35
XAVIAN
The descent into the underground settlement felt like stepping back into a piece of Velrith I'd thought lost, the carved steps winding down into the cliffside with a familiarity that tugged at old memories, even as the weight of our situation pressed heavier with each footfall. Nexlin led the way, his lantern casting a steady glow that illuminated the rough-hewn walls, etched with faint runes that hummed softly in response to our passage, wards woven into the stone itself to mask the life below. The air grew cooler as we went deeper, carrying scents of damp earth and herbs, mingled with the faint, acrid tang of alchemical work—signs of a community that had adapted to survival in the shadows. Morgan walked beside me, her steps measured but steady, the rune she'd carved into her arm granting her a resilience that still astonished me, though I could see the effort it cost her, the way her jaw tightened against the lingering pain in her stump. I kept close, my hand hovering near her elbow, ready to steady her if the descent proved too much, a protective instinct that had deepened over our journey, turning from necessity into something more instinctive, more personal.
Nexlin glanced back once, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern as he noted Morgan's bandaged arm, the way she held it close to her body. "Seryth's chamber is at the heart of this place," he said, his voice echoing slightly off the walls. "She's been expecting trouble ever since the surface went dark. If anyone can help with... that," he nodded toward her injury, "it's her. But she's stretched thin these days. We all are."
I nodded, the words stirring a quiet relief amid the tension coiling in my chest. Seryth—I'd seen her work miracles before, mending wounds that should have been fatal, weaving essence back into flesh with a precision that bordered on art. I’d even heard she had pulled a comrade back from the brink, reattaching a limb severed in battle, her hands steady as she channeled threads of power to knit bone and nerve.
But the blade's involvement complicated Morgan's case, the way her severed hand still gripped Virelya's hilt in that preserved state, as if the entity within refused to release her entirely. The quiet from the blade persisted, a profound stillness that left my thoughts clear but my instincts wary, wondering if this dormancy was a gift or a prelude to something worse. I pushed the thought down, focusing on the steps ahead, the faint glow from deeper in the passage growing brighter as we approached the core of the settlement.
The tunnel opened into a vast cavern, its ceiling arched high and supported by natural pillars of stone that had been reinforced with glowing runes, creating a space that felt both enclosed and expansive. The settlement sprawled within, a network of low dwellings carved into the walls or built from salvaged stone, connected by winding paths lit by floating orbs of soft light that bobbed gently in the air. People moved about with purposeful quiet, their faces marked by the wear of hard living—cloaks patched and worn, tools of trade slung over shoulders, a mix of healers, artisans, and what lookedlike guards patrolling the perimeters. The air hummed with subdued activity, conversations kept low, as if the weight of secrecy pressed on every word. Scents layered in: the sharp bite of medicinal herbs brewing in open pots, the earthy richness of underground gardens where luminescent plants grew in neat rows, providing food and light in one. It was a haven, resilient and hidden, but the grim undercurrent was there in the guarded glances cast our way, the way hands hovered near weapons or talismans, a community braced for the next blow.
Nexlin led us through the paths without fanfare, nodding to a few faces that recognized him, until we reached a chamber set deeper into the rock, its entrance marked by a curtain of woven vines that shimmered with protective wards. He pushed it aside, gesturing us in. "Seryth," he called softly, his voice carrying into the space beyond. "We've got visitors. One needs your skills."
The chamber inside was warm, lit by a central brazier that burned with a steady, smokeless flame, casting a golden glow over shelves lined with vials, dried herbs, and tools of bone and crystal. Seryth turned from a workbench where she'd been grinding something in a mortar, her face lined with age but sharp, eyes a piercing green that took us in with quick assessment. She was even older than I remembered, silver hair pulled back in a practical braid, but her movements were fluid, efficient, wiping her hands on a cloth as she approached. Recognition lit her features when she saw me, a faint smile breaking through the weariness. "Xavian Seraxen. I wondered if the rumors were true, if you'd survived the exile all these years. And now here you are, looking like you've dragged yourself through the fringes with... a friend." Her gaze shifted to Morgan, lingering on the bandaged stump. “How on earth did you manage to get back through the Shardline?”
I stepped forward, the tension in my chest easing slightly at her presence. "Seryth. It's truly so good to see you. I will fillyou in on our arrival later. But first… we came for your help. Morgan... she lost her hand. It's preserved, but complicated. Can you look? See if reattachment's possible?"
She nodded, gesturing Morgan toward a low table in the center of the room, her voice calm and commanding in that way healers have, brooking no delay. "Sit, child. Let me see." Morgan complied, settling onto the stool with a wince, her face pale but composed, though I caught the flicker of pain in her eyes as she extended her arm. I stayed close, hovering at the edge of the table, my gaze fixed on Seryth's hands as she unwrapped the bandages carefully, revealing the sealed stump, the skin puckered and raw but held together by the runes inscribed.
Seryth examined it closely, her fingers tracing the edges without touching, her eyes narrowing as she felt the residual energy. "Clean cut, sealed well. Runes did their job— no rot setting in, blood flow stabilized. But the hand itself... show me."
I placed the bundled package on the table, unwrapping it just enough to reveal the severed hand, fingers still locked around Virelya's hilt in that unyielding grip. Seryth leaned in, her expression shifting to one of intrigued caution, her hand hovering over it, careful not to make contact. "Ah. That's the complication. The blade's involved. I know of Virelya, Xavian—the stories, at least. Cursed thing, as you know, considering it is bound to you in exile. But this... her hand won't release it, even severed. That's not natural. The entity's hold, perhaps? I assume she touched it, triggered a surge?"
I nodded, the memory of that moment twisting in my gut, guilt surging fresh as I recounted it briefly, my voice steady but laced with the tension I couldn't fully mask. "She gripped the hilt, and it pulled her in. She was screaming… I- I couldn't break the connection. I had to sever it to save her." Saying it aloud stirred the ache again, a deep-seated regret that I kept buried,but Seryth's presence made it harder to ignore, her knowing gaze pulling at the edges.
Morgan spoke up then, her voice strained but clear, leaning forward slightly as Seryth examined the hand. "It felt like being inside it, or it inside me. Memories that weren't mine, an entity trapped, starving. That's what he's been feeding—the thing bound in there, not just the blade." Her words carried weight, a quiet authority born from surviving it, and I felt a swell of respect for her resilience, even as the description unsettled me anew.
Seryth hummed thoughtfully, her fingers finally brushing the preserved skin, testing the grip without forcing it. "Entity, yes. Virelya's lore is old, fragmented—I heard rumors long ago that it was forged to contain a force from the early fractures, a being of hunger and grief bound into metal to prevent catastrophe. When I say rumors… my great-grandmother told me of stories she read of these in her own father’s private records. Ancient magic. If that's true, her contact woke it in ways your bond never did, Xavian. The hand's refusal to release... it's like a bridge, sustaining the connection. Reattaching it as is could pull her back into that surge, or worse, bind her to the entity permanently. We'd need to sever that grip first, coax the fingers open without shattering the preservation. Possible, but risky. Essence weaving to reknit the nerves and bone—that I can do, given time and resources. But the blade's influence complicates it. It might resist, or corrupt the healing. We'll need to isolate the hand, draw out whatever hold the entity has. Not instant, and no guarantees, but... there's a chance."
Her assessment landed heavily, a mix of hope and caution that mirrored the knot in my chest. I trusted her skill—I'd seen her reattach limbs before, pulling warriors back from the edge with threads of essence that mended what blades had torn—but this was different, tainted by Virelya's shadow. The thought ofMorgan enduring more pain, of the process failing and leaving her worse, tightened something in me, a protective urge that went beyond logic. "Do what you can," I said, my voice rough, the tension bleeding through despite my effort to keep it steady. "She's strong, but this... it can't wait."
Seryth nodded, already moving to gather tools from her shelves—crystals that pulsed with inner light, vials of shimmering liquid, a slender rod etched with runes. As she worked, preparing a circle on the table around the bundled hand, she glanced at me, her voice dropping to a more conversational tone, though laced with the grim reality we'd all been living.
"You've been gone a long time, Xavian. I don’t know what Nexlin has already told you, but things have changed since your exile, as you have seen from our charred surface remains. Nyra... she's not content with House Seraxen anymore. She's spread her influence like a blight, using Virentha to bind oaths across regions. Entire villages sworn to her, their loyalties twisted so they can't even think of rebellion without pain. Histories altered—old records burned or rewritten, memories suppressed so no one remembers the Houses as they were. People vanish if they push back, whole families gone overnight, whispers saying they're bound in her service, their wills broken. Resistance is scattered, pushed into places like this, underground or in the wilds, but even here, we feel it. Her most loyal stooges? They're everywhere, sniffing out holdouts. We've lost three enclaves in the last year alone, wiped clean like the surface above. She's building something, Xavian, an empire where truth is whatever she decrees."
Her words hit like stones, each one sinking deeper, expanding the picture of ruin I'd pieced together from fragments during my exile. I'd known Nyra's ambition, felt its sting in my own fall, but hearing the scope of it now, from someonewho'd witnessed the slow rot, made the world feel smaller, more suffocated under her shadow. Regions bound, histories erased—it was systematic, a reshaping of Velrith into her image, where free will bent to compelled loyalty, and resistance meant disappearance. Grim didn't cover it; this was a world hollowed out, its people chained by the very artifact our family had guarded. I felt the weight of those lost years press down, the isolation of exile suddenly a barrier I'd hidden behind while she dismantled everything. "How far has it spread?" I asked, my voice steady but laced with the anger building beneath, protective fury not just for myself but for Morgan, dragged into this fractured realm.
Seryth paused in her preparations, her eyes meeting mine with a weary gravity. "Far enough that neutral grounds like ours are rare. She's got the major Houses in her pocket, oaths sealing alliances she controls. Disappearances... they're not random. Anyone with knowledge of old lore, especially that relating to prophecies or binding magic, is gone. Histories have been altered so the young don't even know there was a time before her. We've got runners smuggling out what records we can, but it's risky. Lost a group last month—bound and vanished, their memories probably twisted to serve her. Resistance hides, strikes where we can, but it's whispers against a storm."
Morgan, who'd been quiet during the examination, leaned forward now, her face pale but her voice sharp with questions, processing the revelations even as Seryth worked around her. "Wait, so she's like a dictator with magic mind control? And if she's that powerful, won't she know we're here?"
Seryth nodded, her hands steady as she placed crystals around the bundled hand, forming a containment circle that began to hum softly. "She is, and yes, fighting her means staying hidden, striking at the edges. As for knowing... the crossing would have rippled, especially with Virelya's involvement. She'sgot seers watching the Shardline for anomalies. If she doesn't know yet, she will soon. Time's limited here—we can stabilize you, maybe attempt the reattachment, but you'll need to move on quick. This place is a refuge, but not completely invisible to someone searching hard enough."
Morgan swallowed audibly, the weight of it settling in. “So we patch me up,” she said, voice tight, “and then we run.”
36
MORGAN
Three days had passed since Seryth had finally pried my severed hand from the blade's hilt, and in that time, the underground settlement had started to feel less like a refuge and more like another cage, its stone walls pressing in with the same unyielding weight as the warehouse back in my world.
The process had been agonizingly slow, a series of rituals that dragged out over hours in her chamber, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and the low chant of words I didn't understand but felt humming through my bones. She'd isolated the hand in a circle of glowing crystals, their light pulsing in rhythms that made my skin crawl, and when she'd finally coaxed the fingers open, it had been with a surge of energy that ripped through me like an echo of the original pain, fire racing up my arm even though the stump was wrapped and sealed. The blade had resisted at first, that trapped entity inside thrashing against the separation, but Seryth's steady hands had held, weaving threads of power that forced the release. My hand lay free now, preserved in a stasis field on her workbench, fingers lax andlifeless, while Virelya rested nearby, its metal surface dull and unassuming, as if the horror it contained had never happened.
But ithadhappened, and the aftermath lingered in every breath I took, every glance at the empty space where my hand should have been. Seryth had explained the delay in reattachment with that calm, measured tone of hers, saying the tissue needed time to "realign" after the blade's influence, that rushing it could corrupt the healing, twist the nerves into something wrong or bind me back to the entity in ways we couldn't predict. Three days, she'd said, to prepare the essence threads, to ensure the connection would take without rejection. It made sense in the abstract, her words laced with the confidence of someone who'd mended worse, but to me, it felt like stalling, another stretch of waiting in a life that had become nothing but endurance. The rune I had carved into my arm helped. It kept the weakness at bay, but it couldn't touch the deeper ache, the frustration that had been building like pressure in a sealed chamber, ready to burst.
Xavian had been there through it all, hovering at the edges of Seryth's chamber during the rituals, his presence a steady shadow that both reassured and infuriated me. He'd watched with that intense focus of his, eyes dark and unreadable, but I'd caught the flickers—guilt in the way his jaw tightened when Seryth worked, protectiveness in how he'd positioned himself between me and the door, as if expecting trouble to spill in at any moment. In the days since, he'd stayed close, helping with the small things without asking, his hands careful when he adjusted my bandages or passed me food. There was a gentleness in it that clashed with the man I'd first known, the one who'd dragged me into this nightmare, and it stirred things in me I didn't want to name, a reluctant softening that warred with the anger simmering beneath. Pity had come first, back when we'd arrived and I'd seen the ruins of his world, the peopledriven underground by his sister's reach, but that had faded fast, burned away by the reality of my loss, the way everything circled back to his choices, his curse, his blade.
