She whimpered.
Kael’s hand came to rest against her lower back.
And the presence vanished.
She fell asleep to the rhythm of his breath behind her in guarded stillness.
The second part of the night was Alarik.
He didn’t lie beside her right away. He sat nearby, only after she whispered his name did he come.
He laid beside her then, close, but not touching. And yet, his magic brushed hers a touch of moonlight on water. When she finally closed her eyes, his presence hummed softly beneath her skin.
He never slept.
She knew it the moment dawn spilled across the land and he was still watching the horizon, sword near, as if daring the goddess to come.
By the end of the day they would reach the sword.
Thewilds had teeth.
The deeper they ventured, the more the land seemed to breathe beneath their boots —alive with ancient tension —each gust of wind a warning. Thorn-choked trails slowed their pace, roots curling like claws around stone. The sky sagged low with storm-hung clouds, and the air smelled faintly of ash.
By dusk, they’d found it.
A ravine carved into the cliffs, walls veined with black ivy and silver moss. At its heart stood ruins, part temple, part tomb, half-buried beneath time and shadow. The stone was pale and crumbling, but unmistakably sacred.
Maris stopped at the threshold, heart hammering.
Veil Breaker. Daughter of the woven blood. I have waited centuries for you.A serpentine voice echoed into her mind.
“It’s here,” she said, her voice dry with awe.
Kael's hand drifted near the hilt of his blade, eyes narrowed and alert. His shadows curled around his shoulders, as he took in the ruin.
Alarik scanned the perimeter beside her, his eyes glowing faintly with magic.
Serenya crouched low, running her hand along the cracked stone of the steps. “There was a battle here, long ago. I can still feel the blood in the ground.”
Zairon and Riven flanked the edges of the ruin’s entrance. Riven’s sword was already in hand, his gaze sharp and calculating. Zairon’s fingers brushed the carvings on a broken pillar, murmuring something under his breath in old Fae.
Corin directed the accompanying warriors, checking formation, setting a defensive perimeter around the exterior. None of them would risk being caught unaware in a place like this.
Maris stepped forward, drawn toward the hollow interior.
The chamber was vast and eerie, bathed in silvery dusk light. Vines had crept down through cracks in the ceiling, swaying like tendrils in the windless air. In the center of the ruin stood a tomb.
She knew it the moment she saw it.
The stone slab was etched with symbols that pulsed faintly, ancient, unreadable, older than even the gods she’d come to know. And on it lay a figure — a warrior’s remains, still clad in rusted armor, one skeletal hand wrapped tight around the hilt of a long blade. His skull tilted toward the heavens, eyes lost to time.
“The sword…” Maris whispered.
She stepped closer.
It was longer than she expected, narrow and silver-pale, with veins of molten gold and ancient runes seared into the steel. The handle was black leather, aged but untouched by decay. The warrior’s fingers gripped it as if still guarding it in death.
“A god-forged blade,” Alarik said behind her, voice reverent. “Crafted before the kingdoms were born.”
