Days passed as Caelum wandered through the wilderness, haunted by the memory of what he had done. The sword refused to leave his side, and each time he killed—whether out of defense or desperation—it grew stronger. It whispered to him constantly, promising power, vengeance, and purpose.
Near the edge of a desolate village, Caelum encountered Lyra Veylin. She was perched on a crumbling wall, twirling a dagger between her fingers.
"You look like you've been through hell," she said, smirking.
Caelum ignored her and tried to walk past, but Lyra hopped down and blocked his path. "Easy, knight. I'm not here to rob you. Yet." Her eyes flicked to the sword. "Though I might reconsider. That's a nasty piece of work you've got there."
Caelum glared at her, his patience frayed. "Leave me."
Lyra raised her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. But if you're heading into town, you might want to rethink that whole 'brooding loner with a cursed sword' look. People aren't exactly friendly to strangers these days."
Despite himself, Caelum hesitated. Lyra saw her opening and grinned. "Tell you what. I'll show you around, keep you out of trouble. For a price, of course."
"I have nothing to give," Caelum muttered.
Lyra shrugged. "Then consider it a favor. You can owe me later."
Reluctantly, Caelum agreed. As they entered the village, he couldn't shake the feeling that Lyra was more than she appeared.