The Shard Hound recoiled, its crystalline form fractured but not yet broken. Its glowing eyes pulsed with a dull, red light, a simplistic and effective visual cue for aggression that Rhys mentally approved of. It lowered its head again, preparing for a second, more ferocious charge.
Inside Liora, however, a fundamental change was occurring. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, thrilling certainty. This was what she was made for. This was the holy dance of battle, the sacrament of defense. She was not just Liora, the saved. She was Liora, the Shield.
"A sword..." Theia whispered from beside Rhys, her quill frozen above the page as she repeated his observation. "She lacks a holy instrument."
"Exactly," Rhys said, still in 'game-mechanics' mode. "Her base damage is good, but she needs a gear upgrade. Something that synergizes with her existing abilities." He glanced at her shimmering, cosmic wings, then at the shining Argent of the fortress in the distance. "It's got to be themed. A star-forged blade, maybe?"
He was, of course, just brainstorming a cool item description.
Theia, however, heard a divine command. The Scribe would create a weapon for the Knight. The two Apostles, each with their own unique gift from The Progenitor, would work in tandem. Her duty was clear.
Her eyes fell upon her open tome. She looked at the half-finished scripture describing Liora's stand, and a new idea, daring and profound, took shape in her mind. History did not only have to record what was. It could record what would be. She would not just create a sword. She would prophesy it into existence.
Her quill, dripping with the ink of pure night, descended. Her elegant script flowed onto the page, no longer just describing events, but shaping them.
And as the First Knight, the Star-Wrought, stood as a bulwark against the First Beast, she felt the truth of her purpose. She was the Blade of the Progenitor, and she would not stand unarmed. Thus, she reached not with her hand, but with her soul, into the heart of the heavens.
Rhys watched, fascinated, as a subtle change occurred. He'd intended to just poof a sword into Liora's hand, but this was far more interesting. A cooperative creation event.
Inside the cave, Liora felt a sudden, inexplicable pull. Theia's words, though written yards away, resonated within her very being. Reach... with her soul...
She had no idea what it meant, but she obeyed the sacred instinct. As the Shard Hound charged, a shower of razor-sharp crystal shards flying from its body, Liora closed her eyes. She ignored the monster. She ignored the cave. She reached inward, past her fear and her fury, to the wellspring of power the Progenitor had gifted her: her wings.
She reached for the stars.
Her hand closed upon the light of a dying star, quenching its brilliant fire and giving it form. Theia wrote, her own heart pounding with the vicarious effort.
A brilliant point of light, more intense than anything in the Sanctum, appeared in Liora's outstretched palm. It was the color of a blue giant star, a searing, white-hot azure that forced even Rhys to shield his eyes.
The Shard Hound, blinded and confused by the sudden incandescence, skidded to a halt, its grinding noises turning into a high-pitched keen.
The light in Liora's hand elongated, compressed, and cooled, taking the shape of a sword's hilt and crossguard. It was forged of the same star-stuff as her wings, a swirling mix of cosmic indigo and violet, dotted with tiny, perfect points of light. It settled into her grasp as if it had been made for her alone.
And she drew forth a blade not of metal, but of pure, solidified moonlight, its edge the keenest silence between breaths. Theia's quill moved with a final, declarative flourish.
SHIIIIING.
Liora opened her eyes. With a smooth, resonant hum, she drew a blade from the star-forged hilt. It was a long, elegant saber, and it wasn't made of steel or silver. The blade was a sliver of impossible, shimmering nothingness. It seemed to be carved from a pane of moonlight, translucent and ethereal, its edges seeming to dissolve into the air. It gave off a cold, gentle glow that was the utter opposite of the hilt's stellar fire.
It felt... right. Perfectly balanced. An extension of her own will.
"Whoa," Rhys breathed. "A scripted mid-battle weapon summoning. Cinematics on this thing are nuts. And the weapon design? Hilt made of nebula, blade made of moonlight? Chef's kiss. Perfect."
The Shard Hound shook its head, its dim, crystalline intelligence recovering. Its programming was simple: destroy the target. It lowered its head a final time and charged.
This time, Liora did not sidestep. She met the charge head-on. She held her new sword, Starlight's Kiss—the name instantly blooming in her mind as another undeniable truth—in a single-handed grip, the moonlight blade humming softly.
GRIND-SCRAPE-CRUNCH!
The Hound lunged.
Zzzzzzing.
Liora's arm was a blur. The moonlight blade swung in a clean, perfect arc. There was no clang of metal on stone. There was only a soft, hissing whisper, like a candle being snuffed out.
The blade passed through the Shard Hound's neck without any resistance at all.
For a moment, nothing happened. The monster continued its forward momentum, passing her. Then, halfway past, its charge faltered. A clean, impossibly thin line of blue light appeared where the blade had passed.
CRACK... K-K-K-K-TINGLE...
The Shard Hound's head slid cleanly off its body and shattered on the ground into a thousand glittering pieces of inert quartz. The body stood for a second longer before collapsing into a pile of jagged crystal fragments, its internal light extinguished forever.
Silence descended upon the cave.
Liora stood over the remains of the monster, her chest heaving. She looked at the sword in her hand, its moonlight blade pristine, untouched. She had not just defeated a foe. She had passed a trial. She had received a holy relic born of her faith and her purpose. She was complete.
She turned and walked out of the cave, her steps confident and sure. She stopped before Rhys and knelt on one knee, holding the sword out flat in her hands in a gesture of offering. Its gentle light illuminated her face, washing away the last traces of doubt.
"My Progenitor," she said, her voice trembling not with fear, but with an emotion so powerful it was almost painful. "My life, and my blade, are yours. Command me."
Rhys looked down at the angelkin knight, kneeling before him with a magic sword forged from a dying star and a sliver of moon. He looked at the scribe, her magic book chronicling the event as a holy scripture. He looked at his floating island paradise, protected by a dome of cosmic energy.
A wide, delighted, nerdy grin spread across his face.
"This," he said to himself, his voice full of pure, unadulterated joy, "is the coolest dream ever."