The elder found them the next morning, his footsteps slow in the snow.
In his weathered hands, wrapped in cloth darkened by time, was a sword. Its hilt was bound in worn leather, its blade etched with runes that shimmered faintly, like sorrow made visible.
"This belonged to one who came before," the elder said. "A bearer of burdens. It's called the Weeping Blade—forged in grief, tempered in sacrifice."
He held it out.
"For the Ashbound."
Caelen rose and took the weapon.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, something shifted.
The blade pulsed—not with power, but with feeling. Grief, ancient and patient, flowed into him like a whisper of all who had suffered before. The sword didn't hunger. It mourned. It recognized him.
And he, it.
Caelen bowed his head. "Thank you," he murmured.
The elder only nodded. "May it serve you better than it did the last."
They left at dawn, the village slowly vanishing behind them beneath the snowfall. The road east bent toward the temple now—its pull stronger than ever. But so too was the shadow at their backs.
The evil was drawing closer.
Elira walked beside him, her cloak pulled tight against the cold. The wind howled across the slopes, but her voice was clear.
"You're changing," she said, studying him.
Caelen looked at the sword, then at his hands—calloused, shaking, still healing from the pain he'd taken.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But as long as I can protect you, I'll bear it."
Her expression softened, but her eyes didn't lose their edge.
"Don't lose yourself doing it."
He gave a quiet smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not as long as you're here."
Their footsteps were steady, their silence companionable. Around them, the world whispered of coming storms. But their bond held fast—a quiet strength against the gathering dark.