After Silence
The ash had finally settled.
For two days, the Citadel held no meetings. No plans. No speeches. The sky remained dull, the fires stayed low, and the people waited — as if afraid any movement would wake something worse.
Kael spent those two days above the shattered hall, alone, speaking to no one. The Darksword lay beside him, and the shard was sealed in a silver box etched with ancient runes.
When Selene finally approached, she said nothing. Just sat next to him and watched the wind shift across the ruin.
"You know what this means, don't you?" she asked after a long silence.
Kael nodded.
"They weren't the real threat," he said. "They were just the ones trying to stop it from waking."
Selene tilted her head. "The sword?"
Kael shook his head slowly.
"No. What the sword remembers."
The Book of Glass
That evening, Nera entered the war chamber holding something wrapped in charred linen — a relic retrieved from the sealed vault below the catacombs.
She unwrapped it carefully: a book bound in glass. Cracked, but not broken. Cold to the touch.
"I found it next to the chamber where the shard was sleeping," she said. "It's not written in any language known to our priests."
Kael leaned forward.
The letters shimmered as he looked. They shifted, aligning themselves into words he suddenly understood.
"Chronicle of the First Gate."
His throat tightened.
"That's what the sword called me," he murmured. "A gate."
Nera nodded grimly. "Because you are. And that book is the map."
The Deep One
The book didn't tell a story.
It showed one.
Every time Kael touched a page, images flickered across the room — not ink or paint, but living flame. Memories burned into glass.
He saw a creature sleeping beneath the Citadel — vast, formless, ancient. Wrapped in chains made of sound. Bound not by magic, but belief.
The belief had faded.
The chains had weakened.
And Kael… Kael had been the key to its awakening.
"I didn't ask for this," he said aloud.
The book didn't care.
The Blood Prophet
Two nights later, a visitor arrived at the Citadel gates.
She walked barefoot through the ash, cloaked in crimson, with no guards and no name.
The soldiers tried to stop her.
They failed.
Kael met her in the inner hall. She was young — maybe twenty — but her eyes had no age.
"I am the Prophet of the Deep," she said softly. "And I've come to offer you a choice."
Selene stood behind Kael, her hand resting lightly on a dagger.
"Speak carefully," she warned.
The girl did not flinch.
"The god beneath this land stirs. You can delay its awakening, yes. You can even seal it again. But you will lose yourself piece by piece, until the only thing left wearing your face is the sword."
Kael's voice was low. "And what's the choice?"
"Sacrifice the blade," she said, "and the god sleeps."
"What's the cost?"
"You," she said. "Only you."
The Hollow Council
They gathered that night — Selene, Nera, the remaining commanders, the priests. The air was thick with dust and tension.
"I say we destroy the sword," Nera said. "Kael has given enough. There must be another way."
"There's not," Selene countered. "If he dies, who stands between us and the next thing crawling from the Rift?"
A young soldier spoke up. "Can't we hide the sword?"
Kael answered. "It'll find its way back. It always does."
Silence.
Then Kael looked up.
"I'm not sacrificing myself," he said.
Everyone stared.
"I'll find another way."
Nera exhaled shakily. "There isn't one."
"There has to be," Kael snapped. "Because if this sword was forged to hold something back, then I can forge myself to do the same. I'll chain the god with my will, if I have to."
Selene's gaze was unreadable.
But she said, "Then we begin now."
Binding Fire
Kael entered the old forge at midnight.
The Darksword lay on the anvil. The shard hovered above it, crackling.
Selene and Nera stood on either side, hands blood-bound to the circle etched in flame.
Kael placed both hands on the blade.
"I name you not my master," he said. "Not my memory. Not my god."
The Darksword hissed.
"I name you vessel."
The shard shattered mid-air.
The sword ignited — screaming, singing, sobbing.
Kael didn't let go.
The God Stirs
Far beneath the Citadel, the thing in the dark began to rise.
The ground trembled.
The air split.
And a voice echoed through every chamber:
"You are late."
Kael screamed.
Selene gripped his shoulder. "Hold on—"
"I can't—"
"You have to!"
The fire surged.
And Kael fell inside himself.
The Gate Opens
He stood in a void.
Not darkness — absence.
Before him, a throne made of ribs and stars.
On it sat a shape.
It had no face. No eyes. No mouth.
But it wore a crown made of Kael's memories.
The god leaned forward.
"I made you," it whispered. "Not from blood. From purpose. You are the sword that walks."
Kael clenched his fists. "Then I choose my purpose now."
The god extended a hand. "Let me in."
Kael lifted the Darksword.
And refused.
Reforging
Back in the forge, Kael gasped.
The flames were dying.
The sword had changed.
It was smaller now. Sleeker. No longer a weapon of war — but of precision. Of will.
The god's voice had vanished.
Selene fell to her knees. Nera wept.
Kael stood.
Alive.
Burned, bleeding — but whole.
The sword pulsed softly in his hand.
He looked at the others.
"I bound it," he said. "It's sleeping again."
"For how long?" Nera asked.
Kael looked toward the west.
"Until someone forgets."
And So He Walked
At sunrise, Kael descended the tower steps alone.
No crown.
No throne.
Just the sword at his side.
Selene watched him go.
"You're leaving," she said.
He nodded. "There are other gates. Other wounds. I can feel them now."
She didn't cry.
Just whispered, "Don't forget us."
Kael paused.
"I won't. That's the point."
And then he vanished into the mist, the Darksword humming softly with every step.
Not a king.
Not a savior.
A reminder.