Her hand was warm.
Not metaphorically—literally warm, seeping through the leather wrapping of your hilt, reaching you in a way nothing had for centuries. The contact was careful, uncertain, as if she expected the cave itself to protest.
It didn't.
The runes along the altar dimmed, their light retreating like embers losing breath. The pressure you had lived under for so long—constant, subtle, suffocating—began to loosen.
You were being released.
She swallowed. "Is… is this okay?"
You did not have a voice. Not yet. But intention traveled more easily than sound. You let a fragment of yourself rise—not power, not memory, but permission.
Her fingers tightened.
The stone around your blade cracked—not violently, but cleanly, as if the world itself had decided to let go. Dust fell in soft curtains as she pulled you free.
For the first time since your rebirth, you were moving.
The cave felt different in her hands.
Your awareness expanded outward, no longer pinned to one place. You sensed her heartbeat through the grip—fast, uneven. Fear. Excitement. Doubt. All tangled together.
You remembered that feeling.
It was what you felt the first time you held a sword you loved.
She held you low, not raised, as if afraid to claim you. The blade reflected her face faintly—tired eyes, dirt-smudged cheeks, a thin scar across her brow.
She was young.
Too young to carry legends.
"I don't know how to use you," she admitted quietly.
Good.
You let that thought resonate, and something shifted between you.
The moment she stepped outside, the world greeted you like a forgotten memory.
Wind.
You felt it not as air, but as pressure sliding along your edge. Light struck your blade, scattering into colors you had not seen since… ever.
You realized then how long you had been blind.
She paused at the cave entrance, squinting into the open valley beyond. Mountains rose in the distance, jagged like broken teeth. A road cut through the grass below, worn thin by countless travelers.
Life.
She exhaled shakily. "I thought… I thought it would feel heavier."
You almost laughed.
She did not yet know what you were.
They were halfway down the path when it happened.
A presence.
You sensed it before she did—an abrupt distortion in the air, like a wrong note in an otherwise quiet song. Your awareness snapped toward it instinctively.
Danger.
She felt it a heartbeat later and froze.
From behind a cluster of stones stepped a man with a crossbow. His armor bore the etched symbol of a broken blade within a circle.
The Sanctum.
"Hand over the relic," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "And you can walk away."
Her grip tightened.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about."
He smiled without warmth. "The sword chose you. That's rare. Which means it's valuable."
You felt his intent the moment his gaze touched you.
Extraction.
Destruction.
You reacted without thinking.
The resonance ignited.
Not in a flash of light, not in an explosion of force—but in alignment. Your awareness slid into her movements, adjusting her balance, guiding her stance.
"Don't fight," you urged—not with words, but with certainty.
Her body listened.
When the bolt fired, she moved.
Not faster than humanly possible. Just correctly. The projectile grazed past where her shoulder had been a moment before. She stumbled, rolled, came up with you raised instinctively.
She had never held a sword.
Yet her feet found position.
Her grip adjusted.
Her breathing slowed.
The man hesitated.
"What…?"
You did not strike him.
You knocked the crossbow aside, the flat of your blade ringing sharply against metal. The sound echoed through the valley like a bell.
He retreated a step.
"This one's awakened," he muttered, fear finally cracking his voice. He reached for something at his belt.
Enough.
You pulsed a warning through the resonance—leave.
Perhaps he felt it. Perhaps survival instinct won. Either way, he fled, disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust.
Silence returned.
Her knees buckled.
She sank to the ground, breathing hard, hands shaking around your hilt.
"That wasn't me," she whispered. "I didn't know how to do that."
You settled, easing the connection, careful not to overwhelm her.
It was us, you replied—not in words, but in warmth, in reassurance.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, striking your blade in soft, soundless drops.
"My name is Lyra," she said after a while, voice steadier. "If you're going to stay with me… I think you should know that."
You considered the name, letting it settle into yourself.
Lyra.
A sound worth remembering.
You did not know where this path would lead. You only knew one thing with absolute clarity:
The world had noticed you.
And it would not stop hunting