The deeper Kieran followed Varneth through the alleys and winding streets of Varneth, the more distant the noise of the city became. The world above buzzed with politics, masks, and manipulation—but down here, beneath the surface, silence reigned.
The tunnel they entered was hidden behind an illusion—just a crumbling wall to any normal eye. But Varneth pressed his hand to a glyph, and the stones shimmered away, revealing a passage carved from obsidian rock. Cold. Still. Ageless.
Only the soft drip of water echoed through the corridor as they walked.
"This is not a place for most," Varneth said, his voice calm and measured. "But I want you to understand the truth of what you're holding. The fragments. The dagger. And Sylas."
They stepped into a domed chamber—circular, with glowing blue veins that pulsed in the walls like the breath of something alive. In the center stood a pedestal. Upon it: a broken shard, humming faintly.
Kieran stepped closer, the fragment in his possession resonating, like a whisper recognizing its kin.
"You said… Sylas made it?" Kieran asked, his voice uncertain, eyes fixed on the pedestal.
Varneth nodded.
"Long ago, before the world was even as it is now, there was a dagger. Simple. Weak. But it had the power to wound things that should not be wounded. The kind of entities that exist between reality and void."
Kieran looked up sharply.
"What kind of entities?"
"The kind Sylas fought alone."
There was a pause. Kieran absorbed the weight of that.
"But if it was weak… why use it?"
Varneth's tone shifted slightly—respect and dread mingling in his words.
"Because Sylas didn't just wield power—he created it. He reforged the dagger using his gift… shaped it into something that could defy fate. With it, he sealed horrors beyond our world. But power like that... it draws eyes."
Kieran's hand unconsciously tightened at his side.
"So he broke it again."
Varneth nodded slowly.
"Before he vanished, Sylas shattered the dagger and scattered the fragments, hiding them where only those worthy or desperate enough would find them. And he did not leave them unguarded."
"The bear," Kieran murmured, recalling the titanic guardian he'd seen in his vision. "The veins… its eyes…"
"The Guardian of the First Shadow," Varneth said. "Created not to kill, but to protect. It doesn't choose sides. Its only command is to stop those not ready to wield the dagger. If it had wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."
Kieran shivered, realizing just how close to death he'd come—and how far he still had to go.
"So that means… there are others? More guardians?"
Varneth's voice dropped.
"Yes. Six fragments. Six thresholds. Six moments of trial. Each one designed to break or shape the one who seeks the blade. Only the worthy will wield it."
"And when I do?" Kieran asked, softly. "What happens if I forge it again?"
Varneth looked at him, and for the first time, the flicker of something close to fear danced behind his calm eyes.
"Then fate itself might notice. And it has no mercy."
Reflection
As they stood in the glow of the ancient chamber, Kieran closed his eyes. The weight of the past—the legacy of Sylas Veyron—pressed down on him like a mountain.
But within him burned a quiet defiance.
I will not be a weapon. I will choose what I fight for.
"You said this city doesn't give its trust easily," Kieran said finally.
Varneth inclined his head.
"It doesn't. But it watches. It waits. And sometimes… it hopes."