Night had fallen long ago, but the pavilion remained alive with distant clangs of steel and guttural shouts. Rain hammered the marble platform, turning footfalls into hiss‑echoes. At the center stood Thane Remar, cloak soaked and blade drawn, heart thundering as his breath churned in his chest.
He didn't see them at first: five figures cloaked in midnight robes, edges shimmering with spectral light. They appeared between columns, as though conjured by the storm itself.
"Last chance, boy," one hissed, voice like cold steel on bone. "Stand down, or die."
Remar's grip tightened on the Dark Sword—a blade rumored to be alive. The moonlight danced across its black steel, revealing runes etched in shadow. He swallowed hard. The sword pulsed.
"You picked the wrong fight," he said, voice steady.
Lightning split the sky as the cloaked ones surged forward. Remar braced, sword raised. The first blow shattered his guard; he staggered but did not fall. Sparks flew as it met the Dark Sword mid‑arc. The runes trembled, unleashing a shockwave that sent one attacker sprawling.
Pain blossomed in Remar's shoulder, yet adrenaline drowned it out. He retaliated—swift, precise. The blade sang through night air, each strike like a promise.
A second opponent tried to flank him. Remar pivoted, parrying, countering. He sensed more coming, closing in from shadows. His vision narrowed. Only motion mattered.
A torrent of blows struck him. He staggered backward. Rainwater tasted bitter on his tongue. He lunged forward into the nearest enemy, thrusting the Dark Sword through their side. The figure dissolved into ash, whispering screams absorbed by the storm.
Remar gasped, chest heaving. All around, the cloaked figures hesitated. Fear flickered in their eyes.
Then a voice rang out from the darkness beyond the columns:
"Cease!"
A figure strode forward—tall, regal, clad in silver armor that glowed even in the dark. A crown-like helm adorned his head. His sword, bright as dawn, beat back the others instantly.
Remar watched, uncertain if friend or foe.
The silver-armored man raised his blade in salute to Remar. "You wield the Dark Sword," he said, voice deep. "Who taught you?"
Remar's pulse pounded. He answered, voice cracked but defiant: "It chose me."
A rumble of thunder accompanied his words. The silver knight nodded slowly.
"Then we will speak at dawn."
And just like that, he vanished into the rain-shadow. The remaining cloaked figures fled.
Remar stood, soaked to the bone, the Dark Sword's runes flickering as though alive. Silence returned. The storm raged on.
A Fresh Memory
When Thane Remar stepped out of his mind, he was kneeling beside makeshift graves under a grey dawn. At his feet lay the Dark Sword on spongy earth. He blinked at the fog moving above the forest floor, then realized—he was home.
The battlefield had shifted. Instead of marble and rain, he saw muddy ground littered with broken shields and splintered spears. Fresh rain droplets glinted on stone–hewn helmets, silent in mist.
Remar sat back, shivering. His mind raced. What happened last night? The vision felt real—but impossible.
He rose slowly and approached a pair of graves draped in torn blankets, marked only by chipped stones carved with a single rune each. One rune resembled the Dark Sword's glyphs.
He reached out, fingertips trembling. The dagger-sword—the same Dark Sword—rested on the stones. It felt eerily familiar, as though fused to his soul.
Footsteps snapped behind him. Remar turned to see Mael, the village blacksmith and his only friend, gaunt and worried.
"You came—just like I saw in the dream…" Mael whispered. "But you weren't you, Thane. You were someone else."
Remar's jaw clenched. "Explain."
Mael swallowed. "You found the blade in my forge at midnight. I tried to stop you—you had no cloak, no word—and you vanished. The forge locked itself. I found you hours later."
Remar's head throbbed. He realized then—this sword changes everything.
A Turning Point
That evening, the village council sat before him—dry-eyed but thunderous in demand.
"Return the weapon," demanded Elder Raes, voice grim. "The Dark Sword is cursed. With it, death follows. We can't risk it."
Remar leaned forward. "Cursed or not—is mine by fate. It saved me from assassins."
Elder Raes slammed his fist on the table. "Assassins you invited! That blade killed them!"
Remar spat. "They came for me."
"Then you will vanish this weapon. Or vanish yourself."
The others murmured in agreement.
Thane clenched his fist. The Dark Sword hid in his cloak, pulsing softly as though alive. Fear warred with resolve inside him.
He rose. Water dripped from his cloak's hood. He locked eyes with Elder Raes. "I will never give it up."
A fatal silence fell.
Conflict and Hook
That night, a single knock came at Remar's door. His heart froze.
Mael's face appeared, pale. His eyes wide with dread.
"They came for you," he whispered. "Masked riders—they want the sword, or your head."
Remar stood, resolute.
As thunder pealed overhead, he whispered, "Then I fight."