Chapter 4: The Weight of Blood
Kael's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The sword lay between them on the cold stone floor of the abandoned church, wrapped in Lira's leather cord, humming like a caged hornet. Its presence buzzed in his skull. The air reeked of damp ash, incense, and something older—like secrets buried in bone.
Wind howled through shattered stained glass, casting broken rainbows on the walls. They crawled like ghosts.
Lira crouched near a rusted brazier, coaxing reluctant embers with the tip of her dagger. Firelight licked across her scar, turning it into a molten thread down her cheek. She hadn't spoken since they'd fled the city.
Kael broke the silence. "You said you'd explain."
She didn't look at him. "I say a lot of things."
The sword laughed—a sound like ice cracking on a frozen lake. "She doesn't trust you. Smart girl."
He clenched his jaw. "Why does it know my sister's name?"
Lira froze.
Then, quietly: "Because it's been inside your head for days." She lifted her eyes, dark and steady. "And it's not just your head anymore."
The First Cut
She rolled up her sleeve.
Kael's breath caught.
Her arm was a map of pain—pale scars like old rivers, angry red lines not yet healed. But the worst were the marks: black sigils, jagged and curling like ink spilled in reverse. Just like his.
"You…" His voice cracked.
"Touched a cursed blade?" she said, lips quirking into a half-smile that held no joy. "Yeah. Once."
The fire cracked like bone. Thunder rolled beyond the broken walls.
Kael reached for her, hesitated. "What happened?"
Lira's eyes dropped. She pulled her sleeve down. "I let go."
"LIAR," the sword hissed, venom in every syllable.
She kicked it hard. It skittered across the stones, shrieking like it had nerves to scrape raw.
The Truth in the Dark
Lira breathed in slow, steady. "That thing doesn't just want blood. It wants control. Every time you listen—even a little—it learns you. Twists you. One choice at a time."
"Until I'm not me anymore," Kael said, the words lead-heavy.
She nodded. "Until one day, you look down, and the hands holding the blade aren't yours. They feel like yours. But they're not."
Silence settled, thick as grief.
Kael thought of Lyss—how her laughter bubbled through their hollow days, how she used to pull him back from the edge with nothing but a look. Would she even recognize him now?
"How do I stop it?" he whispered.
Lira stared into the fire. "You don't. You carry it. Every day. And you choose not to let it win."
The sword purred, "Or you could let me help."
Kael closed his eyes.
For once, he didn't answer.
The Storm Breaks
Rain hammered the roof like war drums. The wind shrieked through every broken window and shattered arch.
Lira stood fast. "We leave at first light. There's a witch in the Blackroot Swamps. If anyone knows how to silence this thing—"
A sound cut her off.
Footsteps. Heavy. Many.
The church doors exploded inward, ancient hinges screaming.
Not city guards.
Men in iron masks, faces erased, blades blacker than steel and gleaming with an unnatural sheen.
The leader stepped forward, his voice hollow, metallic. "The Bloodthorn boy. And the Starlight girl. How… convenient."
Lira's dagger was out before he finished speaking. "Run."
Kael grabbed the sword. His sigils flared, searing hot.
"Finally," it whispered.
The masked men surged forward.
And Kael didn't run.
To be continued....