Whispering in shadows
Raghu had barely caught his breath after surviving the Forsaken Ridge when he was suddenly pulled into a new domain. As soon as he landed, the violet aura lingering from the falchion throbbed faintly, warning him. This was awfully similar to the ruins of the temple he had entered before plunging into the pit. For a moment, he thought he had returned to the same place. But as he steadied his breath and scanned the surroundings, the differences became obvious.
This ruin was far more ancient, far more broken. The stones here were darker, as if charred by a fire not born of flame but of cosmic despair. Pillars bent unnaturally, sagging like bones under unseen weight. Every wall seemed to hum with silence, oppressive and thick. Raghu's skin prickled. This place did not merely exist; it remembered, as if the stones themselves had been witnesses to countless deaths and forgotten rites.
Hardly any sculpture or wall painting was intact. Much was ground to dust, as though something had deliberately erased its own record. He took a cautious step forward, one hand resting on the falchion's hilt. The violet aura flared faintly, like a heartbeat, pulsing in a rhythm that matched the anxious thrum of his own chest.
Then came the sound.
A voice—faint, pained, and desperate. he knew this was not his own imagination. this voice was of someone or something that was still alive.
Raghu froze. Nothing should breathe here. Yet the call persisted, wounded and hollow, tugging at him with a magnetic insistence. Against all reason, his curiosity pulled him toward it.
He followed the sound to a wall half-collapsed under rubble. Faded pigment clung stubbornly to its surface. He brushed grime away, and shapes appeared although only some parts were visible .
The mural revealed a beast with four legs, four heads twisted in rage, jaws locked in eternal roar. But what seized Raghu's breath was the weapon it bore—an arm stretched from its torso, clutching a curved blade, etched with faint violet veins of light. His falchion's twin, yet in this depiction, the blade seemed alive.
The weapon in his hand trembled violently, as though recognizing its reflection. The violet glow surged, spilling across the stones, illuminating other fragments of mural that had remained hidden in shadow.
The whispers began, curling around him like smoke, old as the ruins themselves. They did not form proper words at first, just fragments of sound that prickled at the edges of his mind. "Born of void… forged from shadow… Fang hungers…"
He took a tentative step forward. Every crack in the walls seemed to twist, casting elongated shadows that moved as though alive. Dust motes danced in the violet light, forming fleeting shapes of battles long past—warriors fallen, beasts unmade, skies ripped apart. Raghu's pulse quickened; he could feel the falchion vibrating in sync with his heartbeat. The ruins themselves seemed to whisper secrets meant only for him.
"Vessel… witness… bearer of hunger…"
The fragments of mural shifted subtly under his gaze. Here, a shadowed figure rose to meet a monstrous guardian wielding the complete sword. There, an image of a goddess , eyes burning, holding a Fang aloft as the void twisted beneath her. Raghu could see in her stance a power that did not merely kill, but erased the memory of life itself. The goddess's presence was almost tangible, a weight pressing down upon the air, making it thick and difficult to breathe.
Each whisper seemed to pull him deeper into the story, into the memory of the weapon he carried. The violet light flared in response, pulsating with the weight of centuries. The ruins were no longer just broken stone; they had become a vessel for legend. Every fragment of mural, every curve of the pillars, every shadow on the floor spoke of the Fang and those it had touched. Raghu could sense the echoes of those who had wielded it before, their triumphs and failures whispering lessons he could barely comprehend.
Raghu knelt beside a fallen pillar, pressing the falchion to the stone. The sword thrummed in his grip, alive with recollection. He closed his eyes, letting the whispers wash over him, and for a moment, he could feel the hunger of the Fang, its memory of destruction, its pull toward power and annihilation. It was a living history, urging him to understand, to accept, and to be tested.
Images flickered before him: a king who had raised armies only to be devoured by shadow, a warrior who had dared to challenge the Fang bearer's and had vanished from memory, countless realms that had fallen into silent oblivion. Raghu realized that the sword's memory was as much a curse as it was a legacy; the lives it touched were already marked, their fates tied to the Shard's insatiable hunger.
And then, amidst the whispers, a singular thought emerged, piercing and clear: Hunger… need… choice…
Raghu opened his eyes, feeling the ruins around him as though they were alive, recognizing him as the current bearer. He rose, falchion in hand, the violet pulse steadying into a rhythm that matched his own. Each step he took forward was not just movement through the ruins but through time itself, into the lingering memory of the Fang, into the shadow of the goddess, and toward the destiny that had chosen him. Even the stones seemed to sigh under his weight, acknowledging his presence. The first scene of understanding, the first step of initiation, had begun. Cogs that were held still by a force unknown had now begin to rotate. What changes it will bring only time could tell. Raghu unaware of what he had started unknowingly, only knew that this was only the beginning of a much larger than him, this was no longer a trial.
He looked at the sword once more as it continued to glow and that when he heard the whisper again that chilled him to bone "Mortal, your path will be written in shadow now. Where you walk, the Fang's hunger will follow. Where you fight, endings will bloom. And know this—what you hold is just a Shard. Others remain, scattered, waiting. Should they awaken… should the Fang be made whole again… even gods will fall silent."
Raghu stood still, falchion burning faintly in his grip, alive with a heartbeat not his own. His breath came heavy, but his mind was heavier still. He carried not just a weapon, but a Shard of annihilation. His every choice now carried consequence far beyond his life.