The moment Argolaith's fingers closed around the hilt, the world shifted.
Not physically—no sound, no tremor, no outward sign of change.
But within—
Everything collapsed inward.
The sanctum vanished.
Argolaith found himself standing in a place without walls, without sky.
A void.
But not an empty void.
It was filled—not with light or shadow, but with something deeper.
Memories.
Echoes of battles long fought, of steel clashing against steel, of desperation and blood.
And then—
A voice.
Not a whisper.
Not a call.
A command.
"Who dares take up this blade?"
A figure emerged from the nothingness.
A man clad in armor of old, his form wrapped in flowing black and silver. His helm bore no face—only a void where eyes should be.
But his presence was undeniable.
The First Warden.
The original wielder of this blade.
And he was not pleased.
"Many have sought this sword," the Warden intoned, his voice resonating through the void like a bell.
"None were worthy."
