The sun rose over a silent forest.
They dug shallow graves with Kellan's folding spade, the earth wet and heavy with spring rains. Ruvan's hands blistered within an hour, but he didn't stop. Each scoop of dirt felt like penance, like he was burying his guilt along with the corpses.
Four assassins. No names. No final words. Their weapons lay piled beside the graves – rusted knives, steel darts, curved shortswords marked with an insignia he didn't recognise: a black crescent within a broken circle.
When the last body was lowered into the ground, Ruvan paused to study its face.
He was young. Maybe twenty. His jaw was covered in stubble, and his lips were dry and cracked. There was a small scar across his eyebrow – an old wound, healed white. Nothing about him seemed monstrous. Just another man, probably desperate for coin or bound by fear to some master he couldn't escape.
Ruvan swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Elion knelt beside him and pressed two fingers to the corpse's brow.
"May your journey end in mercy," he murmured.
He said it to each body, voice steady, golden eyes solemn. When they covered the graves with earth, Elion laid sprigs of forest thyme and pale wildflowers over each mound.
Ruvan stared at the small purple blossoms trembling in the wind. Is this all that remains of a life?
Kellan stood apart, leaning on his spade, watching Ruvan with an unreadable gaze. When they finished, he cleaned the blade in a stream, then came to Ruvan's side.
"You didn't have to help dig," Kellan said.
Ruvan blinked, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Most men with your… power wouldn't bother."
Ruvan frowned. "Then they're fools."
A small smile touched Kellan's lips. "Yeah. They are."
He dropped his voice to a low, almost embarrassed rumble. "Look. I've fought under a lot of lords. Mercenary captains. Mages. Every one of them thought power made them better than the rest of us. Untouchable."
Ruvan waited, sensing there was more.
Kellan met his gaze squarely. His eyes, usually amused and mocking, were hard as flint. "But you… you bury your enemies with your own hands."
He planted his spade in the ground, then bent to one knee.
"I don't know what you're planning to do with that blade, kid. But whatever it is… I'm with you."
Ruvan's breath caught. "Kellan, you don't—"
"I'm with you," Kellan said again, firmer. "That sword scares me shitless. But so does the world we live in. If there's even a chance you can change it… then you won't do it alone."
Ruvan swallowed hard, emotion tightening his throat. He reached down and clasped Kellan's forearm. The mercenary rose with a grin, slapping Ruvan's shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him over.
"Don't get all teary," Kellan said. "I'm not swearing an oath. I just hate seeing good people die alone."
Later, as they packed up camp, Elion paused beside Ruvan. He watched Kellan check their horse tack, the older man whistling a low tune under his breath.
"He believes in you now," Elion said softly.
"That's… good, isn't it?" Ruvan asked.
Elion's golden eyes narrowed faintly. "Perhaps."
There was a tone in his voice that made Ruvan's chest tighten. "What is it?"
Elion looked away, toward the graves. "I felt something yesterday, when you unleashed Solrend's power. Something… ancient. And hungry."
Ruvan shivered. "Hungry for what?"
Elion didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the graves, lost in shadows only he could see.
They rode westward, leaving the fresh graves behind. The forest thinned into rolling hills blanketed with summer grass. Wild irises dotted the slopes in bursts of indigo and gold. Clouds swept low over the distant mountains, promising rain by evening.
Kellan rode ahead, whistling softly, his bow slung across his back. Elion kept pace beside Ruvan, silent and watchful.
"Tell me what you felt," Ruvan said after a while.
Elion hesitated, fingers tightening on his reins. "When you swung Solrend… it wasn't your energy that burned that man. It was something from the blade itself. Like… like there's a presence within it. Something bound and sealed."
Ruvan frowned. "A presence? Like a spirit?"
"Not exactly. More like… a will. An echo of a will so powerful it refused to die."
Ruvan shivered. "Is it dangerous?"
Elion turned his gaze on him, golden eyes filled with quiet sorrow. "It already is."
That night, they camped beneath an ancient oak whose branches spread wide like a protective cloak. Kellan cooked a thin stew of dried venison, wild leeks, and bitter greens. As the pot simmered, he leaned back against his saddle, staring up at the star-pocked sky.
"You know," he said lazily, "there's an old story about blades like yours."
Ruvan looked up sharply. "Blades like Solrend?"
"Yeah. They called them Devourer Weapons. Smiths forged them with souls bound into the steel. Most were cursed. Hungry for blood, for life. The greatest of them were wielded by kings who thought they could conquer death itself."
He paused, picking food from his teeth with a twig. "Didn't end well for any of them."
Ruvan felt his stomach twist. "How did they die?"
Kellan shrugged. "Same as all men. Screaming, broken, alone."
He chuckled darkly. "Except those blades didn't let their souls pass on. They consumed them. Left only an echo behind. Like a dry husk rattling in a cave."
Elion stirred the stew in silence. When he spoke, his voice was soft but unyielding.
"If that is true," he said, "then you must never forget who you are, Ruvan. Never let the blade's will become yours."
Ruvan met his gaze across the flickering fire. "I won't."
Elion nodded slowly, but the worry in his eyes did not fade.
Ruvan lay awake long after Kellan and Elion slept. Solrend rested beside him, its chipped edge glinting in the moonlight. He ran his fingers along the hilt, feeling the faint warmth within.
Who are you? he thought. What do you want from me?
No answer came. Only a quiet hum, like distant thunder trapped beneath the steel.
He remembered the assassin's scream. The smell of burning flesh. The terrible ease with which Solrend had ended a life.
If you are alive… he thought, then hear me. I will not be your puppet. I will not become a monster.
He clenched his fist around the hilt.
I swear it.
That night, he dreamed again.
He stood in a vast cavern lit by rivers of molten gold. Before him lay Solrend, embedded in black stone. Chains wrapped the blade from hilt to tip, glowing with runes that flickered and dimmed like dying fireflies.
A voice whispered from the darkness:
"Break the chains. Free me. And I will give you the world."
Ruvan stepped back, fear prickling his skin. "Who are you?"
The darkness rippled like liquid shadow. "Your salvation. Your damnation. Your true self."
He shook his head. "No. I am my own."
The voice laughed – low, rich, mournful. "Then why do you carry me, little king?"
He woke gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling.
The sun rose pale and cold. Mist drifted across the grasslands in long grey veils. Ruvan saddled his horse in silence. Kellan whistled tunelessly as he packed their supplies, while Elion stood apart, staff planted in the damp earth, staring into the east.
As they mounted up, Kellan rode beside him.
"You alright, kid?" he asked gruffly.
Ruvan nodded. "Yeah. Just… tired."
Kellan snorted. "Aren't we all."
They rode west, toward Redridge Pass and whatever awaited them beyond. The graves lay behind them, hidden by forest shadows and morning mist.
But for Ruvan, the memory of that burning corpse, the feeling of Solrend's insatiable power, and the echoing laughter in his dreams rode with him.
And though Kellan pledged loyalty and Elion offered kindness, Ruvan could not shake the truth thrumming deep in his bones:
He was not just carrying a blade.
He was carrying a curse.
And it was only a matter of time before it demanded its due.