Alerath: The Demonic Blade
As Raziel rode closer to the village, the dense canopy of trees began to thin, giving way to the first signs of the bustling settlement. The sound of hammers striking anvils, the clamor of voices.
The low murmur of market activity drifted on the wind. The comforting sounds mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread, salt, and the distant salt marshes beyond the village.
The wooden houses, with their thatched roofs and smoke rising from chimneys, dotted the landscape like a sea of humble homes. The cobbled streets of the town wound through the heart of the village, where stone archways framed the market square.
Merchants hawked their wares from under brightly colored awnings, their calls rising above the noise of the town as they displayed fabrics, cured meats, and pottery.
Overhead, the banner of the village hung limp in the gentle breeze, the emblem of a raven on a crescent moon swaying as though watching over the bustling streets.
As he neared the edge of the town, Raziel spotted Raelith, his best friend, standing near the tall, weathered stone walls that separated the village from the wilderness.
Raelith stood with Old Man Pendacore, a hunched figure with a long white beard and a gnarled walking stick, his cloak heavy with the scent of herbs and dried flowers.
The two of them were engaged in a quiet conversation, their figures a contrast against the lively backdrop of the village.
Raziel’s smile, already wide from excitement, stretched into a mischievous smirk. His pulse quickened as the town seemed to come alive around him, but his focus was on his friend.
With a sudden squeeze of his heels, Raziel spurred Tallia forward. The mare broke into a quick lope, her hooves pounding against the dirt road with the force of a small storm, sending clouds of dust into the air.
The rhythmic beat of the hooves was soon followed by a sliding stop just in front of Raelith and Pendacore.
“Oh my god, Raelith!” Raziel shouted, his voice brimming with excitement. “I think my dad made a mistake today! I think he purposely gave me extra gold! I want to go to the blacksmith’s booth!!!” His words tumbled out, thick with enthusiasm.
In a hurried dismount, Raziel’s right foot caught in the stirrup, and his boot was wrenched from his foot as the aged leather strained under the sudden tug.
He swore under his breath as he hopped awkwardly, trying to free himself from the stirrup.
Raelith, arms crossed and watching with a grin, couldn’t hide his amusement. “Is that so?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes!” Raziel exclaimed, glancing down at his foot. His sock was now soiled, and he cursed under his breath again. Still hopping on one foot, he made another attempt to right himself.
As he bent down to pick up his boot. A small, shining object slipped from beneath his tunic, hanging momentarily from the chain around his neck.
It caught the sunlight, glimmering with an ethereal light before settling against his chest. The pendant was a delicate silver dragon, coiled tightly around an orb that pulsed with a strange, almost unnatural light.
Raelith’s eyes locked onto the pendant immediately, his expression changing from amusement to something darker, more curious. “Raziel… where the hell did you get that from?”
Raziel, caught off guard by his friend’s intense gaze, looked down at the pendant and then back at Raelith. His expression shifted to confusion. “Where did I get what? I don’t know what you mean.” His voice was casual, though the furrow in his brow betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.
Raelith took a step forward, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He reached out and gently grasped the pendant that now rested against Raziel’s chest.
The moment his fingers touched it, a sudden warmth radiated from the orb, as though it held some kind of inner fire.
His thumb ran over the silver, his gaze sharp and calculating. “This,” he said quietly, his voice holding an edge of awe. “Where did it come from?”
Raziel scowled. “You can see it?” though a growing unease began to settle in his chest.
He reached down to pick up his boot, sliding it back on with a frustrated huff before straightening up to face Raelith.
“I have no clue where it came from. I woke up with it around my neck this morning.”
Raelith’s brows shot up in disbelief, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you ask your father what it is?”
Raziel nodded with a small sigh. “I did,” he muttered, rubbing his temples as though the memory pained him. “He claims he doesn’t know. That he couldn’t even see it. But I’m sure he does. I tried to take it off earlier, and it shocked me.”
Raelith’s lips curled into a grin, the glint in his eyes shifting toward something far more mischievous. “I’d imagine so,” he chuckled, his expression darkening with intrigue. “Do you have any idea what it could be?”
The pendant swayed slightly as Raziel stood, its strange warmth still lingering against his skin. He glanced down at it once more, uncertainty gnawing at him.
His earlier excitement about the gold and the blacksmith’s booth had faded, replaced by a creeping sense of unease.
The town felt suddenly distant. Remnants of a darkness threatening his mind as he tried to recall the events that surrounded its arrival. The pendant was a mystery, but Raziel couldn’t shake the feeling that it was tied to something far greater than a simple gift. Something deep, something dangerous.
Raziel shook his head. “No, not at all.”
Raelith’s manic expression turned into a wickedly mischievous gleam. “Let’s go to the library and see if we can find out what it is. We might learn something interesting.”
Raziel hesitated for a moment, his thoughts divided. “Sure, but I’ve got to run some errands for my father first.”
Raelith’s dark energy swelled, a sinister presence creeping from him like a storm on the horizon. His lips curled into a wicked smile. “Perfect. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
Raziel nodded quickly, his mind already elsewhere, and took off in a run, his footsteps echoing through the streets.
Raelith’s gaze turned to Pendacore, the elderly man who had stood silently by. The air around them seemed to grow heavy, thick with anticipation.
Raelith’s voice, cold and commanding, broke the stillness. “Pendacore. It looks like change is on the air. I want you to gather the ones we’ve chosen. The rest… well, I couldn’t care less.”
His words were deliberate, each syllable tinged with finality. Pendacore stood straighter, his thin frame seeming to draw even taller with the weight of the moment.
He straightened his back and the age seemed to melt away. “Do we take the portal? And if so, are we going back to Nexus?”
“Nexus isn’t safe. You can use the portal but take them all to the Fathorius Realm. Jupiter will keep them safe.”
His pale eyes, sharp as ever, flicked toward Raelith with a quiet, calculating expression. “So it is really time to quit pretending?”
Raelith’s eyes glittered with a cold fire. “Exactly,” he murmured, the answer dripping from his tongue like poison. It was a moment of reckoning, and he relished it. The time for subtlety had passed.
His gaze shifted, narrowing as he scanned the square. And there, amid the hustle and bustle of the market, stood the most peculiar of figures.
A man, oddly out of place, twirling scarves in the air with dramatic flourishes. The scarves themselves were adorned with sparkling gems, beads glinting in the sun, their colors flashing like a kaleidoscope of illusions.
He stood next to a small watermelon stand, shouting louder than anyone else in the vicinity, as if trying to outdo the world itself with his voice.
“Scarves! Get your scarves here!” the man bellowed, his voice jarringly insistent, almost absurd in its volume.
Raelith’s lips quirked into a devilish grin at the sight. His mind was already far beyond the strange man’s antics, but the absurdity of the situation amused him.
The vendor’s attire was a garish combination, a bumblebee yellow trench coat, black gloves, and a patch covering one eye. An outfit so outlandish it made the town’s ordinary folk glance his way in confusion.
Raelith didn’t waste another second. He approached the strange figure with purpose, his steps confident and sure. As he drew closer, the air seemed to thicken, the world around him narrowing as his focus sharpened.
“Haldor,” Raelith called, his voice dripping with authority. There was a chill to it, an undercurrent of danger that made the very words feel like a command. “Send for Erikson, as today’s a good day to die…”
Haldor met Raelith’s eyes. The recognition was immediate, a silent understanding passing between them. There was no need for pleasantries.
“Is that so?” Haldor asked, his tone casual, as though speaking of something as trivial as the weather, but his hands, swift and practiced, moved to retrieve something from within his coat.
Raelith nodded once, the gesture final. His eyes burned with intent as he watched Haldor pull out a sleek, strange object from his pocket.
A device that didn’t belong in this world. It gleamed under the sun, its smooth surface unfamiliar to the eyes of anyone around them. Haldor tapped it a few times, and the device hummed to life before he pressed it to his ear.
“Erikson,” Haldor said in a low, even voice, the words measured and deliberate. “Let the chaos rise.”
A pause followed, the air charged with tension. Then Erikson’s voice crackled through the device, the hesitation obvious. “Are you sure, do we have Raelith’s blessing?”
Raelith’s lips curled into a smile that was anything but kind. “Yes, you have almost free rein to take what you want. Do not disappoint me.” His eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction, the thrill of what was about to unfold coursing through him. This was the culmination of everything they had worked toward.
“T-minus thirty minutes. ETA forty. You’ve got that long to remove what you wish to preserve,” Erikson chuckled darkly, his voice low, but thick.
Raelith crossed his arms, almost serene as he took in the unfolding events. He could taste the coming chaos, the turmoil that would surge through this place like wildfire. It was all coming together, just as he had planned.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice soft but filled with malice. “Now, to teach a bully a fucking lesson.”
His words hung in the air, laced with a dark promise, as the wheels of fate began to turn. The game was no longer one of subtlety or manipulation. It was a violent reckoning, and nothing would be left untouched in its wake.
—
Raziel stepped into the spice vendor’s dimly lit stall, the scent of crushed herbs and pungent spices filling the air. He pulled a piece of parchment from his satchel, eyes scanning the hurriedly scribbled message.
“RUNic NOWup ISpice THEeme ThIME.”
He frowned as he read it aloud, trying to make sense of his father’s cryptic instructions. It wasn’t like Issac to send such a vague message, especially not to a simple spice vendor.
The vendor, a tall man with long black hair and piercing silver eyes, looked up from his work. “Let me see your list, boy,” he said in a tone that was too sharp, too eager.
He snatched the paper from Raziel’s hand, his eyes quickly scanning it. A flicker of something, fear, perhaps? flashed across his face. He swallowed hard and his jaw dropped.
“What is wrong?” Raziel asked, confused and a bit unsettled by the old man’s reaction.
The vendor blinked rapidly, his voice faltering as he hastily shoved the list back into Raziel’s hands.
“N-nothing. No… nothing at all.” He straightened up, suddenly much more tense. “Here,” he said, pushing a small leather hip bag toward Raziel. “Take this. It has the spices you need in it. Go, boy. You must go. Now.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hurry.”
Raziel hesitated, glancing at the vendor’s strange behavior, but before he could ask any more questions, the man practically shoved him out of the stall. The shutters came down with a loud clank, and the vendor locked the door with a harsh click.
Raziel stood frozen for a moment, staring at the tightly shut booth. His pulse quickened. Something wasn’t right.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Raziel muttered, “Well, time for the robes I guess,” and turned to continue through the crowded bazaar.
But as he walked, the air grew heavier, and a coldness wrapped itself around his spine. A strange sensation prickled his skin. He paused, sensing something amiss. His gaze drifted to the right, where a shadowy figure stood motionless in an alleyway between two stalls.
Raziel’s heart skipped a beat. The creature was unlike anything he had ever seen. Its form was twisted and grotesque, an amalgamation of shadow and nightmare.
A long, gnarled hand reached out from beneath its cloak, its claws long and thin, scraping the air like the sound of a bone against stone. Its face was a nightmare, distorted and hideous, with eyes that burned like molten gold, unblinking and intense.
The demon didn’t move toward him. It stood still, its gaze unyielding, following Raziel’s every step. A shiver of fear ran through Raziel’s body, but there was something else, too.
An odd sense of calm, as though he could do nothing but watch. The demon’s presence felt suffocating, yet it didn’t seem to advance, didn’t make a move to harm him.
It simply watched.
Raziel’s mind screamed for him to flee, but something deeper, a part of him he couldn’t quite explain, kept him rooted in place. He studied the creature for a moment longer, feeling the weight of its gaze upon him, before a strange resolve settled within him.
It’s not going to hurt me, he realized, although he couldn’t explain how he knew. But the presence of the demon, dark and terrifying as it was, had no immediate threat to him. It was just… watching.
With a deep breath, Raziel turned away and began walking again, trying to push the image of the demon from his mind. The robes, he had to get the robes. That was his only focus now.
He continued through the bazaar, the strange figure still lurking behind him, its eyes burning into his back, but making no move to follow.
Raziel hurried his pace, his hands clutching the bag of spices tightly at his side, feeling the weight of whatever dark force was stirring in the shadows. But his legs carried him forward, and a new determination filled his chest. He couldn’t let fear control him.
The robe vendor was just ahead. Raziel took a deep breath as he stepped toward the stall.
Raziel walked up to the robe vendor’s stall, a strange sense of unease creeping over him. The black and gold robes on display were beautiful, elegant, finely crafted, and clearly meant for someone of great status.
He glanced down at the list his father had given him. The instruction was clear: Purchase two sets of black and gold robes.
He wasn’t sure why his father had chosen these specific robes, but Issac had been insistent. Now, standing in front of the vendor, Raziel’s hands shook slightly as he gripped the list tighter.
“I need two sets of black and gold robes,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “My father sent me.”
The vendor, a wiry man with a weathered face and sharp eyes, glanced at Raziel with mild interest, his gaze sweeping over the boy’s plain tunic and modest appearance.
“Two sets of black and gold?” The vendor raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I can’t sell these to you.”
Raziel blinked in confusion. “Why not?”
The vendor gave a soft, dismissive chuckle. “These robes are for the Wavlanders or those directly connected to them. Or their associates.” His gaze flicked over Raziel again, this time with more suspicion. “You don’t look like one of them.”
Raziel frowned. “I… I’m not one of them, but my father, Issac, sent me. I was told to purchase these for him.” He shifted uneasily, suddenly feeling the weight of the situation.
The vendor’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. “If you’re not related to the Wavlanders, I cannot sell you these robes. It’s the law, rules I follow.” He paused, looking Raziel over one last time, seemingly prepared to turn him away.
Raziel’s heart sank. He wasn’t sure what his father had planned, but he was certain Issac wouldn’t have sent him if this wasn’t important. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, something shifted in the vendor’s gaze.
The vendor’s eyes locked onto the pendant around Raziel’s neck. The dragon-shaped charm pulsed with a low light. The vendor’s face went pale, his expression faltering for a moment.
“That pendant…” The vendor’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes widening as they fixed on the dragon charm. “Where did you get that?”
Raziel touched the pendant absently, confused. “I… I don’t know, I woke up with it around my neck this morning.”
The vendor’s expression shifted rapidly, from disbelief to something akin to panic. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the robes behind him, hastily pulling two sets from the rack.
He shoved them into Raziel’s arms before the boy could fully comprehend what was happening.
“Take them,” the vendor said urgently, his voice now sharp. “Quickly. Take them and go.”
Raziel froze, still holding the robes in his arms, uncertain of what was happening. “But… I don’t understand. Why—”
“No time to explain!” the vendor cut him off, his tone now frantic. “The bazaar is closing. Go, now.”
The vendor hurriedly moved toward the front of the stall, closing the shutters with a loud, metallic clang.
Raziel barely had time to process what had just happened before the vendor locked the booth down tight, his eyes darting nervously over his shoulder.
For a long moment, Raziel just stood there, still holding the robes in stunned silence. The vendor had been so firm just moments ago, refusing to sell him the robes because he wasn’t connected to the Wavlanders.
But now, after seeing the pendant, the vendor had given him the robes without a second thought, practically shoving him out of the stall.
Raziel stared at the closed booth, his mind racing. Why had the vendor reacted so strongly to the pendant? What was so significant about it? And why had his father insisted on these specific robes? Was there something his father hadn’t told him?
A cold shiver ran down his spine as he looked down at the black and gold fabric in his arms. They felt heavier than they should, as if they carried a deeper meaning… a meaning he didn’t yet understand.
He glanced around the bazaar, the uneasy feeling of being watched creeping back. The stall was now empty, the noise of the market dying down. Everything seemed oddly quiet, and Raziel couldn’t shake the sense that something was happening just beyond his understanding.
With the robes clutched tightly in his hands, he began to walk away, but his thoughts were swirling. His father had sent him here for a reason, but the path forward was becoming more tangled by the minute. What did the pendant really mean? And why had the vendor reacted like that?
As Raziel wandered through the bazaar, his steps slow and uncertain, the once-bustling market was swiftly descending into chaos. Merchants slammed their doors shut, their blinds falling with an unsettling finality. The rhythmic clink of goods and chatter had vanished, replaced by an eerie silence. Sunlight glinted off the pendent hanging from his neck, casting strange, shimmering patterns across his chest, but Raziel couldn’t focus on that. His mind swirled in confusion, struggling to grasp the cause of the sudden shift.
He couldn’t make sense of the frantic movements of the townsfolk, their eyes wide, faces twisted with concern, yet none of them seemed willing to speak to him. The marketplace, so familiar moments ago, now felt alien, as though it were closing off, shutting him out. The atmosphere grew thick with anticipation, as if something was about to unfold, but what?
As he walked deeper into the bazaar, the sensation of urgency tightened its grip on him. His feet quickened, matching the pulse of his growing anxiety. He didn’t know why, but he felt a gnawing certainty that whatever was happening, it was not going to be good. But more so that he was going to fall victim to it.
He turned abruptly, intent on leaving, desperate for answers. As his pace increased, a voice cut through the quiet chaos—faint, but familiar.
“Hey, Raziel, wait up!”
Raziel froze, his steps faltering. It took him a moment to process the sound of his name. He turned slowly, his confusion still hanging in the air like a fog. Only then did he see Raelith, standing in the growing gloom, his expression tight with concern.
For a moment, Raziel just stared at Raelith, his thoughts still clouded, struggling to piece together the oddities of the situation. He hadn’t fully processed everything yet, but something about the sudden shift in the bazaar gnawed at him. He shrugged it off with a grin, still lingering from their earlier exchange.
“Something is going on Raelith,” Raziel said, turning back toward his friend, “Everyone is acting really weird. “The spice vendor… the robes? I mean I was just given a random pack full of “spices” and these robes.” He held them out. “Were given to me for free.”
Raelith’s eyes gleamed with something darker, a glint that sent an involuntary shiver down Raziel’s spine.
“He gave them to you?” The edge in Raelith’s voice carried a weight of something much more sinister, as if every word were part of a larger plan unfolding.
“Yeah, I’ve got to figure out what this dragon is,” Raziel muttered, his fingers absently brushing the warm pendant resting against his chest. The sensation was oddly comforting, yet there was a strange heaviness to it, a significance that tugged at him but made no sense.
Raelith chuckled low, and it was as if the world itself darkened for a moment. “Yes, you do… but explain to me how you got your robes for free?”
“My robes? These aren’t mine?” Raziel’s voice held a note of confusion, his brow furrowed as he looked down at the unfamiliar attire, his suspicion starting to rise.
Raelith let out a cruel, knowing laugh, his voice laced with malice. “Forgive me, Issac’s robes.”
Raziel froze, the mention of the name striking a chord. His gaze hardened as he studied Raelith, his friend’s aura pulsing with an unsettling energy. Something wasn’t right, and Raziel could feel it now, like a shadow creeping across the ground beneath him.
“Raelith?” He crossed his arms, trying to steady his voice despite the unease knotting in his stomach. “What is going on?”
Raelith shrugged casually, his grin widening. “Hey, didn’t you say your dad gave you extra gold? Have you been to the blacksmith yet?”
A sudden spark of realization lit up in Raziel’s eyes, dispelling the tension for a brief, fleeting moment. “OH, FUCK YEAH!” The weight of his earlier confusion melted away as excitement took its place.
“I will race you there!” Raelith shouted, already bolting off into a sprint. His laughter rang out in the air, light and carefree, as if whatever had been bothering them moments ago didn’t matter anymore.
Raziel hesitated, then laughed and chased after him. Raelith reached the blacksmith first, his voice full of triumph. “Ha! I won!”
As Raziel caught up, a boy nearby sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “What do you losers want? I know neither of you have the money to buy any of our weapons.”
Raelith didn’t flinch. He barely acknowledged the insult, his eyes locked on the blacksmith’s stall. “Flandis! Raziel would like to buy that black blade!” he shouted, ignoring the boy’s taunts entirely.
Raziel, though still disoriented, felt a surge of energy as the moment shifted. Whatever was going on, the day was taking a strange, unpredictable turn.
The blacksmith looked up, a shimmer of fear in his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, that is an order.” Raelith’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and the air around him pulsed with a strange, formidable power that demanded obedience.
Flandis instantly submitted. “Of course, Sir.” He picked up the blade and walked over to the counter, his movements tinged with reluctance and reverence.
Flandis’ son narrowed his eyes, his voice laced with scorn. “That pathetic archer won’t even be able to lift that two-handed broadsword.”
Raelith’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smile, his dark amusement gleaming in his gaze. He tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “Is that so?” His voice was deceptively soft, laced with mockery. “Then how about you spar with the ‘pathetic archer’?”
Dale’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “If I do, I won’t stop. It will be to the death.” His words were not a boast, but a promise.
Oblivious to the growing hostility between them, Raziel had eyes for only one thing.
The sword.
It was finally before him, its wicked form laid sheathed on the table, exuding an aura of menace so thick it coiled through the air like unseen smoke. For seven years, it had haunted his thoughts. For seven years, it had called to him.
Now, it was his.
The hilt, wrapped in ancient, worn leather, seemed almost to pulse beneath his touch. The guards curled in intricate, twisting filigree, shifting subtly, almost as if alive. The inlaid rubies glimmered malevolently, their blood-red gaze unblinking, watching him, waiting.
Raziel swallowed hard, reaching out.
The moment his fingers brushed the leather binding, a thrumming resonance pulsed through his bones, slithering up his arm like a phantom embrace. The sword vibrated faintly as if awakening from a long slumber.
His breath hitched.
It was heavier than he expected, yet not unwieldy. It felt… right. Familiar. Like an extension of himself.
Slowly, reverently, he unsheathed it.
The obsidian sheen of the blade caught the dying light of the afternoon sun, reflecting a sinister gleam. A whisper curled in the back of his mind, something ancient, something eager.
Feed me.
Raziel’s grip tightened as an awkward familiarity settled over him, no, not awkward. Natural. Right. His fingers traced the razor-sharp edge, and before he realized what he was doing, he pressed his thumb into the bite of the steel.
Pain barely registered.
Blood welled up. Rich, red, offering.
The blade hissed, drinking it down like a parched beast.
The rubies flared. The metal darkened, absorbing the fluid until not a single trace remained.
Raziel’s pupils dilated as something inside him shifted. Gold flecks swirled into his irises, and a slow, twisted grin spread across his lips. His heartbeat quickened, but not from fear. No, not fear.
Power.
“This is fucking epic.”
The words came out in a hushed reverence, laced with something close to ecstasy. He moved, stepping into a warrior’s stance as if muscle memory guided him, as if this weapon had always been his.
He swung.
The blade whistled through the air, so smooth, so effortless, so… intoxicating.
Dale’s face twisted with fury.
“Are you going to let this stupid archer take the blade?” he spat, turning sharply to his father. “That is mine! I told you I wanted it!”
The booth fell silent.
Flandis’ expression darkened instantly.
Without hesitation, he backhanded his son.
The crack of flesh meeting flesh reverberated through the space, followed by Dale’s sharp intake of breath. A stunned silence hung thick in the air as a single bead of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Flandis’ eyes burned with something raw, something terrified.
“You will shut up now.” His voice was steel. “You do not know what you speak of.”
Raelith laughed. A cold, heartless sound.
“Oh, but he does, doesn’t he?” His voice dripped with venom, eyes gleaming like a wolf toying with its prey. “He wants to try out the blade? Why not let him, ‘Daddy’?”
The mockery in his tone sent a ripple of unease through the air.
Flandis whipped around to face him, desperation raw in his gaze.
“Please, I beg of you, Sir. Do not let him inflict that upon himself! He doesn’t know what the fuck he is talking about!”
Raelith’s grin widened, dark amusement flickering across his features.
“I don’t know…” he mused. “I mean, I don’t think he’s a good enough swordsman to even wield it.”
Dale’s face flushed red with humiliation. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling with barely-contained rage.
Flandis took a step forward, his shoulders squared, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his own sword.
“You are provoking him, knowing that he will fall into it!” His voice was thunderous now. “You will pay for this with your life!”
Raelith tilted his head back and laughed. Low, chilling, inhuman.
“You think your threat means anything to me?”
Dale lunged without warning, his broadsword slicing through the air.
Raziel barely had time to react, but something inside him did.
His arms moved on their own, fluid and effortless, muscle memory not entirely his own. The cursed blade guided him, twisting his grip, forcing his parry. The impact sent a bone-rattling shock through his frame, and though he countered, the force knocked him backward.
His back slammed against the cobblestone, the world tilting as he struggled to recover the breath that was knocked from his chest.
Dale sneered above him.
“That was low, even for you, Dale.” Raziel’s silver eyes flickered with something primal. A growl rumbled from his throat, not entirely human. Something else had begun to awaken.
Raelith stepped forward, his dark eyes gleaming with cruel amusement, offering Raziel a hand.
Dale scoffed, arms crossed. “See? I told you. You can barely even hold that weapon.”
The blade pulsed.
Raziel barely heard him. His grip tightened as the metal in his hands thrummed like a beating heart, a slow, insidious rhythm that matched his own pulse. The deep red glow along the runes flared, the sigils writhing, reshaping themselves as though the sword were alive.
Raziel’s fingers twitched. It wanted more.
He rose to his feet, the ice-cold rage sinking into his bones, steadying him. He spun the broadsword effortlessly, a movement far too perfect for someone who had never wielded such a weapon before.
“I dare you to try that again.” His voice was a low, velvety whisper, but beneath it lurked something old, something wrong. “Or are you too chicken?”
Dale’s face contorted with fury. “I’m not afraid of you or your little parlor tricks, making that thing glow.”
He charged.
Their swords met again with a clash that sent a shockwave through the crowd, the force of it shattering a lantern nearby. The bazaar fell silent—no drunken laughter, no merchant calls, just the eerie, metallic symphony of steel upon steel.
A wind howled through the street, but it carried no warmth. It was unnatural. Cold. Hungry.
The ground beneath Raziel’s feet cracked with ice.
Dale swung again, but Raziel barely saw him anymore, only a blur of movement, his instincts too fast, too deadly for the pathetic boy before him.
A deep, foreign voice slithered into Raziel’s thoughts.
“Strike him down. Feed me.”
Raziel’s grip on the sword tightened. His body moved before he could think.
He forced Dale back, his blade singing through the air like a ravenous beast.
Dale staggered, his footing faltering on the ice.
Raziel grinned. A cruel, unnatural thing.
“You don’t deserve to live.”
The temperature plummeted.
The air itself became thick, suffocating, as the frost began to spread outward, crawling up Dale’s legs, biting into his exposed flesh.
Still, he didn’t notice.
His anger blinded him, drowning him in arrogance, in rage, in his own fragile mortality.
Dale spat, eyes wild. “You’re just a bastard! No one even knows where you come from! You walk out of the woods from an imaginary house! I followed you home once, you know. I found nothing. Just—just an endless loop of trees!”
Raziel froze.
The whispers inside his head became laughter.
“He is afraid. Do it. Cut him down.”
Raziel took a slow, deep breath, forcing his own thoughts back under control.
For a brief moment, he looked to Raelith.
Raelith only smiled. He was enjoying this.
That realization brought Raziel back. He inhaled sharply, lowering his blade.
“You’re not worth my time, Dale.”
He turned away.
Raelith chuckled, shaking his head. “What a shame. Let’s go to the library then. We’re almost out of time anyway.”
Raziel barely registered the words before Haldor’s one-eyed gaze landed on him, a weight heavier than steel.
“Who are you?”
Raziel blinked. “…What?”
The old man’s voice was unnervingly steady. “Do you realize it’s unwise to turn your back on a combatant?”
“Huh?”
Before Raziel could react—
Steel tore through flesh.
His body jerked forward, his breath stolen as a burning line of agony carved from his right shoulder to his left hip.
For a second, everything was numb.
Then, the pain came.
It blossomed from deep within, radiating outward in sharp, blinding waves. His vision flickered, breath catching in his throat.
Something deep inside him snapped.
The pendant around his neck burned.
His eyes flared with a demonic red glow.
The wound should have killed him. But instead—
He stood.
His body moved unnaturally fast, rising as though strings had pulled him upright. His head tilted slightly, eyes hollow, empty—except for the pulsing glow of burning embers.
Dale’s sneer faltered.
Raziel’s fingers curled around his sword once more. The blade sang with dark energy, the runes flaring a hungry crimson. It had tasted blood—and it wanted more.
“Yes, yes, yes. More. Give me more.”
The snow swirled violently, forming a spiraling vortex of ice and shadow. The cobblestone cracked beneath Raziel’s boots.
Dale swung again—wild, desperate.
But Raziel was faster.
He sidestepped, his own blade slicing upward, carving a deep gash from Dale’s temple down to his jaw.
Dale screamed.
Raziel only laughed.
“A reminder,” he whispered, voice thick with something dark and ancient, “not to fuck with things you don’t understand.”
Raziel’s eyes flickered, he took a step back, his breathing steady the clear struggle with the blade. “Dale, I am done here.” His voice was cold, detached. He turned to Raelith. “The library?”
But Dale, shaking with fury and fear, refused to accept his fate. He staggered to his feet, his eyes wild with desperation. “Raziel, this isn’t over. I will kill you!” With a final, reckless scream, he lunged, his last, futile act of defiance.
Raziel was ready. A single, effortless motion sent Dale’s blade spinning from his grasp, the metallic clang swallowed by the hush of the watching crowd. The cursed weapon hovered at Dale’s throat, its wicked glow searing into his skin. Raziel’s gaze burned with something deeper than rage—something ancient, something inhuman.
“I gave you mercy,” Raziel growled, his voice carrying a deadly finality. “You spat on it. Now, Alerath’s fury will consume your soul, and you will never see the light of another day.”
The blade descended.
The crowd gasped as Dale’s body convulsed violently. The blade struck not just flesh, but something deeper—his very essence. It did not simply cut. It devoured. The razor edge sliced cleanly from his collarbone to his hip in one horrific arc.
For a moment, Dale stood, trembling. Then, with a grotesque slowness, his body came apart. A sickening, wet sound accompanied the two halves of his corpse peeling away from each other, flesh sloughing like overripe fruit. He hit the cobblestone in pieces, his blood gushing forth in torrents, pooling, creeping into the cracks like a sentient force seeking escape.
Raziel staggered, his breath caught in his throat. His fingers went limp, and the blade fell atop Dale’s corpse with a heavy thud. The sword came alive, its glow intensifying as it drank, as it feasted. The blood writhed, twisting, pulling itself toward the runes like veins in search of a heart.
It flowed in impossible currents, vanishing into the blade’s hungry steel. The body beneath it shriveled, darkening, rotting away into nothing. When the feeding ended, Dale was gone. No flesh. No bones. Not even a stain. Only the cursed sword remained, heavier than before, its power darker, deeper.
Raziel recoiled, horror and nausea twisting his stomach. The weight of what he had just done, what the sword had done, sank into his bones like a sickness.
Among the crowd, only one man showed no fear. Haldor’s single eye bore into Raziel with something closer to fascination than dread. He turned to Raelith.
“You have twenty minutes, boy.”
Raelith gave a curt nod and grabbed Raziel’s arm. “Get your blade. We need to leave. Now.”
Raziel didn’t move. He shook his head, his voice shaking. “I… I don’t want it anymore. You should have told me it was cursed!”
Raelith only chuckled, dark amusement playing at his lips. “It doesn’t matter if you want it, Raziel. It wants you. It always has.” He turned toward the looming darkness ahead. “Now pick it up. We’re running out of time.”
“I don’t want it. I am not taking it.”
Raelith rolled his eyes, “Then don’t, but let’s go. Come on.”
Raziel took a step toward Raelith, and the blade levitated and floated to Raziel. It forced itself into its sheath. A presence in his mind whispered, “I have missed you, old friend