Rye ran beside the others, her breath sharp and ragged. The old man—Maeron—was fast for his age. The two guards, Eris and Jor, followed close behind, blades drawn and eyes scanning the shadows.
Behind them, more Veyruuns howled.
"They're not stopping!" Eris shouted.
"They don't stop," Rye said. "They hunt."
The group reached a clearing, the moonlight bright above. They slowed, turning to face the dark woods behind them.
Silence.
Too much silence.
Rye raised her sword. Her hands were slick with sweat, but she kept her grip tight. The blade was long, silver-edged, glowing faintly in the dark. Her father's sword. She had never understood why it only ever felt heavy in her hands.
Then the trees moved.
Three shapes stepped out—tall, shifting, half-shadow, half-beast.
Veyruuns.
The one in front had the head of a wolf and the shoulders of a lion. Its eyes burned with gold fire. The others were different—sleeker, faster, harder to track with the eyes. They circled slowly.
"You're cornered," the wolf one said. "You smell like Kaelthar, half-blood. But the others…"
He grinned. "They're just food."
"Come get it," Jor growled, raising his axe.
Rye didn't wait. She ran straight at the lead beast, sword raised. It blocked her strike with one arm, claws like steel scraping her blade. She pushed harder, but the sword felt wrong—like it didn't belong to her. Like it didn't want to help.
The beast laughed and knocked her back with one blow.
Eris slashed at the second Veyruun, but it moved like smoke, dodging easily. It struck back, and Eris fell, coughing blood.
Jor roared and buried his axe in the third beast's shoulder—but the creature didn't slow. It roared back and threw him into a tree. He didn't get up.
"Rye!" Maeron shouted. "Fall back!"
She didn't. She stood her ground, panting, bleeding from a cut across her cheek. The sword felt heavier now, like stone. She swung it again, but the beast caught it mid-air and crushed the edge in its claw.
"Not yours," it hissed. "You haven't earned it."
She kicked the beast in the knee and rolled away, gasping. Her arm ached. Her ribs felt cracked. The other two Veyruuns closed in. Their shapes shifted—wings spread, claws stretched, teeth grew longer.
Rye looked around.
Eris down. Jor out. Maeron backing away slowly, blood on his sleeve.
This was it.
Then a sound rang out—clear and sharp, like a bell made of wind.
From above.
Rye looked up.
A man stood on a cliff high above them, wearing a long white coat that shone in the moonlight. He was young—maybe twenty—but his eyes were strange. Not scared. Not even curious. Just calm.
In his hand was a small, glowing object. Blue and smooth, like glass, but alive. It pulsed with light.
He raised it high.
The forest stopped.
The Veyruuns froze.
Then they screamed.
All three beasts turned at once, howling in pain. Their shapes shifted uncontrollably—fur to feathers, feathers to scales, scales to nothing. They stumbled back, whimpering like wounded dogs.
And then—they ran.
Gone into the woods.
Silence returned.
Rye fell to her knees, still gripping the broken sword. Her chest heaved. Blood dripped from her lip. The others lay still around her, breathing but hurt.
The man in white slowly climbed down from the cliff, moving carefully but without fear.
When he reached the clearing, Rye looked up at him.
"…Who the hell are you?" she asked.
He smiled softly.
"I am called Elian," he said. His voice was quiet, but it echoed strangely in the air. "And I am not from this world."
Rye stared at the blue object in his hand. "What is that?"
"A key," he said. "To something very old. Something they fear."
"You just saved our lives," Maeron said weakly, pushing himself upright.
"I didn't come to save you," Elian replied. "I came to see her."
He nodded at Rye.
"Me?" she asked. "Why?"
"You're the child of both worlds," he said. "And the gate between them is breaking."
"I know that."
He looked at the sword in her hand. "That blade does not trust you."
She scowled. "It's my father's."
"Yes," Elian said. "And he never meant it for you until you were ready. The sword knows what you are. Do you?"
Rye didn't answer.
Elian knelt beside her. "There's more coming. Not just beasts. Not just war. A third hand is moving now."
Rye narrowed her eyes. "You're not from Kaelthar."
"No," he said. "And not from Aeloria either."
"…Then where?"
He stood again, the blue light still glowing in his hand.
"From the place your people forgot. A world made of magic. A world that remembers."
He turned and began to walk into the woods.
"Wait," Rye said. "What do you want?"
He looked over his shoulder.
"Not want," he said. "Warn."
Then he was gone.
Rye sat in the clearing, surrounded by silence and broken trees.
For the first time, she felt the sword shift slightly in her hand.
Lighter.
As if it had seen something it liked.
Rye stayed on her knees, staring at the trees where Elian had vanished. His words rang in her head like a bell she couldn't un-hear.
"The sword does not trust you."
Her fingers tightened around the hilt.
The blade lay across her lap—dented, cracked, bloodied. Useless.
Not yours, the Veyruun had said.
And it was true. Every time she swung it, the weight fought her. Like the sword was waiting for someone else.
"I'm trying," she whispered.
No answer came.
But then—something changed.
A low hum filled the air.
The sword began to glow.
Rye's breath caught. She stared as red light slowly bled from the blade's edge, wrapping around it like smoke.
The glow grew stronger. Lines of light ran through the cracks, filling them. The dents vanished. The steel reshaped itself, longer now—sharper at the tip, the edge humming like it was alive. Neon-red markings lit up along the flat of the blade, pulsing like a heartbeat.
She didn't move.
She didn't breathe.
The sword wasn't broken anymore.
It was reborn.
But it still resisted.
The hilt burned cold in her hand. Not painfully—but firmly. Like the blade was saying:
Not yet. You're still not ready.
Rye gritted her teeth.
"Then what do I have to do?"
The sword didn't answer, but it didn't fade either. The red light stayed, burning brighter now in the dark forest. It hummed softly, like it was waiting.
Jor groaned nearby. He stirred slowly, then sat up, wincing. "By the gods… what happened?"
Eris blinked awake next. "Did we win…?"
Maeron was already standing, leaning on his staff. His eyes were fixed on Rye's sword.
"You've awakened it," he said quietly.
Rye looked up. "No. Not really. It changed… but it's not mine yet."
Maeron stepped closer. "It's more alive than it's been in years."
"I didn't do it on purpose."
"Doesn't matter," he said. "The sword responded to your will. That means something."
"It responded to him," she muttered. "Elian. Whatever he did to scare off the Veyruuns… it shook something loose."
Maeron nodded slowly. "Or maybe it reminded the sword who forged it in the first place."
Rye blinked. "What are you talking about?"
But the old man didn't answer.
Instead, he looked toward the trees, frowning.
"The forest isn't safe anymore. We have to move."
Rye stood. The sword pulsed in her hand. Lighter than before. Familiar—but still distant. Like a wolf walking beside her but not yet her own.
The others got to their feet, gathering their weapons. No one spoke much. Even Jor, usually loud, was quiet.
As they moved deeper into the trees, Rye looked down at the glowing blade.
It felt like something was waking up—not just in the sword.
But in her.
Something old. Something wild. Something that didn't care what side she chose—only that she chose soon.