Tenrian stone carried memories.
That's what Kairen said as he led Deus down a narrow corridor behind the old forge — a forgotten tunnel carved centuries ago beneath the Noble Combat Pavilion. The walls here were colder than the rest of the mountain, not just in temperature, but in atmosphere.
Deus felt it immediately.
A subtle pressure behind the eyes. A soundless hum beneath the skin.
"This place isn't on the maps," he said.
"Of course it isn't," Kairen replied, torch in hand. "This is where they kept the failures."
Deus raised a brow.
"Magic experiments," Kairen clarified. "The early soulbinding trials. Before people figured out how to fuse weapons and wielders without killing one of them."
Deus said nothing.
The torch crackled as they descended.
The tunnel widened into a small chamber — barely fifteen feet across, ceiling low. On the far side stood a pedestal of blackstone etched with faded runes. Cracked crystals lined the walls, and the air felt thick with forgotten energy.
Deus stepped forward.
The runes didn't glow.
They pulsed.
Kairen leaned against the wall. "This is where they tested the old bond seals. Weapon imprinting. Supposedly one subject survived, but lost his mind."
"Survived?" Deus asked.
"Barely. His soul didn't take the bond properly. The sword melted into his nervous system."
Deus didn't flinch.
He reached out toward the pedestal.
"Careful," Kairen warned. "It reacts to—"
The pedestal lit up.
The runes flared in a pattern — not at random, but in rhythm. Like breathing.
The room shuddered once.
A whisper slipped into the air — not in sound, but in memory.
A voice, old and distant, spoken in a tongue no longer taught:
"You are not the first. But you may be the last."
Deus froze.
The voice wasn't external.
It was inside him.
Not words — impressions.
Loss. Rage. A promise buried in frost and fire.
Kairen stepped back. "What did you just do?"
"I don't know," Deus whispered.
But he did.
Something recognized him.
That Night – Deus's Tower
The room was colder than usual.
The twin blades of Antrar — still inert — lay across his desk. He stared at them, not touching. Not yet.
The voice echoed in his mind.
You are not the first.
Who was?
You may be the last.
Why him?
He opened his notebook.
But the pages felt... wrong. Empty. Insufficient.
So he turned to the wall instead — and began to sketch.
A sword with twin edges.
A mirror split in two.
A boy with eyes half-white, half-black.
He didn't know where the image came from.
But his hand moved on its own.
Elsewhere – The Archives of Pavilion
Instructor Gairos examined the resonance logs.
Talen, his assistant, frowned. "Another pulse?"
Gairos nodded. "Below the forge. Same pattern as the Antrar registry from fifty years ago."
Talen narrowed her eyes. "There are no living Antrar blades left."
Gairos stared at the log.
"Then maybe the blade isn't what's alive."