The weight of *Devil's Edge* was almost unbearable now, but it wasn't just physical. The further I walked, the more it pressed on my thoughts, whispering things I didn't want to hear. It's been days since I left the village, and each day felt longer than the last. I thought I could resist the sword's pull, but it was getting harder. There were moments when I felt like I could just *give in*. Let the power it promised take over.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
The forest was still, the towering trees above blocking out what little light remained as the day faded. The thick canopy had a way of making everything seem distant, muffled. Every sound—my footsteps, the rustling of leaves—seemed out of place. It wasn't just the sword making me uneasy anymore. I felt like something was watching me.
I set up camp in a small clearing just as night fell, starting a fire with some dried wood I found along the way. The warmth was comforting, but it did little to ease the tension that had been building since the moment I touched *Devil's Edge*. I could feel the sword pulsing behind me, like it was *alive*, its presence an almost constant whisper in my mind.
"You could be stronger... You could stop running."
I clenched my fists, trying to drown out the voice. No matter what I did, it always came back, just at the edge of my thoughts. I'd never felt anything like this before. It was terrifying—and yet, there was something so *tempting* about it. The power it promised... I shook my head, standing up abruptly, pacing around the fire.
That's when I heard it.
A soft rustling from the trees just beyond the firelight. My heart jumped. I wasn't alone.
I reached for the hilt of *Devil's Edge*, but stopped myself. The sword was practically begging me to draw it, to embrace its power and cut down whatever was lurking in the dark. But I couldn't—there was something inside me, something that told me I wasn't ready. Not yet.
And then, from the shadows, a figure stepped into the light.
It was Fynn. His slight frame, pale and almost ethereal in the firelight, made him look like he belonged more to the forest than the village we'd both left behind. His soft features were framed by messy, shoulder-length hair, and his usual playful smirk faltered as he stepped closer to the fire. He had followed me. Of course he had.
"Marco... you've been hard to find." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
I didn't know what to say. Fynn had always been different. Playful, teasing, always with a smile that made me feel things I couldn't explain. But there was something about the way he looked at me now—like he was worried. His eyes lingered on the sword strapped to my back, and I could feel his concern, even if he didn't say anything.
"I didn't ask you to follow me," I said, though my voice lacked any real bite.
He took a step closer, his eyes softening. "I know... but you didn't have to."
There was a strange tension between us, one that had always been there, but now it felt heavier. I had always noticed the way Fynn looked at me, the way his teasing always felt like something more. But now, with *Devil's Edge* between us, it felt like everything had shifted.
"I... I couldn't just let you leave like that," Fynn said, almost nervously. His usual confidence was gone. He was biting his lip, glancing away for a moment before looking back at me. "You don't have to do this alone, Marco."
Something in the way he said my name made my chest tighten. I looked away, focusing on the fire, trying to ignore the warmth rising in my face.
"I don't want you involved," I muttered. "This... this sword, it's dangerous."
"I don't care." Fynn stepped closer, his hand brushing mine as he sat beside me. The touch sent a shock through me, and I froze. "You don't have to do this by yourself."
The fire crackled between us, but it felt like the air was thick with unspoken words. Fynn was closer now, close enough that I could feel his warmth, his presence. I didn't want to admit it, but I was glad he was here. Even if I didn't know how to say it.
His gaze softened, and I caught him staring at me—at the scar on my cheek from that night in the cave, at the tension in my shoulders. There was something deeper in his eyes, something I'd seen before but had never been able to confront.
"Marco," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames. His hand, delicate but sure, rested on my arm. "I'm not leaving you."
I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. The sword's whisper grew louder in my mind, urging me to push him away, to keep him safe. But a different voice inside—one much quieter—was telling me something else.
Maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to carry this weight alone.