92 lines
No EOL
3.5 KiB
Markdown
92 lines
No EOL
3.5 KiB
Markdown
The blade lay between them—Ashmire, dark as night with no stars. Still humming. Still alive.
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Alisha backed away from it like it was poison, her breath catching, arms outstretched as if shielding Telaryn from the thing already in her hand.
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“This isn’t you,” she said. Her voice cracked like a frozen branch. “This—this is _her_. Whatever’s inside that sword, whatever you saw down there… it’s not your path. You don’t need to carry this.”
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Telaryn said nothing. She stood over the altar now, holding Ashmire once more. It had risen to her hand the moment she touched it again, as if it _belonged_ there. As if it had _never belonged to anyone else_.
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Her fingers bled. But the blood didn’t fall—it sank into the hilt like ink into cloth.
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The Queen's voice coiled behind her thoughts. _No more begging. No more waiting. Power is never taken by the willing. You know what you are._
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Alisha stepped closer, her eyes wide with something between horror and grief.
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“I’ll destroy it,” she whispered. “If you won’t. I swear it. Even if it kills me.”
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Ryn flinched. The pulse from Ashmire sharpened—fear, yes, but desire, too. A thrill that stole her breath.
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Alisha reached for her.
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That was the moment.
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One breath. One flicker of doubt.
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And Ashmire moved.
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There was no battle cry. No spell. No clean arc of a hero’s sword. There was only a _lurch_—like her hand was pulled, like her heart beat too hard and spilled over into the blade.
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A single stroke.
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Blood, warm and thick, spilled onto the stone floor.
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Alisha gasped—not in pain, not at first. Just… surprise. As if something sacred had cracked inside her. She touched her belly where the blade had passed, then looked at Telaryn. Eyes wide. Betrayed. Understanding.
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“Ryn,” she whispered, barely sound. “Why?”
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Telaryn was already falling to her knees, the blade slipping from her grip, but not far. It hovered. Hungered. Thrummed.
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Tears streamed down her cheeks.
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“I didn’t—” she began. But the words tasted wrong.
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Had she moved? Had she chosen?
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Or had the blade simply _known_?
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Alisha sank beside the altar. Her breath came short now, her hands slick with blood that would not stop flowing. The stone beneath her soaked it greedily. So did Ashmire.
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Telaryn cradled her, sobbing. Alisha’s eyes never left hers.
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“I wanted to save you,” Alisha said, and then her voice was gone.
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For a heartbeat, the crypt was silent.
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Then the air shattered.
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Ashmire screamed—not aloud, but in the soul, a sound like mountains breaking and chains snapping. It rose into the stone, through the keep, into the peaks beyond.
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The blade lifted itself.
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Its runes ignited, one by one, crimson and white-hot.
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The chains that bound it blackened, then cracked—like the last bones of a long-dead oath. The seal broke.
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**Ashmire awakened.**
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It floated to Telaryn’s hand—not heavy now, not burning. Perfect. Ready.
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And as she stood, her wounds knit shut. Her breath steadied.
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Her eyes turned dark—blood-red at the edges, deepening toward black.
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She stood taller than she had before. Straighter. Stronger.
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But something else had shifted. Something essential. Not broken. Not shattered.
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_Forged._
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Behind her, Alisha’s body was still. Pale. Her blood cooling on the stone.
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Telaryn didn’t look back.
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She could feel the Queen’s smile in the hollows of her thoughts.
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> "Now," the voice whispered, honeyed and sharp.
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> "Now you belong to something greater."
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And Ryn? She didn’t answer.
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She only turned toward the stairs.
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Ashmire in hand. Alone. |