Chapter 11: The Blade That Remembers
The ruins of Kareth still smoldered when Lucien stood among the ashes, the crimson glow of the dying fires painting his armor in shades of blood. The screams had long faded, replaced only by the whisper of the wind and the groan of broken timbers. His sword—Requiem—hung loosely in his hand, its edge gleaming faintly, as though it too had drunk deeply from the sorrow of the night.
He had fought, bled, and slaughtered. Yet no matter how many enemies he cut down, the hollow inside him only grew wider. The blade pulsed once, a faint hum that echoed in his bones. Lucien stiffened. It wasn't imagination—the sword was alive, and it was remembering.
"...Why do you sing now?" he muttered, staring down at the runes that glowed faintly along its length. The sword did not answer, but its rhythm seeped into him like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
A crunch of footsteps pulled his attention. From the shadows of a half-burned shrine emerged a figure draped in tattered robes, a mask concealing their face. The stranger's movements were slow, deliberate, as though every step carried meaning.
"You've awakened it," the masked figure said, voice hollow yet steady. "The blade remembers its first master. And soon… it will remember its last."
Lucien tightened his grip. "Who are you?"
"A herald," the stranger replied. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
The flames hissed as the wind carried sparks into the night. Lucien's s instincts screamed danger, but curiosity chained his blade for the moment.
"Why follow me?" he asked.
The herald tilted their head. "Because you walk the path of ruin. And ruin draws all who hunger for the end."
The words sent a chill crawling up Lucien's spine. He had heard prophecies before, whispered by dying seers and mad prophets in alleys. But this felt different—measured, inevitable.
Before Lucien could demand more, the ground beneath them shuddered. From the cracked earth, blackened hands clawed upward, skeletal and twisted. The dead of Kareth were rising, their empty sockets glowing faintly with embers of unnatural fire.
The herald stepped back into the shadows. "Prove yourself worthy of the sword you carry. Or be consumed by it, as so many before you."
Lucien's jaw tightened. He lifted Requiem, the blade answering with a low hum. The first of the corpses lurched toward him, its jaw unhinged in a silent scream. He moved like the storm—blade flashing, cutting down the dead in arcs of silver light. Yet with each strike, he felt Requiem grow heavier, as though feeding on their remains, demanding more, always more.
One corpse caught his arm, another lunged for his throat. Lucien snarled, kicking free, but the tide was endless. His muscles burned, his breath ragged, and still they came. The blade pulsed violently now, dragging at his mind, whispering promises of power if he only surrendered completely.
"No…" he hissed, blood streaking his cheek. "I control you!"
But the blade answered with a surge, flooding him with strength. His vision blurred crimson, his strikes became faster, crueler. The corpses fell in droves, torn apart by fury not entirely his own.
When the last body hit the ground, silence returned. Lucien stood trembling, his chest heaving, his knuckles white on the hilt of the blade. The air stank of ash and rot.
From the shadows, the herald's voice drifted once more. "The sword has chosen. But whether you remain its master—or its thrall—depends only on how long you can resist."
The figure vanished, leaving Lucien alone with the whispers of the blade.
He stared down at Requiem, its runes glowing brighter than ever. For the first time, he wondered not if he could wield it—but if he could survive it.