Chapter 10 — The Weight of the Sword
The fire burned low in the center of camp. Its glow threw restless light across Lucian's face as he stared at the scroll in his hands. His breath came quick and uneven; the parchment trembled between his fingers.
"This cannot be real," he whispered. His voice was barely more than a breath, yet the sound carried through the silence like a bell before dawn.
Auron stood beside him, watching the noble's face drain of color with each line he read. The golden light of the flames revealed jagged script, letters sharp as talons."What does it say?" Auron asked quietly.
Lucian swallowed hard. "It speaks of Asad Al," he said at last. "Not just any Beastborn. The bastard son of the crown prince of the Stonefang Horde." His voice faltered. "And worse he's marked as one of the Champions of the Divine."
Auron frowned. "Champions of the what?"
Lucian hesitated, lowering his voice as if naming something forbidden. "Champions are mortals who bind themselves to higher beings dragons, ancient spirits, demons. But a Champion of the Divine… that is sainthood itself. A mortal chosen by a god."
Auron blinked, absorbing the weight of the words. "If he's that powerful, why would he come after you?"
Lucian's jaw tightened. "When a Beastborn reaches maturity, they undergo a rite of passage. They must bathe in the blood of a being with divine essence. It's a taboo ritual, forbidden across kingdoms. But Asad wants legitimacy; he wants to shed the title of bastard."
He looked down at the scroll, expression hardening. "My grandmother was once a royal contractor of the Demigod of Steel, Karzekth. Whatever divinity flows through me is faint, but it's enough for his ritual."
Auron's eyes narrowed. The pieces fit too cleanly. "So to him, you're not a human being," he said. "You're just prey that is easy to catch but gives high rewards."
Lucian said nothing. The silence answered for him.
Auron glanced toward the sleeping camp. "If this is true, the men cannot know," he said flatly.
Lucian looked up in disbelief. "What? They deserve to know what hunts us."
"Tell them now," Auron replied, "and you'll lose them before dawn. They're already shaken. You show them that scroll, tell them a creature blessed by the gods is walking toward us they'll scatter before sunrise."
Lucian's lips parted, but no argument came. The words settled like lead. In the distance, faint prayers murmured through the tents fear dressed as faith. He understood."So what do we do?"
Auron's gaze flicked toward the treeline, where shadows breathed with the rhythm of the wind. "We hold them together. Fear kills quicker than blades."
Lucian nodded slowly, gripping the scroll until his knuckles turned white. "Then this stays between us."
"Yes," Auron said. "Until we have no choice."
The fire cracked softly between them. For a long moment neither spoke. Finally Lucian exhaled. "Go rest. We meet at dawn."
Auron inclined his head. "Don't let fear choose for you, Lucian. It never ends well."
Lucian looked up sharply. "what about your fears?"
Auron's voice was distant. "Mine ended a long time ago."
*********
His tent was cold and still, the fabric smelling faintly of blood and smoke. Auron sat cross-legged in the corner, Vowkeeper resting beside him. His body ached, but his mind refused to quiet. The image of the scroll, of Lucian's trembling hands lingered.
I could leave now, he thought. Slip into the woods. The forest would hide my tracks, and when the Beastborn came, none would know I'd ever been here.
For a moment, the thought tempted him. It was the safer path a familiar one.
Then came another image: an old man lying in the snow, blood blooming beneath him. Godfrey's eyes, fading but proud.
He saw that, and Lucian's trusting face beside the fire. The two blurred into one.
No. He clenched his fists until the scars whitened. Not again.
He rose and rubbed his eyes. "I do not sleep much anyway," he murmured.
From his cloak he drew the leather-bound book taken from Asher's tent. The green cover was cracked, the silver title flaking: Sword of Judgment.
He opened the first page. The handwriting was elegant, the ink faded but precise.
A sword is not forged by metal. It is forged by the soul that wields it. The body is the sheath, the mind the handle, the will the blade. To temper one is to strengthen the others.
He turned the page. Diagrams filled the parchment—circles and sigils like constellations of ink.
The Mortal Stage.It spoke of merging mana with motion, of strikes guided by intent rather than muscle. When the sword and the heart beat as one, the first door opens.
The Astral Stage.A state where perception expands, seeing the flow of life itself. A blade surrounded by stars.
And finally, The Divine Reflection. Only one line beneath it: When judgment is no longer delivered by your hand, but by the will you embody, the heavens themselves shall answer.
these stages were further divided into 3 mini stages.
Auron stared at that line for a long time. The flicker of the fire traced across his face, casting half of it in shadow.
The book spoke of harmony of body, mind, and will.
He had never known harmony. Only survival. But perhaps survival was its own kind of sword.
He closed the book and set it on his lap. "Grandfather," he whispered, "what kind of world did you see that made you believe in men like me?"
Only the sigh of wind through canvas answered.
He sat there until the first hint of dawn touched the sky.
*********
By morning, the camp was tense but disciplined. Smoke from breakfast fires drifted low across the clearing. The executed traitors had been buried beyond the ridge, and their absence weighed heavier than their presence ever had.
Lucian stood at the center, cloak draped neatly around his shoulders. He did not feel like a leader but the eyes of everyone said otherwise.
Six knights stood around him, their armor dulled with ash and sleeplessness. Garrick was at his right, grim as ever. Auron joined them last, Vowkeeper on his back.
Lucian began, voice steady though rough. "There are no more traitors among us. The camp is secure but our situation is not."
Sir Taren, the youngest knight, crossed his arms. "Without Sir Asher, our strength is crippled. If the Beastborn attack, we'll fall before an hour's gone."
"Running is worse," Garrick said. "The forest belongs to them. Flight is sure death."
Lucian looked between them. "Then what's left? We cannot fight as we are."
"Not directly," Auron answered.
Every head turned toward him. He stood apart from the circle, calm and deliberate. "If the information is right, their warband numbers twenty to twenty-five. They'll send scouts first. That's our chance."
Lucian frowned. "So we wait for them?"
"We make them think they're winning," Auron said. "And when they commit fully, we strike where they're weakest."
Garrick's eyes narrowed. "Even so, victory is impossible."
"Perhaps," Auron said, gaze fixed on the forest. "But survival isn't."
"but there is also another method we can use" auron added
"listen...."
He outlined his plan in quiet, efficient words. When he finished, silence lingered until Lucian asked, "How do we prepare?"
Auron's expression softened. "You'll see."
Lucian hesitated. "Will it work?"
"It will give us a chance," Auron replied. "That's more than we had yesterday."
The knights exchanged uneasy glances. Garrick grunted. "Then we hold. Rodrik's convoy is due from the east in three, maybe four days. If we last that long, we live."
Lucian nodded. "Three or four days. We hold our ground."
Auron's eyes flickered toward the trees. Three days… the Beastborn won't wait that long.But he said nothing.
The fire popped in the center of the camp, smoke mingling with the metallic scent of fear. Pale light broke through the clouds, thin and cold.
Auron's hand brushed the hidden weight of the Sword of Judgment beneath his cloak. It felt heavier than steel.
He looked toward the forest once more.
Danger was coming.
But this time, he would not run he could face it head on