The Blade of Dusk weighed heavy in my hands as I stood in the Ruined Chapel, its sickly green glow casting twisted shadows across the cracked stone floor. The whisper still echoed in my mind—You have altered a fixed point in fate—sharp and cold, like a blade sliding between my ribs. It wasn't my voice, nor Lira's, but something older, deeper, woven into the fabric of this world. My fingers tightened around the hilt, the silver chains biting into my skin. The nausea from touching it lingered, a sickening pulse that matched the weapon's unnatural light.
Lord Valthorne stood by the altar, his silver hair catching the moonlight, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "What are you waiting for?" he said, his voice low, edged with impatience. "The blade is yours to claim."
I swallowed, my throat dry. The novel, The Fall of Kingdoms, had described the Blade of Dusk as a weapon of betrayal, wielded by Valthorne in the final act to shatter the hero's army. It wasn't supposed to be here, not now, not in my hands. My presence was rewriting the story, and that whisper—whatever it was—confirmed it. But refusing Valthorne wasn't an option. His gaze was a chain, binding me to this moment, this choice.
"I'm not waiting," I said, forcing Lira's defiance into my voice. I lifted the blade higher, its weight unnatural, as if it resisted being held. The whisper came again, softer but no less chilling: The path you walk unravels the tapestry. I froze, my breath catching. Was it the blade itself speaking? Or something else, watching from beyond?
Valthorne stepped closer, his boots silent on the stone. "You hear it, don't you?" His voice was almost a whisper, his eyes narrowing. "The blade's curse."
My heart skipped. He knew? "I don't know what you mean," I lied, gripping the sword tighter. The glow flared, and a wave of dizziness hit me, the curse sinking deeper. I forced myself to stand straight, to meet his gaze. I couldn't let him see my fear—or my confusion.
He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he hadn't yet solved. "Most would have dropped it by now. You're stronger than you look, Lira." His tone was unreadable, neither praise nor mockery, but it sent a shiver down my spine.
I didn't feel strong. I felt like I was drowning in a story I no longer understood. But I couldn't turn back. If I refused the blade, Valthorne would know I wasn't his loyal apprentice. If I took it, I was binding myself to a curse that could destroy me. The whisper's words rang in my ears: A fixed point in fate. What did that mean? Had I already broken something by coming here, by surviving the mercenaries?
"I'll take it," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I sheathed the Blade of Dusk in the scabbard Valthorne had provided, its glow dimming but not fading. The weight settled against my hip, a constant reminder of the choice I'd made.
Valthorne nodded, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Good. We leave now. The Blackwood grows restless."
I followed him out of the Chapel, the mare and his stallion waiting in the clearing. The forest seemed darker now, the trees leaning closer, as if the blade's presence had stirred something malevolent. As I mounted, I couldn't shake the whisper's warning. I'd taken the blade, but at what cost? The story was changing, and I was the one holding the thread.