The Ruined Chapel emerged from the Blackwood like a forgotten wound. Its crumbling spire pierced the canopy, moss and vines choking the cracked stone walls. The air grew heavier as we approached, thick with the scent of rot and something metallic, like blood long spilled. My mare snorted, uneasy, and I patted her neck, my own nerves frayed. Lord Valthorne rode ahead, his black stallion unperturbed, his posture as rigid as the sword at his side.
I couldn't stop replaying the fight. The mercenaries' ambush, my failure, Valthorne's cold mockery—it all churned in my mind. He'd been watching me, not just to save me, but to judge me. And I'd given him every reason to doubt. The scroll's words echoed: Retrieve the Blade of Dusk. Trust no one. I glanced at Valthorne's back, his silver hair a stark contrast to the forest's gloom. Could I trust him? He'd saved my life, but the novel painted him as a betrayer. Was I walking into his trap?
We dismounted at the Chapel's entrance, a gaping archway framed by shattered statues. Their faces were worn away, but their hands clutched broken swords, as if guarding something within. Valthorne tied his horse to a tree, his movements precise, and gestured for me to follow. "Stay close," he said, his voice low. "The Blackwood is not the only danger here."
I nodded, my dagger in hand, though it felt useless after the ambush. Inside, the Chapel was a hollow shell, its altar split in two, moonlight streaming through a collapsed roof. At the center of the altar lay a sword, its blade black as night, its hilt wrapped in silver chains. It glowed unnaturally, a sickly green light pulsing like a heartbeat.
The Blade of Dusk.
I froze, my breath catching. This was no ordinary weapon. The novel had described it as a cursed relic, its power tied to Valthorne's final betrayal. But it wasn't supposed to be here, not now. My presence was rewriting the story, and this blade was proof.
Valthorne approached the altar, his expression unreadable. "Take it," he said, his eyes on me, not the sword.
I hesitated. The glow felt wrong, alive, and every instinct—mine, not Lira's—screamed to leave it. But his stare pinned me, expectant, testing. I stepped forward, my hand trembling as I reached for the hilt. The moment my fingers brushed the silver chains, a voice whispered in my head, sharp and cold: You have altered a fixed point in fate.
I yanked my hand back, gasping. The voice wasn't mine, wasn't Lira's—it was something else, something ancient. Valthorne's head tilted, his gaze sharpening. "What is it?" he demanded.
"Nothing," I lied, my heart pounding. I couldn't tell him about the voice, not when I didn't understand it myself. Steeling myself, I grabbed the hilt again, ignoring the whisper's echo. The blade was heavy, its glow flaring brighter as I lifted it. The chains rattled, and a wave of nausea hit me, the curse sinking into my skin like ice.
Valthorne watched, his silence heavier than the sword. "Careful, Lira," he said softly, almost a warning. "That blade does not forgive weakness."
I met his eyes, defiance sparking through my fear. "I'm not weak," I said, gripping the Blade of Dusk tighter. But as we left the Chapel, the weapon's glow cast eerie shadows, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made a terrible mistake.