Chapter 13 – The Vault of Steel and Light
The journey beneath Halcyon Crest was silent.
Jean followed Charles through hidden stairwells, past torch-lit corridors few in the clan even knew existed. The deeper they went, the colder it became—not from lack of heat, but from something older, heavier.
Whitney padded beside her, his golden eyes alert. "This place hasn't been walked in generations," he whispered. "I can feel the echoes."
Finally, they stopped before a massive door—engraved with the ancient crest of the Luther Clan: a blade of light cleaving a dragon's skull. Beneath it, etched in runes, were words only few could read.
> "The Flame Shall Return. The Light Must Rise First."
Charles placed his hand on the seal.
His aura surged.
The door trembled—then opened with the sound of grinding worlds.
Inside, the room was circular. Quiet. At the center, encased in crystal, was a sword unlike any Jean had ever seen.
Longer than any mortal blade, wrapped in divine chains.
It pulsed with ancient light.
"This," Charles said, voice reverent, "is the weapon Martin forged during his last stand against Antares. A sword forged not by steel alone, but by sacrifice, aura, and divine essence."
Jean stepped forward, breath caught in her chest.
"The Radiant Fang," Charles continued. "No one has drawn it since Martin. Not even me."
Jean approached the crystal, her aura resonating with the blade. Whitney stepped back.
"You want me to draw it," Jean said.
"No," Charles replied. "I want to see if it chooses you."
She reached out.
Her hand brushed the crystal.
It shattered—not violently, but like morning light breaking fog.
The chains clattered to the floor.
The blade hovered for a moment—then flew into her grip.
A wave of power surged through Jean. Her aura expanded, divine light pouring from her eyes and veins. The room trembled. Her heartbeat echoed like thunder.
Visions danced in her mind:
Dragons roaring across burning skies.
Celeste weeping in divine silence.
And Antares… awakening.
Then silence.
Jean gasped, the sword dimming, resting in her hand.
It had accepted her.
Charles was silent. Then:
"You've inherited it. His last will. Martin's blade is yours."
Jean steadied her breath. "What now?"
Charles turned to leave.
"Now, child… you prepare to fight gods."
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