The Silence Between Whispers
The house was too quiet.
Rose sat on the attic floor, her back pressed against the splintering wall, the cursed sword lying across her lap. Hours had passed since the explosion of light that ended the Rajput warrior's assault. Or had it been minutes? Time had blurred, bending around her like smoke.
The sword gleamed faintly even in the dimness, as if it needed no lantern to shine. Its carvings pulsed like veins under skin, glowing with a life that wasn't hers. She traced one line with her finger, half in defiance, half in fear. It burned cold, biting like frost.
Her eyes still carried the faintest trace of red. Every time she glanced in the cracked mirror, her reflection looked a fraction less like her own.
The whispers had stopped. But silence, she realized, was worse. Silence meant waiting. Silence meant listening.
When she finally rose, her legs shook under the weight of exhaustion and something heavier—the dread of knowing she was bound to this weapon, bound to a curse older than she could comprehend.
There had to be answers somewhere. Someone must know what this sword was, where it came from, and whether its hold could be broken.
And so she left the house behind.
II. The Pilgrimage to Ashes
Her journey led her beyond the city limits, into the countryside where temples crumbled under weeds and time. The Rajput's visions had burned themselves into her mind—sunlight, sand, betrayal. The battlefield. She knew she had to go where history bled into myth.
At a roadside inn, she asked cautious questions. The innkeeper, a man with weary eyes and prayer beads, stiffened when she mentioned a sword with serpents carved into its blade.
"You should not speak of such things," he warned, voice low. "There are relics that drink souls. Weapons born of curses. If you seek them, you seek your own end."
But when she pressed, he reluctantly gave her a direction: the old monastery of Bhairavgarh, long abandoned, once a sanctuary for warrior-priests who guarded relics unfit for the world of men.
Rose felt the sword hum faintly at her side, as if it recognized the name.
Two days later, she stood before its ruins. The monastery was half-swallowed by the earth, stone walls collapsed in heaps, its spire broken and leaning like a snapped bone. Vines clawed through shattered windows, and jackals slunk among the fallen statues.
But in the courtyard, she saw smoke. Someone else was here.
III. The Historian
He was seated before a small fire, his robes patched and worn, his beard streaked with grey. Books and scrolls were spread around him in careful order, weighed down by stones. His eyes, sharp and dark, lifted the moment she stepped into view.
"You brought it," he said flatly, as though her arrival had been foretold.
Rose froze. "Brought what?"
"The sword," he replied. His gaze flicked to her hip, where the blade was wrapped in cloth. "It never stays hidden for long. Always it calls, and always someone listens."
Rose's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
The man rose slowly, leaning on a staff carved with protective sigils. "I am Arjun Sharma. Once a scholar, now… a keeper of ashes. My life's work has been tracing the path of that blade. Every century, it reappears. Every century, it consumes another soul."
Her pulse quickened. She wanted to demand how he knew, but the exhaustion in his voice silenced her. He had seen this before.
"I don't want it," she whispered. "I don't want to be part of this."
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gestured to the fire. "Sit. If you wish to understand what you carry, you must listen. But beware, girl. Knowledge will not free you. It may only sharpen your chains."
IV. The Rajput's Tale
By firelight, Arjun told the story.
"His name was Rana Ishvar Singh," the historian began. "A Rajput of the Sun Clan. He was a warrior of great renown, feared for his strength, admired for his loyalty. But power breeds envy. And envy births betrayal."
Rose felt the sword tremble faintly, as though the name awakened something sleeping inside.
Arjun continued: "During a campaign, his kin turned against him. Brothers, cousins, those who should have guarded his back—they abandoned him on the battlefield. Some say they were bribed. Some say they feared his growing fame. Whatever the reason, he was left to die among the corpses of friend and foe alike."
Rose's chest tightened. She had seen it—the vision of betrayal burned into her mind.
"Before he fell, Rana swore an oath," Arjun said, his voice low. "'Blood for blood. Death for dishonor.' He vowed his sword would carry that curse until betrayal itself was avenged. He drove his blade into the earth as he died, and the ground drank his fury. When others tried to claim it, they too were damned."
The fire cracked, sending sparks into the night.
Rose swallowed hard. "And now it's me."
Arjun nodded slowly. "The sword chooses those whose wounds mirror his own. Those betrayed, broken, or abandoned. It feeds on that pain. It binds itself not through strength, but through sorrow."
Rose looked away, tears pricking her eyes. The truth cut deeper than steel.
V. The Keeper's Warning
Arjun leaned closer, his eyes reflecting the flames. "Listen carefully, girl. The curse cannot be lifted by will alone. Blood must be spilled—enough to quench the sword's hunger. That is its design."
"No," Rose said fiercely, shaking her head. "I won't kill for it."
He studied her, almost pityingly. "You say that now. But already it whispers, doesn't it? Already it tempts. The longer you resist, the stronger it will press. Until you wonder whether spilling blood might, at last, give you peace."
Rose clenched her fists, fighting the surge of dread. "Then what's the other way? There has to be something else."
Arjun's gaze darkened. "There are whispers of a ritual. Not to break the curse—no, such power cannot be undone—but to pass it on. To force the blade back into the earth, where it will wait for the next fool to draw it."
Her stomach churned. "So either I kill… or I condemn someone else to suffer."
Arjun gave no answer. His silence was louder than words.
VI. Shadows of Doubt
That night, Rose lay awake in the ruins, the sword across her chest. Arjun's words clawed at her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Rana Ishvar Singh's burning gaze, felt his vow thrumming through her veins.
The historian had given her knowledge, but not hope.
Worse, she wondered if she could trust him. He had spoken with obsession, his eyes lingering too long on the sword. What if he didn't want to help her at all? What if he wanted the blade for himself?
As the night deepened, she heard the whispers again. Soft, coaxing. Not just the warrior's voice now, but dozens—centuries of souls bound to the curse, crying out through her mind.
Strike. Bleed. End it.
Rose curled tighter against herself, fighting the voices until dawn.
VII. The Keeper's True Face
By morning, Arjun was gone. His fire still smoldered, his scrolls scattered. But the staff with sigils lay broken in half.
Rose's gut twisted. She scanned the ruins, calling his name. Silence answered. Then—footsteps.
From the shadows of the monastery's collapsed hall, Arjun emerged. But his eyes were no longer sharp. They glowed faint red.
The sword in Rose's hand pulsed violently. It recognized something in him.
Arjun smiled thinly, his voice layered with another's. "Did you think the curse passes only to strangers? I carried it once. I laid it down. But the blade always finds its way back to me."
Rose's blood ran cold.
"You…" she whispered. "You were chosen too."
His smile widened, splitting into something monstrous. "And now, perhaps, it is time to reclaim what is mine."