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.
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