The village was a hollow shell of its former self. Buildings lay in ruins, and the people who remained eyed Caelum and Lyra with suspicion. Whispers of disappearances and dark rituals filled the air, and Caelum's unease grew with each step.
At the center of the village stood a decrepit temple, its once-grand spires now crumbling. Lyra led Caelum inside, where they found signs of recent activity—candles still burning, and symbols etched into the stone floor.
"What is this place?" Caelum asked, his voice low.
Lyra knelt to examine the symbols. "Cultists," she said grimly. "They've been popping up everywhere lately. Worshiping some ancient warlord or something. Word is, they're looking for artifacts of power." Her gaze shifted to the sword. "Sound familiar?"
Before Caelum could respond, the air grew cold. Shadows gathered at the edges of the room, coalescing into figures cloaked in darkness. The cultists emerged, their leader stepping forward with a sickly grin.
"Welcome, chosen one," the leader said, his eyes fixed on Caelum. "The Shadowforge Blade has returned to its rightful master."
Caelum's grip tightened on the sword. "I'm no one's master," he said, his voice hard.
The leader chuckled. "Oh, but you are. The blade has chosen you, just as it chose the Shadow King before you. Embrace your destiny, and together we will remake this broken world."
Lyra slipped her dagger from her belt, her eyes narrowing. "I don't think he's interested."
The leader raised his hands, and the shadows surged. "Then you will die."