Elara's POV
The safe house looked like it had been abandoned for years.
Perfect camouflage, I realized. Broken windows, sagging roof, weeds everywhere. No one would look twice at it.
Kael kicked open the red door—the only part of the building that wasn't falling apart—and we stumbled inside.
The interior was nothing like the exterior. Clean. Organized. Weapons on every wall. Maps covering tables. This was a real headquarters.
"Hello?" Kael called out.
No answer.
"Maybe they evacuated," I suggested. "If Seraphine found Nyx, she might have found this place too."
"Then we're walking into a trap."
"Or we're finally getting lucky."
"We jumped off two cliffs today. I don't think luck is on our side."
Fair point.
Kael moved through the safe house carefully, checking rooms. I stayed alert, sensing for magic, for danger, for anything that felt wrong.
That's when I felt it. A presence. Old. Powerful. Watching us.
"Kael," I whispered. "We're not alone."
He froze. "Where?"
"Everywhere. It's like the whole building is alive."
A voice echoed from the shadows. "Perceptive for a sword."
An old man stepped out of the darkness—literally out of it, like the shadows had given birth to him. He was ancient, with a beard that reached his chest and eyes that had seen too much.
"Who are you?" Kael demanded, raising me defensively.
"Master Orin Flameheart. Weaponsmith. Former royal armorer. Current resident of places your brother's forces can't find." He studied us with uncomfortable intensity. "And you're Crown Prince Kael Ashenblade, bonded to Soulrend. Fascinating."
"How did you—"
"Know? Because I'm the one who helped design the enchantments in the Forbidden Depths three hundred years ago." Orin moved closer, his gaze fixed on me—on my blade. "I've been waiting for someone to finally claim that sword. Didn't expect it to take quite so long."
"You're three hundred years old?" I asked skeptically.
"Give or take a decade. Life extension magic is tricky." He reached toward me, and Kael instinctively pulled back. "Easy, Prince. I just want to examine the bond. I won't harm either of you."
"Why should we trust you?" Kael asked.
"Because if I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. This entire building is my workshop. Every weapon on these walls answers to me." He smiled grimly. "But I don't want you dead. I want you to succeed."
"Why?"
"Because your brother is a tyrant, Seraphine is worse, and someone needs to fix this mess before the entire Empire collapses." Orin gestured to a table. "Sit. We have much to discuss about soul-bound weapons and the idiot prince who claimed one without understanding what he was doing."
"Hey!" Kael protested, but he sat anyway.
Orin examined me closely, running his fingers along my blade. Through our bond, I felt Kael's discomfort at having someone else touch me. Possessive. Protective.
I kind of liked it.
"The bond is strong," Orin murmured. "Stronger than it should be. You've done the memory share already?"
"The Empress's Echo forced it on us," Kael explained. "To save my life."
"Forced? Interesting. The Echo usually only helps those she deems worthy." Orin's eyes sharpened. "Tell me, Soulrend—what do you remember of your creation?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... I wasn't there for my creation. I was Elara Thornwood. I died in another world and woke up as this sword."
"Impossible." Orin stepped back. "Soul-bound weapons are forged intentionally. A soul can't just... transfer into a random blade."
"Well, I did."
"Then you're not random." He began pacing, his mind clearly racing. "The sword chose you. Or something chose you for the sword. The question is why."
"Does it matter?" Kael asked. "She's here. We're bonded. Can we focus on not dying?"
"It matters because Seraphine knows something we don't." Orin pulled out a dusty book, flipping through pages covered in diagrams and ancient text. "Nyx sent me a message before the ambush. She said Seraphine mentioned a different ritual. One that requires a soul-bound wielder's corpse."
"We know," I said. "What we don't know is what the ritual actually does."
"It completes the cycle." Orin found the page he wanted and spun it toward us. The diagram showed a sword surrounded by seven circles, each containing a different symbol. "Soulrend was the seventh attempt to create a perfect weapon. Each previous sword failed because the souls weren't compatible. But the seventh sword—your sword—was designed to collect souls. Seven betrayed souls would give the wielder ultimate power."
Ice flooded through me. "How many souls does Soulrend have now?"
"Three. The Empress, you, and whoever the ritual binds next." Orin's expression was grave. "If Seraphine kills Kael while he's bonded to you, his soul gets trapped in the blade. That's three. She needs four more."
"Four more betrayed souls," Kael said slowly. "She'd have to—"
"Bond the sword to someone new, betray them, kill them, repeat." I finished. "She's going to create four more wielders just to murder them."
"And once she has all seven, she becomes—" Orin hesitated.
"What?" Kael pressed. "She becomes what?"
"Immortal. Unkillable. A god, essentially." He closed the book. "The Empire would be hers forever. And there would be no way to stop her."
The room fell silent.
Then Kael laughed. It was a broken, bitter sound. "Of course. Why would this get easier? Why would any of this make sense?"
"Kael—" I started.
"No, it's fine. It's all fine. I've lost my throne, my honor, my life. Now I find out that dying would literally help the person who destroyed me become a god." He looked at me. "Please tell me you have a plan."
I wanted to lie. Wanted to sound confident and capable and like the legendary weapon everyone thought I was.
But our bond didn't allow lies anymore. He'd feel the deception.
"I have no idea what to do," I admitted. "I watched warriors for three hundred years, but I never saw anything like this. I don't know how to stop Seraphine. I don't know how to break this curse. I don't even know how to help you get your throne back without getting you killed."
Kael stared at me. Then, impossibly, he smiled. "Thank you."
"For what? For being useless?"
"For being honest." He stood, exhausted but determined. "I've spent months surrounded by liars. Everyone had a plan, an angle, a way to use me. But you—you're just as lost as I am. And somehow that's more comforting than any promise of power could be."
"You're weird," I said.
"I'm desperate. There's a difference."
Orin cleared his throat. "Touching as this is, we have a more immediate problem. Nyx was captured. Seraphine knows about this safe house. We have maybe an hour before her forces arrive."
"Then we run," Kael said.
"To where?" Orin asked. "Everywhere you go, she'll follow. The bond makes you traceable. She has blood mages who can sense Soulrend's power from miles away."
"So what do we do?"
"We fight." Orin pulled a sword from the wall—not magical, just steel, but perfectly balanced. "I taught Seraphine's father everything he knew about combat. Which means I know every weakness in their family's fighting style. And you—" he pointed at me "—know techniques from three hundred years of observation. Between us, we can train this prince into something his enemies won't expect."
"How long would that take?" I asked.
"Properly? Years. But we don't have years." Orin's smile was sharp. "So we'll cheat. There are ways to accelerate training. Dangerous ways. Ways that might kill him."
"I'm standing right here," Kael protested.
"Then stand somewhere useful and start practicing." Orin tossed him the sword. "Because in one hour, Seraphine's forces will burst through that door. And you need to be ready to fight like your life depends on it."
"It does depend on it."
"Then stop talking and start moving."
Kael began practicing, following Orin's brutal instructions. I watched through our bond, feeling every movement, every adjustment, every moment of progress.
This was insane. We were preparing for a battle we couldn't win, against an enemy who wanted to turn us into weapons, in a world I barely understood.
But for the first time since Marcus killed me, I felt something other than rage or despair.
I felt purpose.
Then the building shook. Not from outside forces—from below.
"What was that?" Kael asked.
Orin's face went pale. "The tunnels. She didn't come from above—she came from underneath."
The floor exploded upward.
Seraphine rose through the hole, surrounded by guards and blood magic and absolute confidence.
"Hello, husband," she said sweetly. "Did you really think a three-hundred-year-old weaponsmith could hide from me?"
Orin cursed. "The tunnels were supposed to be sealed!"
"They were. I unsealed them." Seraphine's smile widened. "Because someone very interesting told me exactly where to dig. Someone who's been very helpful with information about the Resistance."
A figure stepped through the hole behind her.
Nyx.
Alive. Unharmed. Smiling.
"Sorry, Your Highness," Nyx said cheerfully. "But I'm actually Seraphine's spy. Have been for months. Every safe house, every rebel—I've been reporting them all."
She'd never been shot by that arrow.
It had all been an act.
To make us trust her.
To lead us here.
To trap us.
"No," Kael breathed.
"Yes," Seraphine corrected. "And now, dear husband, you're going to die. Slowly. Painfully. While your sword watches."
She raised her hand.
And I realized we had no way out.