The cavern had been silent moments ago—silent except for the breath of three fugitives and the pulse of a fossil glowing faintly in Cael's hands. But silence, Cael realized, was fragile. It shattered the instant the sound of boots began to echo through the tunnels, boots multiplied by stone until they became a storm.
At first it was distant thunder. Then it became a tide.
Cael's heart leapt to his throat. His body screamed at him to run, but his legs rooted themselves as if the stone floor clutched his feet. Shadows stretched across the crystalline walls as torches flickered closer, closer.
Liora cursed under her breath, her dagger already gleaming in her fist. "They found us faster than I thought." Her voice was sharp but steady—anger, not fear.
But Serin… Serin did not move. He stood as though he had been waiting, calm in the face of an approaching storm. Slowly, deliberately, he reached behind his back and drew forth something wrapped in cloth, long and heavy. The fabric fell away like old skin, and what remained made Cael's breath falter.
It was a sword, but unlike any Cael had ever seen. Forged of blackened steel veined with threads of silver that pulsed faintly like veins under skin. Its edge shimmered with a ghostly light, and when Serin raised it, the cavern seemed to recoil—the crystals dimming, the air thickening as though burdened by memory.
Cael's voice cracked as he whispered, "What… what is that?"
Serin's eyes never left the dark tunnel ahead. "The reason I came here."
Before Cael could question further, the hunters arrived.
They poured from the tunnels in formation, ash-grey armor glinting in the glow of their torches, faces hidden behind visors carved into snarling beasts. Their weapons were long, cruel spears tipped with hooked blades that dripped with oil. Their boots struck in unison—men trained not just to kill, but to erase.
And on each breastplate, the emblem of the Spiral priests gleamed: the endless coil, circling upon itself, devouring its own tail.
The leader of the pack, taller than the rest and bearing a halberd etched with glyphs of authority, stepped forward. He lowered his weapon toward Cael, ignoring Serin and Liora as if they were shadows.
"Return the fossil," he commanded, his voice iron wrapped in ritual. "And come with us, scholar. The Spiral tolerates questions. But you have moved beyond questions. You walk the path of rebellion."
The words sliced deeper than any blade. Cael's knees weakened. They weren't here for Serin. They weren't here for Liora. They were here for him.
The fossil in his hands pulsed harder, beating in time with his heart, or against it—it was hard to tell.
Liora spat onto the stone floor. "You'll take nothing but steel in your throats."
And then everything broke into chaos.
The hunters surged forward as one, a wall of steel and smoke. Their weapons thrust out like fangs, their torches trailing firelight across the cavern walls.
Liora was the first to meet them. She moved like fire catching dry leaves—fast, consuming. She ducked beneath a spear, slashed her dagger across a throat, then twisted away before the body hit the floor. A second hunter swung at her, and she turned the blade aside with her forearm guard, plunging her dagger into the gap of his armor with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed across the stone.
But Serin—Serin was something else entirely.
He raised his sword, and with a single swing, the cavern shook. Light burst from the blade, white-silver arcs that left trails in the air. Three hunters were hurled backwards as if struck by invisible hammers, their armor crumpling with the sound of snapping bones. The Ashen Blade sang, not with music, but with a vibration that sank into Cael's bones. It was as though the blade itself was alive, hungry.
The hunters faltered. Even in their discipline, fear rippled through their ranks.
The leader's voice cut through the fear. "The Ashen Blade! You dare wield that cursed relic?"
Cael froze. He had heard that name only in whispers—legends passed in hushed tones by miners and traders. A blade older than the Spiral itself, forged not by chance but by design. A blade forbidden by the priests because it was proof of meaning, not accident.
Serin's eyes burned as he answered, his voice steady but sharp as iron. "I wield it for one reason. To find the one the priests fear most. To find you, Cael."
The world narrowed to a point. The clash of steel, the cries of hunters, even the flash of Serin's blade—all blurred against those words.
"To… find me?" Cael whispered, his mouth dry.
Before he could comprehend, two hunters lunged at him. He stumbled back, instinctively raising the fossil as a shield. The spiral etched into its surface flared—and the hunters screamed as an unseen force ripped them from their feet. They slammed against the cavern wall, armor splitting like eggshells.
Cael stared at the fossil in horror. It was alive. It had chosen.
Liora seized his arm, yanking him toward the far passage. "No time to gawk, scholar! We have to move!"
Serin carved another arc of light, clearing their path. His voice boomed above the clash.
"You asked why I came here? I'll tell you: because you were marked before you ever asked a question. The priests sent hunters for you, not for me. They fear you, Cael. They fear what you might see. I was sent to make sure you live long enough to see it."
His words tore Cael in half. Chosen? Marked? By what? For what?
The cavern walls shook again as more hunters poured in, their chants of the Spiral echoing like war drums. They did not fight as men—they fought as believers, as zealots carrying the will of their priests. And yet, with every strike, Serin's blade shattered their resolve.
Still, there were too many.
"Run!" Serin roared, his blade singing louder, brighter. "The river will carry you out. I'll hold them."
"No!" Cael shouted, though his voice was swallowed by steel and screams. His chest burned, his soul tearing between fear and loyalty. "I won't leave you!"
But Liora's grip was iron. "He knew this would happen, boy! Don't waste it!"
The fossil throbbed again in his grip, each pulse louder, heavier, demanding a choice. Run, or fight. Escape, or fall.
He turned once, his eyes catching Serin's figure framed in a storm of steel and light. The Ashen Blade cleaved through hunters like they were shadows, arcs of silver fire painting the cavern walls. His voice thundered, carrying not just to Cael but to the stone itself:
"Truth is not fragile! It does not hide—it waits! Live, Cael! Tear their Spiral down!"
And then the cavern roared with dust and fire, swallowing Serin whole.