The sky hung heavy with the promise of war.
Dark clouds gathered above the Vale of Murtaan, where the fourth tribe awaited—the Vaanshi, known across the land as the Singers of Steel. Unlike the fire-blooded Raaksh, the river-wise Jalvans, or the shadow-bound Ash-Walkers, the Vaanshi were warriors of precision and rhythm. Their blades danced to a song older than memory. Their battles were not fought—they were orchestrated.
Veer had heard stories of the Vaanshi since childhood. That their swords could cut lightning. That their training halls echoed not with grunts and yells, but with melodies so sharp, they could cleave rock. He'd thought them myths. But now, standing at the edge of their sacred training grounds, he felt the truth thrumming in the air like the first note of a war hymn.
Ishaya walked beside him, her brows drawn tight in awe. "They say every Vaanshi warrior learns to fight before they can walk. Their bodies become instruments, and war is their symphony."
Veer said nothing, his eyes locked on the towering gates ahead. Twin statues stood guard—one of a man mid-slash, the other of a woman caught in a graceful parry. Both stone figures wore serene expressions, like dancers lost in rhythm.
The gates opened.
A figure stepped out.
She was tall, dressed in armor that shimmered like molten silver. Her eyes were sharp, her stance poised. A sword rested across her back—not strapped, merely placed, as if even gravity dared not move it.
"I am Aaryka," she announced, voice like a chime struck with steel. "Blade-Seer of the Vaanshi. You seek the fourth sigil."
Veer nodded.
"Then you must first survive the Song."
The training ground was a vast open field, surrounded by wind-chimes and steel bells. The ground beneath their feet was black stone, etched with thousands of faded lines—each a mark of a past warrior's dance.
Aaryka stepped into the center and gestured.
"Here, every challenge begins with rhythm. We do not test strength. We test harmony."
As she spoke, drums began to beat.
Slow. Measured.
Then came the flutes—sharp and urgent.
And finally, the chimes—delicate but constant, like a heartbeat beneath chaos.
"You must fight," Aaryka said, drawing her sword, "without breaking the rhythm. One misstep, and the steel will know."
From the edges of the field, more Vaanshi appeared—dozens of warriors, each with a blade in hand and melody in soul.
Veer took his stance. The Whispering Blade inched from its sheath like a serpent tasting the air. It hummed softly, almost… excited.
Then Aaryka attacked.
It was not a fight.
It was a song.
Aaryka's movements were flawless. Her strikes came not in anger, but in cadence—slashes that matched the drumbeats, footwork that echoed the chimes.
Veer struggled.
His instincts screamed to block, to counter—but every motion outside the rhythm made the air itself resist him. His blade felt heavy when it moved out of sync, like trying to swim against a tide of sound.
He stumbled.
A gong rang out.
Aaryka stopped. "Again."
The music resumed.
Veer lunged, trying to follow the pattern. Right, left, step, pivot. His strikes began to fall in line. He remembered the river, how it had taught him flow. He remembered the ash, how it had taught him control.
The song began to accept him.
Until—
He faltered.
Another gong.
"Again."
The sun rose high and dipped low, and still Veer danced the Song of Blades.
Every failure taught him more. Every rhythm he broke burned into muscle memory. And slowly, hour by hour, the song became part of him.
He bled. He fell. But he never yielded.
On the seventh trial, as night fell over Murtaan, Veer stood once more before Aaryka.
The music began.
He moved.
And this time—he danced.
Not with perfection.
But with truth.
The Whispering Blade sang with him, its steel vibrating in resonance with the rhythm. His strikes matched the drums. His breath matched the flutes. His heart matched the chimes.
Aaryka smiled.
They clashed in a flurry of silver and sound, two blades swirling in perfect counterpoint. The other Vaanshi watched in reverent silence, their eyes wide with something rare—respect.
And when the music ended, Veer stood tall, his blade poised, his breath steady.
The gong did not sound.
Aaryka bowed her head.
"You have heard the song," she said. "And more importantly—you listened."
From her robe, she pulled a small token—shaped like a lotus carved from steel.
"This is the fourth sigil. The mark of harmony."
> [Trial of Blades Completed.]
[4/9 Tribes Aligned.]
[Title Earned: The Rhythm-Bound.]
[Ability Gained: Battle Cadence – In combat, Veer can sense enemy movements through sound and rhythm, allowing for predictive counterattacks.]
As Veer accepted the sigil, he looked around at the warriors. None spoke. But each one placed a hand over their heart in silent salute.
Aaryka stepped close, her voice lowered.
"There is a war coming, Veer of the Flames and Ash. The Nine must stand as one, or fall as nine. You carry a storm inside you… but storms can sing, too, if you let them."
Veer nodded, her words settling deep into him.
The storm within him had been raging for years.
Now, finally, it had a rhythm.