Lower Rosewood burned low in the night, every lantern a trembling heart. The storm had barely passed, but the stink of smoke and old wine clung to the eaves, and tonight trouble wasn't skulking in alleyways—it was parading down the main road like it owned the town.
He dragged in a sharp breath, the chill a blade against his ribs. Jun stood at his side, face streaked with mud, hair tied back in a way that said she was ready to fight, or run, or both. Maybe he was ready too. Hunger gnawed, but the relic throbbed with something wild beneath his collar—antsy, almost eager.
They didn't speak. Words were currency here, and they'd spent all they had on caution.
A shout snapped the air in half. Doors banged open. A mob of locals spilled across the square—faces red from drink and sect propaganda. Pitchforks and knives, one battered banner—a holy robin, the local sect's sign—dragging in the muck.
"Inn's lot! The cursed boy and the knife-girl—bring 'em out!" someone spat.
"Relic-thieves! Ghost-bringers!" barked another, his anger sour as spoiled apples.
A child pointed, staring right at him, wide-eyed. "Is that what got old Ma dead? The jinx-boy?"
Jun's grip went white-knuckled on her blade. He just stared at the crowd, heart slow, blood roar in his ears.
He reached for the relic.
Heat pulsed out—like dropping his hand atop a stove. He almost yelped.
That's when it happened.
A searing light exploded in his palm—no warning, no sense. Suddenly, he was clutching… a sword? No, not just any sword—this was old, scar-notched, with runes blazing like fury along the blade. It felt heavy with memory. It felt *wrong*. Like it was made for someone else.
The mob stopped, faces gone slack with fear and greed.
"A relic weapon!"
"See, I told you, devil's luck!"
Everything froze for a heartbeat. The crowd's courage teetered.
Jun looked at him, wild hope and terror clashing in her eyes.
"If you're going to cut a path, now's the time."
He squared up, sword low, and called out—not to the mob, but to whatever power listened:
"I never chose exile, but I won't be burned twice. Come at me if you dare!"
A bottle flew, shattered against the inn's door. The first man lunged—drunk or desperate, didn't matter.
He moved fast, the relic's gift singing heat through his veins. The sword swept up—flashing, dazzling, and instead of blood, a ripple of light burst free, toppling the front line like pins in a child's game. No one died. But every soul in the mob remembered fear.
Someone screamed, "Sect-blessed? Or cursed by gods?"
Another: "Back! He'll bring ruin on us all!"
For a second, the world spiraled—he felt the relic's joy, but also its hunger. Every muscle trembled. His vision swam with shadows whispering, *Every miracle costs*.
Suddenly, the blade twisted in his hand, hot as betrayal. Jun dragged him back.
"Not here. Not *yet*. Don't give them a reason to lynch us outdoors."
Inside the inn, the landlord shut them in a backroom, eyes full of all the prayers he could recall. "Don't make it worse," he begged, "You draw things. Bad things. I've lost enough."
He shoved a bar across the door.
He paced, chest burning, sword still clamped in his fist. The runes throbbed—sometimes glinting with blood, sometimes weeping water.
Jun set a hand on his arm. "You all right? Or did it eat you alive?"
He almost laughed. "Depends. Might've been better eaten."
Thunder rumbled. He stared at the weapon—then watched, horrified, as it melted away into blue sparks, leaving a sick ache in his bones, a hunger deeper than hunger.
A knock. Slow, polite. Knuckles on rotten wood.
Jun jumped. He motioned her behind and cracked the door with the sword's ghost heat still sparking in his palm.
A child stood there, dirty cheeks, eyes daring the dark.
She looked at him—no fear, only defiance. "My ma didn't die 'cause of your curse," she whispered. "She died 'cause the sect kept the healer for their own. Suppose you know how to fix what's broken?"
He dropped to one knee, ancient exhaustion flickering in his smile. "I fix what I can, break what deserves it. I'm not what they say."
She nodded, fierce and small. "Then don't run. My ma said good folk don't hide, even if the storm comes."
He pressed the relic to his chest, its beat matching hers. "I'll try. For her. For you."
The door banged again—the mob, growing meaner, losing patience.
He stood, swordless now but not empty, Jun's faith a stubborn shield at his side. The relic pulsed, hinting at miracles and the price not yet paid.
He tightened his fists, ready to stand his ground.
May as well burn or blaze—sectless, but never silent.
Outside: rage, fear, the scent of old gods and new beginnings.
Inside: a boy, a girl, and a relic so wild it might just rewrite their fate—if it doesn't consume them first.