The stars outside Maraak's viewport seemed sharper, their light colder and more distant. Each passing moment carried an unnatural weight, as though the Abyss had reached out, tethering itself to him, warping the fabric of the universe. Despite having survived the trials of the Abyss and torn himself from its clutches, Maraak felt its mark lingering. It was a living wound that was festering with questions that were eating away at his sanity rather than a scar that needed to heal.
The ship's constant stillness accentuated his thoughts. With his gauntleted fingers tapping against the console, Maraak reclined in his chair. He had always thrived on the isolation of the emptiness, but this felt different, more oppressive, less tranquil. He tried closing his eyes and concentrating, but glimpses of the Abyss came back to him: the whispering, the creatures, the emptiness that had threatened to swallow him whole.
He was startled out of his reverie by the flickering console. A feeble, garbled signal cut through the background noise of the ship's systems. Static gave birth to jumbled words that were almost audible above the noise:
"...coordinates… Veilsunder… resurgence… Blood Eternal…"
The blood in Maraak froze. Veilsunder was gone, broken in the Abyss's depths. He had believed that he had permanently silenced the blade's ravenous appetite by destroying it with his own hands. It was a nightmare come true to think that it, or anything like it, might still exist.
He quickly isolated the transmission and figured out where it came from. A set of coordinates leading to a star system that had been long abandoned following the Great Wars was embedded in the static. Even scavengers dared not venture into that barren, lifeless area. He had battled there once, a lifetime ago, so he knew the place well.
He hesitated only briefly before setting his course. The engines roared to life, propelling the ship forward into the endless night.
---
The destination, Arksis-9, hung in the void like a bloodstained orb. The planet's surface was fractured and barren, its red-hued terrain marred by ancient tectonic upheavals and the scars of orbital bombardments from a war long forgotten. Maraak's descent was turbulent, the ship groaning as it fought against the planet's volatile atmosphere. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the jagged surface below.
He landed near the signal's origin, close to the heart of a sprawling ruin. The remains of an ancient civilization loomed in every direction—twisted metal structures and crumbling stone edifices that stretched upward like skeletal fingers clawing at the crimson sky.
Maraak was attacked by the suffocating air as he went outside. It carried the harsh, metallic stench of decay. The screams of dust storms echoed faintly among the ruins as they swirled in the distance. His armor clattered gently as he walked carefully.
The ruins were silent and weird, like if they were watching him. Then, on the breeze, small murmurs started to rise. They were indistinguishable from the sound of shifting rubble at first, and hardly heard. But the whispers became clearer and louder as he went more into the ruins. Many different voices spoke in a language that seemed as ancient as the skies.
He arrived at a huge circular room carved out of the rock that served as the core of the ruins. It had engravings on its walls, glyphs that throbbed dimly with crimson light. An altar, its surface browned as if burned by fire, stood in the middle. Cloaked individuals, their faces hidden by their hoods, knelt in awe around the altar.
A blade hung above the altar, suspended in a glistening field of energy.
Maraak's breath caught. It wasn't Veilsunder, but it was unmistakably kin. The weapon seemed alive, its obsidian surface shifting like liquid shadow. Crimson runes glowed along its edge, their light pulsating in rhythm with the whispers that filled the chamber.
The cultists turned in unison toward him, their hoods dropping back to expose faces that were human-looking but otherwise incorrect. They had pale complexion, elongated features, and eyes that shone with an unnatural brightness.
With a discordant symphony, they intoned, "You return, Blood Reaver." "Just as predicted. The sword is calling to you.
"I destroyed Veilsunder," Maraak snarled, reaching reflexively for his sword's hilt even though he was carrying none. "This, whatever it is, is not mine."
A single figure with elaborate sigils on their clothing advanced. The sound of their speech was a hissing rasp. "No, it's not Veilsunder. However, it is related to it, having been made by the same Abyssal fire. This is the Reclaimer, Nyxbrand. Like Veilsunder, you have been selected to wield it.
Maraak's voice was as hard as iron as he answered, "I refuse." "I've made it out of the Abyss." I refuse to be its pawn once more.
The leader gave a hollow, sour laugh. "Avoidance? Maraak, the Abyss runs in your family. You are its avatar, its vessel. You can't ignore your fate.
The air around the altar shimmered violently, and the cultists rose. Shadows coalesced around them, forming writhing tendrils that lashed out like living whips. Maraak's instincts took over. Unarmed but far from defenseless, he moved with deadly precision, dodging the tendrils and striking at the cultists with his fists and armored boots. The shadows appeared to keep growing even though every strike was accurate and every motion was planned.
The leader chanted in the Abyssal language while raising their hands. At the middle of the room, the shadows came together to form a huge vortex. A terrible figure—a towering combination of flesh and shadow, its form ever-changing, its roar a clamor of anguish and rage—rose from its swirling depths.
Maraak tightened his jaw. In order to counter the creature's terrible might, he required a weapon. He looked at Nyxbrand, who was still hovering over the altar. He felt sick to his stomach at the idea of using another Abyssal blade, but there was nothing else he could do.
Dodging the creature's enormous arms as they slammed about him, he ran for the altar. He paused only a heartbeat before reaching for the blade and clutching its hilt.
He felt a rush of energy that was overwhelming and primal as soon as his fingers closed around it. His head was filled with Nyxbrand's murmurs, a sensual chorus that discussed destiny, power, and retribution.
It growled, in a strange yet personal voice, "You are mine now." "We are one."
Maraak lifted Nyxbrand high and looked to the beast. The power of the blade matched his own, intensifying it to a degree he had never encountered. He struck the beast, the blade easily slicing into its dark body. With every blow, energy rippled through the chamber, further unsettling the beast.
As their bond with the beast was broken, the cultists let out a cry. They fell, one by one, their bodies turning to ash. The chamber was silent again as the beast gave a final roar before tumbling into oblivion.
Nyxbrand's weight was heavy in Maraak's hand as he stood amid the debris. The whispering of the blade had ceased, but its presence persisted, a stifling power that seemed to merge with his spirit.
With a tone that seemed almost loving, it whispered, "You've taken the first step." "We will reshape the galaxy together."
Maraak clinched his jaw and sheathed the blade. For years, he had resisted Veilsunder, but Nyxbrand's draw was distinct—more subtle and seductive. It would take all his resolve to prevent it from devouring him.
As he returned to his ship, the road ahead felt like an endless storm. The Abyss, the Blood Eternal, and the cursed blades were all entangled, like threads in a black tapestry that stretched over the cosmos.
Maraak had a realistic view of the battles that lay ahead. The storm was gathering, and he was in the center of it. For now, however, he moved forward, motivated not by the whispering of the Abyss but by his own unflinching resolve.