"Every city wears a mask—one painted for strangers, one hidden for itself."
___
The forest broke at last. After days of trudging through Ashenwood's damp earth and whispering branches, Kael and Elara reached the crest of a ridge where the trees thinned and the world beyond revealed itself.
Ebonreach stretched out in the valley like a dark crown. Its walls were carved from black stone veined with streaks of silver, reflecting the sunrise with a metallic sheen. Spires and watchtowers bristled like jagged teeth, and pennants snapped in the morning wind. The city didn't welcome—it loomed, a fortress meant to defy time itself.
Elara stopped beside him, clutching her satchel as if it alone could tether her excitement. Her auburn braid had half unraveled during the journey, loose strands curling around her pale cheeks. Her green eyes widened at the sight.
"It's magnificent," she whispered. "I've read descriptions, but they don't come close to this."
Kael stood silent. His storm-grey eyes traced the battlements, the gatehouses, the shadows beneath the rising smoke of countless hearths. The scar across his jaw pulled taut when his teeth clenched. "It's just another city," he said at last.
Elara glanced at him, annoyance flickering. "Do you ever stop seeing the world through ashes and suspicion?"
"No," Kael answered bluntly, tugging his cloak tighter. The cursed sword at his hip thrummed faintly, as if restless at the thought of so many lives packed together beyond those walls. Its whisper coiled in his mind like smoke: So many hearts. So much blood. Feed me.
He ignored it, starting down the slope toward the road.
The closer they came, the busier the road grew. Farmers pushed carts heavy with vegetables, merchants cracked whips over oxen dragging wagons of spices and fabrics, and travelers of every sort pressed forward in a stream that thickened toward the gates. The air filled with the calls of peddlers, the squeak of wheels, the bleating of penned goats.
Kael moved with the sure gait of a soldier who had threaded battlefields, his eyes scanning every face, every twitch of a hand near a dagger. He hated crowds. Too many variables. Too many temptations for the sword.
Elara was his opposite. She darted her gaze everywhere, drinking in details with undisguised wonder. She lingered over cages of brightly feathered birds, paused to inhale the smell of roasting chestnuts, asked a passing merchant about the glowing crystals in his cart until Kael's curt, "Don't touch," pulled her back.
"You are impossible," she muttered. "I'm not a child."
"I've buried fools who thought cities were safe," Kael replied flatly.
That silenced her—for a time.
The gates themselves were massive slabs of black iron banded with silver, etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Two lines of guards in dark blue tabards bearing the silver sigil of Ebonreach checked each wagon and traveler. The soldiers were efficient, but not cruel—professional men and women with the weariness of long routines etched into their faces.
When Kael and Elara stepped forward, one guard eyed Kael's sword. "That blade's unusual," he remarked.
Kael's jaw flexed. "Family heirloom."
The guard raised a brow, but the flatness in Kael's gaze convinced him not to press. He waved them through.
Inside, the city swallowed them whole.
Ebonreach was alive.
Stone streets wound like veins through districts stacked high with crooked houses and towering halls. The cries of hawkers filled the air—offering smoked fish, spiced wine, charms against curses. The scent of roasted meat mingled with the acrid tang of a nearby tannery. Bells clanged in distant towers, and laughter spilled from an open tavern door.
But beneath the noise, Kael felt it: a low hum, like a heartbeat buried deep in the stone. Something old, watching.
Elara brushed a lock of hair from her face, her lips parted as she drank in the chaos. "It's like stepping into a storybook," she said.
Kael's voice was low, grim. "Stories have villains too."
Their destination was a modest building nestled between taller stone halls. Its door bore a simple sigil: an open book crossed by a sword. The Archivum, Ebonreach's great library.
Inside, dust motes drifted through shafts of light falling across endless shelves. Scrolls and tomes bulged from every corner. The scent of parchment, wax, and dry ink clung to the air.
At the center hunched an old man in ink-stained robes, his beard wild and his spectacles sliding down his crooked nose. He looked up at Elara's voice.
"Master Renald!" she called, her tone warmer than Kael had heard it before.
"Elara, child!" The Librarian shuffled forward with surprising speed for his frailty, seizing her shoulders. "Back from the wilds, and still in one piece! And who is this?"
"Kael," Elara said, gesturing toward him. "He helped me survive Ashenwood."
Renald's gaze shifted to Kael, then to the blade at his hip. The warmth drained from his eyes. He adjusted his spectacles, leaning closer. "That steel…"
Kael stiffened. "What about it?"
The Librarian's expression grew grave. "You carry a curse, swordsman. Old magic, older than this city's stones. Few who bear such a burden remain themselves for long."
The sword whispered in Kael's skull, mocking: He sees us. He knows.
Elara frowned, stepping between them. "You mean it consumes him? That can't be right—he fights it, I've seen it!"
Renald's sigh was heavy. "There was another once. A man with a blade said to devour both blood and magic. He burned villages, toppled keeps. They say his laughter echoed through the night as his own comrades fled from him. His name was erased from records, but his story survives as a warning."
Kael's scarred jaw tightened. He had known the curse was dangerous—but hearing history confirm it chilled him deeper than he wanted to admit.
"I'm not him," Kael said quietly, but his voice sounded like defiance more than certainty.
Renald's eyes softened, pitying. "I hope for your sake that you are not. But history is not kind to those who believe themselves stronger than curses."
They left the Archivum in silence. The sun dipped lower, casting the streets in amber light. Kael walked with his hand near his sword, mind a storm of doubts and whispers. Elara's steps were quicker, more agitated. At last she burst out:
"You can't let him shake you. You're not that man, Kael. You've saved me twice now. That blade doesn't control you—you control it."
Kael stopped in the shadow of a narrow alley, his gaze sharp on hers. His hair fell into his eyes, but the steel within them gleamed. "You don't know what you're saying. Every moment I hold this sword, I feel it pressing closer. One mistake, one slip, and…" He shook his head. "You shouldn't be near me."
Elara's chin lifted stubbornly. "And yet I am. Get used to it."
Before Kael could answer, the sword thrummed again—this time not from within, but in response to something without.
A man leaned lazily against the mouth of the alley. His armor was battered but serviceable, his cloak dark, and his smile half-hidden beneath stubble. His eyes lingered not on Kael, but on the sword.
"Well," the stranger drawled, voice smooth as oiled steel. "Thought I smelled cursed steel."
Kael's hand fell to the hilt, the blade pulsing hungrily. "Who are you?"
The man straightened, pushing off the wall. He had the easy grace of a killer, every movement deliberate, economical. "Just a sellsword. But I've crossed paths with your kind before. Carriers of damned blades. Dangerous men who either burn bright and fall fast… or drag others down with them." His grin widened. "I wonder which you'll be."
Elara bristled, stepping half in front of Kael. "Leave us."
The stranger chuckled, bowing mockingly. "Enjoy your stay in Ebonreach, swordsman. I'll be seeing you."
And with that, he vanished into the crowd, as if the city itself swallowed him.
Kael stood tense, the sword's whisper a hiss of recognition. He knows us. He is a predator too.
Elara's hand brushed his sleeve, grounding him. "Who was that?"
Kael exhaled slowly, scanning the crowd. "Trouble."
____
"If there was one cursed blade in this world… there may be others."