Kaelen staggered out of the chapel, sweat streaking his brow despite the cold. The blade—if that's what it could even be called—hung at his side, wrapped in strips of cloth he'd torn from the decaying altar cloth. It pulsed faintly, like it was breathing. Like it was alive.
He kept his hand away from the hilt.
Every time he touched it, it showed him things. A city burned black by shadow. A mountain split down the center like broken bone. A face—not his—but eerily familiar, screaming into a storm of crows.
And through it all, that voice.
"Heir of dusk... bearer of what was sealed... remember."
Remember what? Kaelen didn't even know what he was anymore.
He didn't return to his chambers. Instead, he slipped through the side corridors of the estate, avoiding the guards and the ever-watchful eyes of House Kaelthorn. If his father discovered what he had done—what he had found—he'd lock him away. Or worse.
Lord Tharic didn't believe in myths. He believed in order, legacy, and the blade of the law. And there was no place in his world for shadow-forged relics or cursed heirs.
Kaelen's only comfort was the person waiting in the northern tower: Elira.
She was his twin, born seven minutes before him and never let him forget it. Fierce, brilliant, and always two steps ahead. If anyone would believe him, it was her.
He found her by the window, staring out at the mountains like she could read the stars.
"You've got blood on you," she said without turning. "That's either a very bad secret... or a very good story."
Kaelen unwrapped the blade just enough for her to see the edge. Even in the dim candlelight, it shimmered unnaturally.
Elira's expression froze.
"That's not one of ours," she said, eyes narrowing.
"No. It was in the chapel. Chained. Hidden."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "That chapel's been sealed for over a hundred years. After the war with the Hollow Court. Our great-grandfather banished every trace of their magic from these lands."
Kaelen met her gaze. "Then why did it call to me?"
Silence stretched between them. Elira reached toward the blade but stopped just short of touching it. "It's marked, Kael. I don't know how, but... it's awake. That's not a weapon. That's a key."
"A key to what?"
Before she could answer, the torches outside flared—a sign.
Someone was coming. Heavy boots. Multiple sets. Kaelen's stomach sank.
"Guards," Elira hissed, bolting the tower door. "Did anyone see you?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Well, they're not here for tea. Hide it. Now."
Kaelen moved to the hearth, shoving the blade behind the loose stones they used to sneak pastries when they were kids. He barely had time to wipe his hands when the door slammed open.
Lord Tharic Kaelthorn entered, flanked by two crimson-cloaked sentries. His presence filled the room like a cold wind.
"Elira. Kaelen," he said, voice sharp and precise. "There's been... a disturbance."
Kaelen's heart pounded.
"The chapel chains," Tharic continued, his eyes drilling into Kaelen, "were shattered tonight."
Kaelen held his breath.
"No signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle. And yet... the seals are broken."
Tharic took a slow step forward.
"Tell me, son. Is there anything you wish to confess?"
Kaelen felt Elira's gaze on him—steady, unflinching.
He swallowed. "No, Father. Nothing."
Lord Tharic's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite a threat. "Good. Then you won't mind if I post guards at every door. Until we know what we're dealing with."
He turned to leave, but paused. "And Kaelen... if you know anything... now is the time to speak. The house protects its own. But it punishes betrayal."
He left without waiting for an answer.
The moment the footsteps faded, Elira whirled around. "You can't keep it here. If Father finds out—"
"I know," Kaelen whispered. "But it's too late."
Outside, the wind howled again.
And far below the mountain, in the darkened caverns of the old world, something stirred.
The blade had awakened.
And so had its enemies.