Darkness clung to him like tar.
Ruvan drifted in and out of feverish dreams, the taste of blood thick on his tongue. His wrists burned where the iron shackles bit into them, crusted with dried blood. The chains rattled with every twitch of his aching arms. Voices echoed around him – curses, laughter, boots scraping on stone – fading in and out like whispers on a distant wind.
Sometimes he heard sobbing from the other cages. Other times, only silence.
In his dreams, he saw fire swallowing the village again and again. He saw his master's forge collapse in burning timbers. He heard the girl's scream trapped under rubble. Over and over, the screams and smoke suffocated him, until he woke with a choked gasp.
The slavers paid him no mind.
They spoke in a harsh tongue he didn't recognise, sharp and guttural like stone breaking. Their armour was mismatched iron and bone. One wore a helm made from the skull of a great boar, its tusks curling down to frame his snarling mouth. Another had black paint smeared across his eyes, his teeth filed into jagged points.
Ruvan tried not to look at them. Every time he did, his stomach twisted with fear and hatred.
He wasn't sure how many days passed. Time became a blur of jolting wagon wheels, stale water poured down his throat, and the constant ache of his body. When they finally dragged him from the cage, his legs almost refused to hold him.
"Up," one of the slavers snarled, slamming the butt of his spear against Ruvan's back.
He stumbled forward, vision swimming.
They chained the prisoners together in a line, binding their wrists to the thick rope that ran down the middle. Then they marched. Out of the dark tunnels, out into the cold dawn light.
The sun burned his eyes after so long in the dark.
They were in the foothills east of Ashvale, where ragged stone teeth clawed the sky. Sparse trees clung to the slopes. Far in the distance, he saw a black smear on the horizon – the Blackwood. He shivered at the memory of what he had found there. What had found him there.
As they marched, he felt it.
A faint pulse, deep in his chest, thrumming in time with his heartbeat. At first, he thought it was fever. But as they walked, it grew stronger. Warmer. Sharper.
Then he realised it wasn't in his chest at all.
It was coming from the bundle strapped across his back.
They had left it there, thinking it only a broken sword unworthy of theft. It was tied to his back with rough rope, the hilt sticking over his shoulder, wrapped in blood-stained cloth. He could feel the blade vibrating faintly, like a living thing shivering in its sleep.
His breath quickened.
He tried to reach for it, but the chains stopped him short. The slaver ahead of him turned and barked something, yanking the rope so hard Ruvan nearly fell face-first into the rocky ground.
He clenched his jaw.
Hours passed. The sun rose high, burning down on their bowed heads. A woman near the front collapsed. The slavers beat her until she staggered back to her feet, sobbing. An old man fell soon after. He did not rise again. They cut his body from the line and left it by the road.
Ruvan watched, his vision swimming with exhaustion and rage.
Why did you show me those visions? he thought bitterly, feeling the faint pulse of Solrend against his back. Why give me power if I can't even save myself, let alone anyone else?
No answer came. Only the heat of the blade, pulsing like a second heart.
By late afternoon, they reached a wide river. The slavers called a halt, driving iron stakes into the rocky ground to tie the prisoners down for the night. Ruvan collapsed to his knees, gasping. His wrists were raw and bleeding. His lips were cracked with thirst.
As dusk fell, he felt the pulse of the blade grow stronger.
It was like a voice without words, calling to him from the edge of sleep. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cold ground. Tears leaked down his cheeks as exhaustion wrapped around him.
Then darkness swallowed his senses.
⸻
He stood in the throne room again.
But this time, the fires burned lower. The devourer was silent, coiled in its chains, its many eyes closed. The crowned figure sat upon the throne, their white-and-black robes flowing like smoke around their feet.
They watched him quietly, their visor dimmed.
"You return quickly," they said, their voice echoing in the silent hall.
Ruvan's fists clenched.
"Why are you doing this to me? Why show me all this if you're not going to help?"
The figure tilted their head slightly.
"Help? Is that what you seek, heir of ash? Aid from shadows and ghosts?"
He shook his head violently. "I never asked for any of this. I just wanted to make swords, not wield them. I wanted a quiet life. Why me?"
"Because the world needs you."
The throne room trembled as the devourer shifted in its sleep, chains rattling softly.
The crowned figure leaned forward. "Do you hear it, Ruvan? The Blade's call? It remembers its master, even in death."
Ruvan's breath caught in his chest.
"What… is it?" he whispered.
"Solrend. Forged in the fires beneath the Black Mountain. Tempered in dragon's blood. Broken by betrayal. It is the blade that ended the world… and it will be the blade that remakes it."
He shook his head, stumbling back. "No… no, I can't… I'm just a blacksmith."
The crowned figure rose from the throne, stepping down towards him. Their footsteps were silent on the cracked marble.
They reached out and placed a cold, gloved hand upon his shoulder.
"You are more than that now," they whispered. "Wake, heir of ash. Wake… and rise."
⸻
Ruvan's eyes snapped open.
Night had fallen. The camp was silent except for the quiet breathing of sleeping prisoners and the soft crackle of dying campfires. Moonlight spilled across the riverbank in pale silver.
He felt it again.
The blade.
Its pulse was stronger now, thrumming through his entire body. He twisted, straining against his chains, managing to brush his fingers against the hilt. The moment his skin touched it, a jolt of heat shot up his arm, making him gasp.
Do not fear.
The words weren't spoken. They bloomed in his mind like a quiet flame, steady and warm.
I am Solrend. I am shattered, but not dead. Neither are you.
Tears burned his eyes. He clenched his fingers tighter around the hilt, feeling power surge through him in slow, rising waves.
What do I do? he asked silently.
The blade pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
Live.
The ropes binding it to his back burned away in an instant of white-hot light. He bit back a cry as the blade slid into his hand, its broken edge glowing faintly in the moonlight.
A shout rang out.
One of the slavers had woken. His eyes widened in terror as he saw the blade in Ruvan's hand. He reached for his axe, mouth opening to yell.
Ruvan moved before he thought.
The broken blade flashed through the air, cutting clean through the slaver's neck. His head rolled away into the shadows, eyes still wide with shock.
The camp erupted in chaos.
Prisoners screamed. Slavers roared and scrambled for weapons. Ruvan felt the blade's power pouring into him, filling his veins with molten heat. He swung again, cutting through iron chains as if they were paper.
"Run!" he yelled at the prisoners. "Run now!"
Some obeyed immediately, scrambling into the dark forest. Others hesitated in shock, until another slaver charged at Ruvan, swinging a heavy axe. Ruvan raised Solrend to block.
The axe struck the blade.
There was a blinding flash of white light, and a thunderous crack split the air. The slaver flew backward as if struck by a giant's fist, crashing into the river with a splash.
Ruvan stood trembling, staring at the broken blade in his hand. The glow along its shattered edge burned brighter now, illuminating his face with pale gold.
More slavers charged.
He met them with fire in his veins and death in his grip.
The world became a blur of screams, blood, and moonlight. The blade guided him, pulling his arm here, shifting his feet there. He moved like someone else entirely – someone stronger, faster, ruthless. When the last slaver fell, Ruvan stood panting amidst the bodies, his bare chest streaked with blood and sweat.
Silence fell across the camp.
He turned to see the freed prisoners staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Many held their chains in trembling hands, unsure if they were truly free.
Ruvan raised Solrend high.
"We go north," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "There's nothing left for us here. But I promise you… I will not let them take us again."
The blade pulsed in his hand, as if in approval.
For the first time since the raid, a small spark of hope flickered in his chest. He turned away from the river, leading the ragged group into the dark forest beyond.
Behind him, the camp burned with quiet orange flames, smoke rising to the cold, indifferent stars.