The desert didn’t forgive.

It swallowed the careless and buried the ambitious.

Kael Draven knew this truth better than most. His boots sank into the dune’s shifting slope, sweat stinging his eyes beneath the merciless sun. Around him, the dead lay sprawled in the sand—mercenaries, raiders, and sellswords who had wagered steel against steel and lost. The air is still hummed with the tang of iron and the buzz of flies already circling.

Kael leaned on his blade, chest heaving. The fight had been short, brutal, and as ugly as every skirmish he’d survived since selling his sword. He wasn’t the fastest. He wasn’t the strongest. But he had a talent for refusing to die, and that counted for more in the wastes than any lord’s banner.

He pulled his blade free from the last man he’d gutted, wiped it against his sleeve, and turned to leave the battlefield.

Then the ground bled.

It started as a trickle beneath his boots, black veins threading through the golden sand. The veins pulsed, alive, like roots sucking from unseen water. Kael froze, staring down as the trickle widened into a stain. Blood—dark, thick, not from any man he had slain—separated up from the desert itself.

“What in all hells…” he muttered, stumbling back.

The body he’d just killed twitched. Not in death spasms—this was different. His mouth fell open, a gurgle rattling in his throat, and the veins of black light spread into his skin like cracks in glass. Kael’s instincts screamed, but before he could move, his sword trembled in his hand.

The blade drank.

It wasn’t steel anymore, not entirely. Its edge glowed faint red, runes Kael had never seen crawling along its length like waking serpents. The man beneath it convulsed once, twice, and then stilled forever—his blood sucked clean, his flesh brittle as parchment.

Kael dropped the weapon with a curse.

It didn’t hit the sand.

The blade hung there, quivering in the air like it weighed nothing at all. The runes pulsed once, twice, then dimmed, and finally it settled to the ground.

Kael stared. His pulse hammered in his ears. Weapons didn’t do that. Steel didn’t bleed men dry, or carve light into their bones.

This wasn’t his blade.

It wasn’t any blade of this world.

---

By the time the survivors stumbled upon him—mercenaries who had fled when the tide turned—Kael had already sheathed the weapon, its weight unsettling against his hip.

“You,” one of them spat, eyes wide. “You carry it.”

Kael’s hand went instinctively to the hilt. “Carry what?”

The man pointed, trembling. “A Blade of the Forgotten. I’ve heard the tales. Buried in the sands, forged by the Empire before it fell. Cursed things.”

Kael felt the metal pulse faintly, like a heartbeat against his palm.

“I don’t believe in curses,” he said flatly.

The man laughed—bitter, broken. “You will.”

He turned and ran.

---

That night, Kael camped beneath a broken arch of stone half-buried in the dunes. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he shut his eyes, he felt the blade at his side humming, whispering—not in words, but in urges. Promises. His mind filled with visions not his own: banners of black silk snapping in desert winds, armies kneeling, a throne carved from bones.

When he finally slept, he dreamt of a hand not his own gripping the weapon, and voices chanting in a language he didn’t know. A crown of obsidian, glinting with firelight, pressed against his brow.

He woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding.

The blade lay beside him, faintly glowing, its runes breathing like coals.

---

By dawn, Kael had made up his mind. He would sell the weapon in the next city. Sellswords weren’t meant to carry legends. They were meant to survive.

But deep down, as he wrapped the blade and slung it across his back, a sliver of unease twisted in his gut.

Because a weapon that bled the ground, that whispered in his sleep, that hungered—

—wasn’t going to be sold to anyone.

It had already been chosen.

The desert city of Shakarra stank of spices, sweat, and secrets. Its sandstone walls rose jagged against the sky, patched with banners and scaffolds where masons worked without end. Streets coiled in cramped spirals, filled with shouting traders, gamblers, beggars, and mercenaries like Kael.

Kael hated it. Too many eyes. Too many ways to be noticed.

He tugged his cloak tighter and adjusted the wrapped bundle strapped to his back. The Blade lay hidden beneath the cloth, but he swore he could still feel its pulse—faint, steady, like the heartbeat of some buried beast. He hadn’t unsheathed it since the desert battle. He hadn’t dared.

All he wanted was to pawn it off. Sell it, melt it down, toss it in the river. Whatever it took. But every step through Shakarra’s market brought whispers to his ears.

“—did you hear, another caravan slaughtered—”

“—they say the warlord hunts for it—”

“—the Blade is waking again—”

He clenched his jaw. Paranoid. You’re just paranoid.

At the edge of the bazaar, a weapons merchant squatted beneath a tattered awning, blades of every size glittering around him. Kael pushed through the crowd and dropped the wrapped weapon on the table.

The merchant unwrapped a corner, then froze. His smile withered. “Where did you—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Kael cut him off. “You buying?”

The merchant’s eyes darted to the weapon. He swallowed, licked his lips, and leaned closer. “Not here. Too many ears. Come back at night. I’ll pay—”

Kael’s instincts flared. Too eager. Too afraid. He snatched the weapon back. “Forget it.”

He turned, but someone was already standing behind him. A woman, tall and dark-haired, dressed in leathers too fine for the bazaar. Her gaze fixed on the blade like a hawk on prey.

“Step aside,” Kael muttered.

She didn’t. Instead, she spoke in a voice that carried authority without trying. “That weapon doesn’t belong to you.”

Kael’s hand drifted to his belt. “You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”

The woman arched a brow. “Do you even know what it is you’re carrying?”

Kael glared. “A sword. The sharp end goes in the other man. That’s all I need to know.”

“Wrong,” she said simply.

Before Kael could shove past, she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “It’s a Blade of the Forgotten Empire. Forged when the Emperors ruled half the world. They were not made by human hands, mercenaries. They were bound in blood and soul. If you keep it, it will consume you.”

Kael snorted. “I’ve been consumed before. Still breathing.”

She studied him for a long moment, then extended a hand. “Arinya Vale. Scholar of the Academy of Eshar. My ancestors fought against the Forgotten. The Blades are tied to my people’s history. I intend to find them all—and destroy them.”

Kael barked a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Her gaze sharpened. “I can pay.”

Now that got his attention.

---

They found a tavern at the edge of the bazaar, a place where the stench of sweat overpowered the scent of spiced wine. Kael took the corner table, back against the wall, while Arinya ordered food.

She slid a pouch across the table. It jingled with coins. “Half now. Half when we reach the Drowned Temple.”

Kael raised a brow. “Temple?”

“The second Blade,” she said. “Submerged off the coast, beneath ruins no sane man dives for. But with that Blade you carry, I can track it. The Blades… they call each other.”

Kael scowled. “Sounds like madness.”

“Maybe. But you felt it, didn’t you? In your dreams. In your blood. The whispers.”

Kael’s hand tightened on his mug. He hadn’t told anyone about the dreams.

Her voice softened. “I don’t want it for myself. I want them destroyed. Every last one. Before some warlord gathers them and crowns himself Emperor reborn.”

Kael considered her. She wasn’t lying—not exactly. But she had the look of someone chasing ghosts, and that was dangerous.

Still, the coin was real. And the coin was survival.

He shoved the pouch into his cloak. “Fine. I’ll get you to your temple. But once we’re done, this thing—” he tapped the hilt of the wrapped Blade—“is gone. Understand?”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Understand.”

---

They left the tavern after dusk. The bazaar had thinned, but the alleys were never empty. Kael’s instincts prickled again. Shadows shifted where they shouldn’t.

“Keep walking,” he muttered to Arinya.

Figures slid from the alleys—four, then six, armed with knives and curved swords. Their leader, a scarred man with a crimson sash, grinned wide.

“You carry it,” he said. His eyes gleamed feverishly. “The Blade. Hand it over.”

Kael sighed. “You people really need new hobbies.”

The man’s grin widened. “The Warlord thanks you for your service.”

Kael’s hand hovered over the weapon at his back. He hesitated. Every time he touched it, he felt it dig deeper into him. But six against two wasn’t odds he liked.

Then the blade whispered.

Take them.

It was a pulse of hunger, a promise of strength. His vision blurred at the edges, tinged red. His hand closed around the hilt.

Arinya grabbed his wrist. “Don’t. Not here.”

The moment shattered. Kael blinked, teeth gritted, and drew his ordinary dagger instead.

The alley exploded into violence.

Kael ducked the first slash, rammed his dagger under the attacker’s ribs, twisted. Arinya fought like a storm, twin blades flashing, movements precise and practiced. But the crimson-sashed leader pressed close, shouting prayers in a guttural tongue Kael didn’t recognize.

“For the Empire reborn!” he cried.

Kael’s dagger snapped against the man’s curved sword. The bandit lunged, and instinct—hung—took over. Kael tore the wrapped Blade free.

The alley froze.

The runes flared blood-red. The air thickened, heavy with the stench of iron and burning. The bandits faltered.

Kael slashed once.

The blade didn’t just cut—it drank. The man screamed as his body withered, shriveling in seconds until only the brittle husk remained. The others broke and ran, shrieking.

Kael staggered, the weapon burning in his grip, it whispers louder now.

More. Feed me more.

Arinya shoved the blade down, forcing it back into the wrap. Her eyes blazed with fury. “You fool! Every time you use it, it roots deeper into you!”

Kael panted, staring at the shriveled corpse. His stomach turned. “If I hadn’t, we’d be dead.”

She shook her head. “No. If you keep using it, death will be mercy.”

---

Later, as they slipped from Shakarra under moonlight, Kael finally spoke. “These warlords. These zealots. They’re all looking for the Blades?”

Arinya’s voice was grim. “Yes. And now they know you carry one. You’ve painted a target on your back.”

Kael grunted. “The Story of my life.”

The Blade pulsed against his spine as if in agreement.

The road out of Shakarra wound like a scar through the desert. Caravan wagons creaked along its ruts, guarded by mercenaries who eyed Kael and Arinya with the suspicion born of long miles and easy betrayal. The sun beat down, mercilessly, while wind hissed over the dunes like a whispering crowd.

Kael kept to the rear, cloak hooded, one hand brushing the wrapped Blade strapped to his back. It hasn’t stopped humming since the alley fight. Faint, steady, a reminder that he’d crossed a line. Every step, it pulsed like a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

Arinya rode beside him on a lean desert mare, posture straight, eyes constantly scanning. She didn’t speak, and Kael didn’t ask. Silence was safer than the questions eating at him.

But the silence didn’t last.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said finally.

Kael snorted. “Not your concern.”

“It is,” she replied evenly. “The Blade feeds through your mind first. It whispers. Dreams, urges, visions. The more you give in, the harder it becomes to tell its voice from your own.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “You seem to know a lot about something you claim no one should have.”

“My family’s bloodline remembers,” Arinya said. Her gaze didn’t shift from the horizon. “When the Empire fell, survivors recorded what was left. I was raised on warnings. The Blades are not tools. They are cages—for the Emperors who forged them.”

Kael barked a short, bitter laugh. “So I’m babysitting a dead Emperor now?”

Her eyes flicked toward him. “Pray he stays dead.”

---

By midday, the caravan reached an outpost: a ring of mud-brick walls, a well at its heart, and a cluster of tents buzzing with trade. Kael welcomed the shade as they ducked into the largest tent, a tavern in everything but name.

Inside, merchants argued over salt and silk while mercenaries drank sour ale. Kael took a seat near the back, watching the door. His instincts had been prickling since sunrise. Too many stares.

Arinya ordered water and flatbread, spreading a map across the table. “Here. The Drowned Temple lies past the Scorched Coast, three days from here. But the Firebrand Warlord controls those lands.”

Kael frowned. “Firebrand?”

“His name was Rouran. A mercenary like you, once. Until he found a Blade.” Her voice dropped. “He calls himself Prophet now. His followers believe he’s the first Emperor reborn.”

Kael felt the Blade at his back stir. Brother, it whispered, faint and cruel.

He shuddered. “Wonderful.”

---

They weren’t alone.

Kael noticed them first: a trio of men at the next table, drinking but not drunk, eyes too sharp, hands too close to their blades. Soldiers, not traders.

He leaned closer to Arinya. “We’re being watched.”

“I know,” she murmured without lifting her eyes from the map. “Keep your hand away from the Blade.”

The trio rose as one, crossing the room. Their leader, a tall man with a scar splitting his cheek, stopped at their table. His armor was battered but serviceable, a crimson emblem stitched to his cloak: a flame crossed by a sword.

Kael’s stomach sank. The Firebrand’s men.

“Travelers,” the scarred man said, voice oily. “The Prophet welcomes all who walk the path of rebirth. He has heard whispers of a Blade carried through these sands. Perhaps you’ve seen it?”

Kael forced a grin. “Can’t say I have. Plenty of sharp steel in Shakarra, though. Check the bazaar.”

The man’s eyes slid to the bundle on Kael’s back. “That one. May we see it?”

Arinya’s hand brushed Kael’s knee under the table: a warning. Don’t.

Kael shrugged, leaning back. “Not for sale.”

The man’s smile thinned. “The Prophet does not buy. He claims what is his.”

The room had gone quiet. Mercenaries and traders shifted, watching, and waiting. Kael’s fingers itched toward the Blade. His pulse hammered. He could almost hear it whispering: Draw me. Feed me. Kill them.

Arinya stood before he could move, her tone crisp, commanding. “Tell your Prophet the Blade he seeks is a myth. Nothing more. Now leave.”

The scarred man studied her, eyes narrowing. Then he laughed—a cold, humorless sound. “The Prophet will find it. He always does.”

He turned, his men following. But his parting glance at Kael promised the matter wasn’t over.

---

That night, Kael didn’t sleep. He sat outside the outpost walls, the cloak pulled tight, staring at the dunes. Every shadow looked like an enemy. Every sound carried a threat.

The Blade pulsed against his back, stronger now.

They will come. You cannot hide me. You can only wield me.

Kael’s fists clenched. “Shut up.”

You need me. They all do.

Visions flickered at the edge of his sight: armies kneeling, crowns shattered, blood running like rivers. For one dizzying heartbeat, he wanted it. Power. Control. An end to running.

Arinya’s voice cut through the haze. “You’re slipping.”

He hadn’t heard her approach. She stood behind him, arms crossed, moonlight glinting off her dark hair.

“You think I can’t hear it?” she asked softly. “I can. Every time you touch it, it grows louder.”

Kael looked away. “What choice do I have? Every bastard in the desert wants it. They’ll come whether I carry it or not.”

“Then let me carry it,” she said. “It’s my burden, not yours.”

Kael laughed bitterly. “You wouldn’t last a day. It wants blood. You think you’re strong enough to deny it?”

Her eyes hardened. “Stronger than you.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Then Kael shook his head. “Not happening.”

She sighed, kneeling beside him. “Then listen to me. The Firebrand has a Blade. His will is already twisted. If he gathers another, he’ll rally half the desert behind him. You think you’ve seen war? You haven’t.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “So what—you want me to march into his camp and kill him?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “If it comes to that, yes.”

The Blade pulsed, hot and eager, as if laughing in his bones.

---

At dawn, the caravan set out again. Kael and Arinya rode at its tail, the desert stretching endlessly before them. The further they went, the more Kael felt the Blade tugging—pulling him east, toward the coast.

Toward the Firebrand.

By midday, vultures wheeled overhead. Smoke smudged the horizon.

The caravan halted.

As they crested a dune, Kael saw why. Below, in the shallow valley, wagons lay shattered, corpses scattered like broken dolls. A caravan had been slaughtered.

Kael’s stomach tightened. Not by raiders. This was different.

Every body was shriveled, desiccated. As if drained.

Arinya dismounted, face pale. “Another Blade.”

Kael felt his weapon pulse in response, hungering.

The desert wind whispered through the corpses like a sigh.

And Kael realized with a sick twist in his gut: they weren’t the only ones on the hunt.