The Silence Before the Storm
For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of the wind scratching against the blackened stone walls of the Bastion. The throne room — once filled with the dying cries of generals and traitors alike — now stood still, wrapped in a dark, trembling quiet.
Rael stood in the center. Blood — old and new — painted his armor like an offering. The Darksword hummed faintly in his hand, its blade pulsing with that eerie light, not quite flame, not quite magic. Just hunger. Endless hunger.
Behind him, the bodies hadn't even cooled.
But ahead — ahead was something worse.
The Grand Doors of the throne room creaked open. Not slammed. Not burst. Just… opened. As if they knew better than to defy the presence inside.
And through them walked Elarin.
A Sister's Return
She had no armor. No sword. No visible threat. Just the storm in her eyes and the blue flame coiled around her wrists like shackles and serpents both.
Rael didn't speak.
Neither did she.
He knew this silence.
They had grown up in it — the awkward quiet of the War Halls when father fell, the hush of the soldiers watching two heirs raised not by love but by legacy. The silence of never being children.
Rael finally broke it.
"You came alone?"
"No," she said softly. "I brought your consequences."
A Circle of Fire and Memory
When she raised her hand, the ground around them shifted. Flames erupted from the cracks in the throne room tiles, forming a perfect circle — not around Rael.
Around both of them.
"You always feared this," Elarin said. "Not the crown. Not death. This. That one day, I'd stop protecting you."
"I didn't want protection."
"You wanted control."
That shut him up.
The flames rose higher.
Elarin stepped forward until they were close enough to hear each other breathe.
"You think you killed him," she said. "But he's not the enemy. Not really. And deep down, you know it."
Rael's fingers tightened around the Darksword. "What are you talking about?"
"The true enemy… was never just Darion. It's the thing that sword has become. And it's inside you now."
The Fire Trial
The circle ignited into a dome of flame. The Bastion faded behind it. All that remained was them — Elarin, Rael, the Darksword, and the fire between their blood.
"You want the truth?" she asked.
"No. I want you to leave."
"Too bad."
She slammed her hand into the ground. The fire collapsed inward, and suddenly — they weren't in the throne room anymore.
They were in the Warplane. The spiritual realm between life and death. The place where warriors saw their truest selves… or burned trying.
Rael snarled. "You had no right!"
"You forfeited rights the moment you accepted that blade," Elarin said coldly. "Now stand. And fight me."
Blades of Regret
He didn't want to.
That was the strange part.
Rael Darksworn — slayer of kings, usurper of crowns — didn't want to fight his sister. Not because he couldn't win.
Because if he did, it would prove what everyone feared.
That he was too far gone.
But the Darksword… it wanted blood.
So it moved his hand for him.
And Rael charged.
Their blades met — steel against flame, shadow against truth.
She was fast. Faster than him.
But he was cruel. Cruel in the way only broken people could be. And so the fight wasn't beautiful — it was brutal.
Elarin struck his side — he gasped.
Rael slashed across her shoulder — she screamed.
The Warplane trembled.
The ancestors watched.
Ashes of the Past
They fought for what felt like hours. Days. Years. Until at last — Rael dropped to one knee, breathing ragged, blood dripping from his mouth.
"I didn't want this," he whispered. "I didn't…"
"I know," Elarin said, stepping closer. "That's what makes it hurt."
He looked up.
And she offered her hand.
"I won't let you fall to it."
"To what?" he whispered.
"The curse," she said. "Of being the Darksworn. Let me burn it out of you."
He didn't answer.
So she placed her hand on his chest — and the flame entered him.
The Purge
The scream that ripped from Rael's throat didn't sound human.
It sounded ancient.
It sounded like the sword itself was being torn from inside him — dragged from his veins, his bones, his breath.
The Darksword shattered — not into pieces.
Into dust.
Rael collapsed.
The Warplane faded.
The fire died.
Heir of Ash
When he woke, he was on the cold stone floor of the Bastion again.
Alone.
Elarin was gone.
The sword was gone.
The crown still sat on the throne. Mocking him.
But for the first time in his cursed life… Rael didn't reach for it.
He sat.
He breathed.
And for the first time, he wept.
To Be Continued...