He didn’t take the sword. Instead, he placed his hand on Alistair’s shoulder.
The crypt was a nightmare. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the whisper of trapped souls. Kaelen felt a dark familiarity here. This was his domain, but twisted. A rival necromancer named Malachar had set up shop, using a heartstone—a crystallized lump of pure, undiluted misery—to fuel his power.
Malachar emerged from the shadows—a gaunt man with hollow eyes and a crown of fused bones. "Ah, the failed hero. The one who tried to save and only damned himself. Give me your curse, Kaelen. Give me your power, and I’ll let them die quickly." dark hero party save
The Shadow’s Mercy
"No," Kaelen said simply.
Now, Kaelen survived on the fringes. He was a monster, yes, but a sentient one. He could raise the dead, command shadows, and rot flesh with a touch. But he used it to hunt worse things. Rogue vampires. Plague spirits. The things that lurked in the deep woods where the light of the Radiant Five never reached. He was the dark hero the world needed but would never thank.
The holy blade Dawnbreaker hadn't been meant for the Lich King. It had been meant for him, to purge the curse. But Ser Alistair had hesitated a second too long, and the curse had taken hold. To the world, a dark mage turning on his friends was a better story than the truth: a hero turned into a monster against his will. He didn’t take the sword
"Please," the scout gasped. "You’re the Shadowmender, aren’t you? The one they whisper about? Our party... we went to cleanse the Sunken Crypt. It was a trap. A necromancer—a real one, not like you—he’s using a corrupted heartstone. It’s draining the life from my friends. They have two days left. Maybe less."