side—completely sealed now."

Kael gave a slight nod. "Guess I got lucky."

"Or cursed. Sometimes they’re the same thing," Gondor muttered, his tone laced with something Kael couldn’t quite place—suspicion, maybe, or quiet wariness.

Before Kael could ask what he meant, the door swung wider and Lyria stepped through.

She brightened the room with her presence, like she always did, but this time, something was different. Her eyes locked onto Kael, softening immediately. "You’re out of bed already?...guess you’re fully recovered."

"Yeah. I’m fine now," he said quickly, almost too quickly.

She tilted her head, unconvinced. "Let’s get you some air."

Kael hesitated, but nodded. As they stepped outside, the world around them came alive—the wind brushing through the leaves, birdsong distant but crisp. The small outpost was quiet this early, just the way Gondor liked it.

And then...

"Return."

The whisper wasn’t carried by the breeze.

Kael’s muscles stiffened. His eyes darted to Lyria. But she didn’t react—she hadn’t heard it.

"Kael?" she asked, brow furrowing as she slowed her steps.

"What happened, you zoned out for a bit."

"I’m okay," he lied.

But he wasn’t. Not really. The whisper had returned. And with it, a pulse in the back of his mind like something caged... waiting.

---

Meanwhile, deep within Umbra’s End...

The trees twisted more the deeper Phil and Bane went. Bark peeled like old flesh, and roots coiled across the forest floor like veins exposed to air. The forest breathed—not metaphorically, but literally. Mist pulsed in and out from cracks in the earth like lungs expanding and collapsing.

"Another kilometer, maybe less," Phil said, eyes narrowed. "If Garrik’s not yet in the barren lands, we’ll find him near the convergence point."

"What’s at the convergence?" Bane asked, voice low, hand never straying far from his axe.

Phil didn’t answer immediately. "Corruption. Old magic. The heart of what made Umbra’s End what it is."

Bane grunted. His side still ached from the fight, though the pain had numbed. Ever since his axe awakened during the battle, he felt... linked to something. Like fire rested just beneath his skin, ready to erupt if called upon. It was subtle but potent—a pressure just under his ribs.

"Keep alert," Phil said.

They moved in silence, a wordless agreement between two warriors who knew that something was coming. The birds had stopped chirping. Even the wind dared not breathe in this part of the forest.

Phil raised a fist. Bane stopped immediately.

Before them was a ring of ash—burnt leaves, melted armor scraps, broken weapons. At the center, a tree had been carved into: a clean X slashed into its bark.

Pinned to the mark was a torn scrap of dark cloth. Vanguard cloth.

"Garrik’s?" Bane asked.

Phil nodded, mouth tight. "He always left marks when moving ahead. Signals in case of separation."

Then the wind shifted.

Bane’s wound ached.

And then came the whispers. Not like before—no language, no clear syllables. Emotion. Grief. Hunger. Rage.

He turned to Phil. "You hear that?"

Phil looked pale. "Yeah. I hear it."

They moved toward a small rise just beyond the clearing. A shallow pit lay there—no more than four feet deep, its edges uneven like it had been dug in desperation.

Inside were bodies.

Some armored. Some twisted. Some still in the middle of changing—caught between man and monster. All lifeless. Or so they thought.

A mass grave.

Bane’s jaw tightened. "What the hell happened here?"

Phil didn’t speak. He dropped to one knee beside the pit, eyes scanning the corpses. Then he froze.

One of them moved.

The body—a man barely more than a husk—turned its head, vertebrae cracking with the motion.

Its jaw unhinged with a sickening pop.

"Rrrun..."

Bane took a step back.

Phil’s expression didn’t change.

Then came the whisper—louder now. "Still watching... still watching... you should not have come..."

Its eyes burst into green flame.

Phil drew his scythe in a single, practiced motion.

"Get ready," he muttered. "This grave isn’t empty."

As if responding to that declaration, the other corpses shifted.

Twitched.

Sat up.

Some groaned, others wept blood.

But only one stood fully, towering over the rest.

Its form was wrapped in stitched flesh, the scent of death clinging to it like armor. Horns spiraled from its skull like antlers, bone-marrow white. A symbol pulsed on its chest—a twisted echo of the one that had appeared on Kael.

Bane gripped his axe tighter. The glow inside it stirred. "This one’s different."

"An amalgam," Phil said darkly. "A graveborn—formed from the fallen that were never properly burned or sanctified. They pull strength from suffering."

The amalgam raised one of its warped hands. In it was a weapon—a jagged spear forged from fused femurs and bone splinters. It roared, and the forest trembled.

Then it charged.

Bane swung first. His axe collided with the spear mid-strike, sparks flaring and ringing steel vibrating through his bones.

Phil moved like a ghost behind the creature, his scythe slicing through the mist in a blur. The blade bit deep into the amalgam’s shoulder, but it didn’t slow down.

Phil went full offensive attempting to land a devastating hit. But all the amalgam did was effortlessly dodge the attacks.

Phil was wide open as All his efforts and focus went into offense.

It spun, catching Phil across the chest with a backhand that sent him crashing into a nearby tree. Bark exploded.

"Phil!" Bane shouted.

"I’m fine," came the reply, ragged but controlled. "Just kill the damn thing!"

Bane turned back, just in time to duck a wild swing from the amalgam’s spear. It missed by inches, tearing a gash into the earth beside him. Bane responded with a counterstrike, his axe cleaving into its thigh, the blade biting deep—but the creature didn’t bleed. Instead, the wound hissed, sealing partially as if alive.

Then the whispers intensified.

"Born of ash... awakened flame... the cage is cracking..."

Bane staggered. The voice wasn’t external.

It was inside him.

"Get out of my head!" he growled, slamming the butt of his axe into the creature’s gut.

But the whisper remained.

"Unchain it... let it burn..."

And burn it did.

Fire erupted from his axe—not the weapon, but from within. It surged up his arms, orange light flaring along veins and scars, filling the forest with pulsing heat.

The amalgam unleashed a bone-chilling screech that echoed through the desolate ravine, its grotesque form faltering under the weight of its own unnatural existence.

Its twisted limbs, a horrific blend of flesh and metal, thrashed wildly, as if desperation could stave off the inevitable.Bane moved with a speed that defied human limits, his muscles coiling like a predator’s.

His flaming axe, wreathed in crimson fire that hissed against the damp air, swung with devastating force—enough to split an ancient oak in two.

The blade carved through the amalgam’s gnarled arm, severing it with a sickening crunch.

The severed limb hit the ground, writhing briefly before dissolving into a pool of acrid ooze that sizzled against the earth.

Phil was at his side in an instant, his presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His eyes gleamed with an eerie, almost otherworldly light, reflecting the faint glow of his scythe as he drew it back with practiced precision. The weapon hummed faintly, its curved blade pulsing with an energy that seemed to drink in the surrounding darkness.

"This ends now," Phil declared, his voice low and resolute, carrying the weight of a vow.

Together, they struck in perfect synchronicity, their movements a deadly dance survival.

Bane’s flaming axe roared through the air, its fiery arc cleaving through the amalgam’s lower body, splitting spine and bone with a sound like thunder.

Sparks flew as the creature’s boney exterior shattered, scattering embers across the scarred ground.

Phil’s glowing scythe followed, arcing through the air in a perfect crescent, its radiant edge slicing through the amalgam’s torso with surgical precision.

The creature’s unearthly wail reached a fevered pitch, then abruptly silenced as its form collapsed, crumbling into a heap of twitching, broken parts.

The air grew heavy with the stench of charred flesh and molten steel.

They stood there for a long while, chests heaving, the adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the distant howl of wind through the barren trees. The forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the world itself were waiting for what came next.

Bane’s grip tightened on his axe, the flames now dimming to a faint flicker. He turned to Phil, his voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper—unease.

"What did it mean... about the cage?" The amalgam’s final words, hissed in a voice that was neither human nor beast, lingered in his mind like a splinter.

The cage is breaking. The cage is breaking.

Phil didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze drifted upward, past the jagged cliffs that loomed over them, toward the horizon where storm clouds gathered in ominous swirls.

His silence was heavy, thoughtful, as if he were sifting through memories too vast and too dangerous to share.

The faint glow in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a shadow of concern that Bane rarely saw in his companion.

At last, Phil’s gaze shifted northward, toward the distant peaks where Garrik, should be.

The uncertainty gnawed at Bane’s gut, but there was something else in Phil’s expression—something that spoke of secrets older than their friendship, older than the war that had scarred the land.

Something ancient, buried deep in the earth, stirring.

"Let’s find Garrik," Phil said at last, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

"Before it’s too late." He turned and began to walk, his scythe resting against his shoulder, its glow now a faint pulse in the gathering dark.

Bane followed, his axe still warm in his hands, the weight of the amalgam’s words pressing against his thoughts like a storm on the horizon.

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