The storm had ceased by dawn, but the residue of its fury lingered heavily in the air. Wind carried the smell of damp soil, withering incense, and something else—something metallic and bitter—like blood.
Lysander crouched at the edge of the burnt forest, fingertips pressed into the ash-streaked earth. Beside him, Kael silently examined the warped remains of the sacred shrine they'd fought so hard to protect. The sigils were cracked. The talismans charred.
"It was deliberate," Kael muttered. "They knew what they were doing."
Lysander nodded grimly. "They defiled the seal. The spirit that was bound here... it's gone now."
Kael turned, eyes sharp. "Gone or released?"
Before Lysander could answer, a low hum broke through the silence. From behind the shrine's shattered altar, a faint, pulsing red glow began to throb. Both men sprang to their feet, weapons drawn.
From the shadows rose a figure—a woman draped in layers of vermillion silk, her face veiled, her presence unmistakably otherworldly. Her feet did not touch the ground.
"You are too late," she whispered. Her voice echoed not in the air but in their minds. "The pact has been broken. The blood owed must now be paid."
Kael stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I am the Keeper of the Pact. The blood woven centuries ago binds all heirs of House Daevar. And you..." Her gaze shifted to Lysander, "you are the last thread."
"What do you mean?"
She raised her arm, and the red glow sharpened, forming runes in the air—ancient Daevar glyphs. As they rotated, one of them flared bright and shot into Lysander's chest.
He gasped, staggering.
Kael caught him, shouting, "What did you do to him?!"
But the Keeper was already fading, her final words drifting like smoke: "Find the blade. Sever the past—or be consumed by it."
---
Lysander awoke hours later in a cold sweat, back inside the safehouse. Kael sat near the door, oil lamp casting shadows across the room.
"You're awake."
Lysander sat up, voice hoarse. "What... happened?"
"You collapsed. The mark—it's on your chest now." Kael moved to show him a mirror. Etched over Lysander's heart was the same glowing rune from before.
Lysander stared at it, trembling. "The Keeper said… the blood pact binds the heirs of Daevar. I thought all of that was myth."
Kael placed a hand on his shoulder. "Apparently not."
There was silence.
Then Lysander whispered, "Do you think my father knew?"
Kael hesitated. "If he did, he took that secret to the grave."
---
By the next morning, they'd packed for travel. The only clue left by the Keeper was the phrase "Find the blade." Luckily, Kael had seen the glyph before—in the ruins beneath Azem Citadel, a cursed stronghold buried after the last Spirit War.
They journeyed west.
---
The trek to Azem was treacherous—riddled with broken bridges, beast-infested caves, and half-collapsed villages where people whispered tales of "the shadow with golden eyes." Word was spreading fast. The spirit that had escaped was not hiding—it was hunting.
Three days in, they reached the outskirts of Azem. Night fell fast, and they sought refuge in a derelict temple, once devoted to the sun goddess. Its walls were now covered in claw marks.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Lysander asked as they set up camp near a shattered statue.
Kael sighed. "We don't have time to be cautious. If the blade's there, it might be the only thing that can sever your bond with the spirit realm."
Lysander nodded.
But that night, as he dozed off, the mark on his chest began to burn.
---
He awoke inside a dream—but it felt more real than waking life. The ground was crimson glass. A towering black gate stood ahead, pulsing with violet flame. Beyond it, he saw glimpses of memories—his mother's face, his father's last words, Kael's bloodied hand reaching out during battle.
And then—her.
The spirit from before, the woman in red, now unmasked.
Her face was beautiful, but monstrous. Her eyes were black voids, bleeding threads of silver. She smiled.
"You carry his shame," she said softly. "Daevar's final betrayal. Did he not tell you what he did to me?"
"I don't even know who you are!"
Her expression twisted. "You will."
The dream shattered like glass.
---
He awoke screaming. Kael rushed to him. "What happened?"
Lysander panted, gripping Kael's arm. "She's angry. And she's coming for me."
Kael helped him up. "Then let's make sure we're ready."
---
They descended into the citadel the next morning.
Its depths were suffocating—dark, silent, and thick with cursed energy. The sigils carved into the walls lit as they passed, reacting to Lysander's mark. Spirits flickered in the corners, watching.
Finally, they reached the inner sanctum.
There, embedded in a stone altar, lay a blade of pure obsidian, wrapped in cloth and sealed with seven wax sigils.
"The Severing Blade," Kael breathed.
Lysander reached for it—but the instant his fingers touched the cloth, the air split with a shriek.
The spirit appeared—her true form, monstrous and unbound. Claws like spears. Hair like fire.
"YOU DARE TAKE WHAT WAS STOLEN?!"
Kael moved between them. "Back off!"
She hurled him aside with a flick of her hand. Lysander screamed and drew the blade.
It burned his hand.
"Blood must answer blood," she cried, lunging.
Lysander raised the blade just in time—and it sang, not with sound, but with memory.
---
In that moment, a thousand visions poured into him.
His ancestors forging the pact.
His father sealing her beneath the shrine.
The betrayal.
The screams.
And then—Kael's voice, calling his name, grounding him.
Lysander roared and slashed.
The blade cut through spirit and air alike. The spirit shrieked, torn in two. Light exploded.
Then silence.
---
When Lysander woke, he lay on the floor of the sanctum, Kael kneeling beside him.
"You're alive," Kael whispered.
"The pact..." Lysander croaked.
"Severed," Kael said, pointing to the now-faded rune on Lysander's chest.
The blade pulsed once, then dissolved into dust.
It was over.
Or so they thought.
Because far above them, in the realm of spirits, something stirred.
Something worse.
Something watching.
---