The crypts were an endless maze of cold, lifeless stone. For weeks, Kayla had wandered through these forgotten depths, her glowing eyes piercing the eternal darkness as she sifted through the whispers of the past. The stagnant air was thick with the weight of ancient Weave spells, their raw power curling through the crypts like a dark undercurrent, barely held in check by the crumbling wards and etched runes that adorned the walls. They pulsed with faint, rhythmic thumps, as if the crypt itself had a heartbeat—slow, heavy, and eternal.
Kayla crouched beside a jagged formation of stone, her claws brushing delicately over an inscription, worn and faded by centuries of neglect. Her fingers lingered over the shapes she had carved into the rock so long ago, a mark of her past, a thread she had hoped to sever. The sound of her claws scraping the surface echoed faintly through the cavern, a dissonant hum in the vast, hollow silence.
"This is taking longer than expected," she muttered, her voice low, barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to bounce off the stone walls, amplifying her frustration. "I should've brought help. Maybe then I'd have found this stupid sword by now."
The frustration in her voice barely concealed a deeper, more insidious unease. Her mother had buried her blade here—a blade that had once been a symbol of her own darkness, a promise made to herself. She had swore, with trembling hands, to never again be the instrument of death. That life, steeped in blood and conquest, was supposed to be left behind. But Kayla had returned here, driven by desperation, clawing at the remnants of her former resolve.
"Who wouldn't give up such a creed..." she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "...when their precious child is being eyed like a prize for the taking?"
The cavern around her seemed to grow colder, the jagged stones looming like ancient specters, as her glowing eyes swept the darkness. There was no light, save for the faint glimmer of her breath as it escaped in slow, steady exhalations—each misty cloud illuminating the sharp, uneven edges of the rocks. This place, suffused with centuries of secrets and bloodshed, was as unforgiving as the legacy of her family. A labyrinth of violence and survival, buried deep beneath the kingdom, each step she took drawing her further into the heart of its unyielding grip.
Her mother, Daenarys, had once been a name whispered in fear across the stars, a terror whose very mention sent ripples of dread through entire armies, kingdoms, and worlds. And her grandfather—Balthazar—had been even worse. A force of unrelenting rage and duty, leading their kind through the chaos of the Great Demise and into an age of conquest and blood. They had fought not for greed, but out of survival. The rifts had torn open realms, countless worlds teetering on the brink, and with their old kin wiped from existence, there had been no choice but to take.
World after world had fallen beneath their might—forests reduced to ash, oceans boiled away in their wake, skies blackened with fire. The weight of it hung heavy in the air, the ghosts of those long-dead rising from the darkness.
Kayla's gaze dropped to the ground beneath her, the cold stone pressing into her knees as she crouched low, her claws digging into the rock. "Why did we stop?" she murmured, the question lingering in the stillness, almost pleading. She had asked it countless times as a hatchling, and the answer had always been the same: Balthazar had chosen it.
The family's retreat had been swift, abrupt. After an age of blood and flame, they had withdrawn, settling into a kingdom that was built to last. They had created a sanctuary, a fortress of stone and power. For millions of years, they had held their borders firm, shielding themselves from the storms they had once ignited. And in that peace, they had slept.
But had they slept too long?
A faint tremor rippled through the ground beneath her, a subtle vibration that shot through her limbs like a jolt of electricity. Her eyes snapped open, and in a heartbeat, she stretched her senses through the Weave, the ancient power that pulsed within her, seeking the source of the disturbance. It was nothing. Just the shifting of the crypt's foundation, a reminder that time never stood still. That even here, in the heart of this forgotten place, change was coming. And it was coming fast.
"They're coming for him," Kayla breathed, her voice trembling with a rare crack of emotion. The thought of her infant brother—the helpless, innocent child—caught in the crosshairs of a kingdom's ambition sent a wave of rage flooding through her. They would take him, use him, destroy him. She could feel it in her bones.
The crypt seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing closer as the pressure of the moment built. With a growl of frustration, Kayla slammed her fist against the stone wall, the sound of impact like a thunderclap in the stillness. The stone vibrated under her blow, and a cloud of dust and debris fell from the ceiling, tumbling around her in slow, lazy spirals. Her eyes closed for a moment as she steadied her breath, forcing herself to find her center. Now was not the time for doubt. Now was the time for action.
She turned, her claws digging into the rock once more as she resumed her search. The stone beneath her hand shifted, and she found the hidden compartment, just as she had remembered. The runes she had etched into its surface pulsed softly in response to her presence, faint arcs of light flickering in the air. Slowly, carefully, she pulled away the stone, revealing the hollow space within.
And there it was.
The blade lay before her, untouched by the ravages of time, its dark surface unmarred by the centuries. The edge shimmered faintly in the half-light, as though it were alive, a barely restrained malevolence crackling along its length. The intricate runes etched into its surface hummed with an eerie, unholy energy, a quiet menace that filled the crypt with an oppressive weight.
Kayla hesitated, her hand hovering above the hilt. She could feel the pull of the blade, its call almost too strong to resist. This was the moment she had dreaded—the moment she had hoped would never come.
"Mother will be fine," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. There was no conviction in it, only regret. "She thought I could be better than this. But the world doesn't care about promises."
Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and the blade thrummed to life in her hand, its power surging up her arm like a rush of fire. The water around her seemed to thicken, the very air growing heavier with the weight of her decision. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the faint whispers of the past, the cries of those whose lives had been taken by this weapon. Kayla could almost hear them—murmured voices of the fallen, their pain mingling with the rush of blood in her veins.
The blade's power was overwhelming, but so too was her resolve. With a deep breath, she rose, the sword held at her side, its cold presence a stark contrast to the heat building inside her. The crypt around her seemed to dissolve into the shadows as her focus sharpened. The distant echoes of the past faded, leaving only her purpose.
"Let them come," she said, her voice a steady, icy declaration. There was no hesitation now. No room for doubt.
With the blade in her grasp, she turned and began the long ascent back to the kingdom, the weight heavy on her shoulders, the future uncertain but undeniable. The world would not wait.