Caelum stumbled across the blood-soaked field, the screams of his executioners still echoing in his ears. His hands trembled as they gripped the dark, serrated sword. It pulsed with an otherworldly energy, whispering in a language he couldn't understand. The bodies of the king's guards lay at his feet, their faces twisted in terror. He couldn't remember raising the blade—but he knew it had been him.
"What… what have I done?" Caelum whispered, his voice hoarse.
The voice returned, slithering through his thoughts like smoke. 'You are alive because of me. And you will repay me in kind.'
Caelum tried to release the sword, but his fingers wouldn't obey. It was as if the weapon had fused with him, a parasite feeding on his soul. He staggered away from the battlefield, guilt and fury warring within him. The Radiant Order—his brothers—had abandoned him. And yet, he had spared their lives. He clenched his jaw. If they wanted him dead, they would have to face him again.
The sound of footsteps behind him snapped him from his thoughts. Turning, he saw a group of mercenaries approaching, their faces shadowed under hoods. Their leader, a wiry man with a cruel grin, gestured to the sword.
"Quite the blade you've got there," the man said. "Hand it over, and maybe we'll let you live."
Caelum's instincts screamed at him to run, but the blade seemed to have other ideas. Shadows swirled around his feet, and a sudden, dark rage flared in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he lunged.
The fight was over in seconds. When it ended, the mercenaries lay lifeless, their bodies drained of color as though their very essence had been stolen. Caelum dropped to his knees, horrified. The blade hummed with satisfaction.
'You will come to understand,' the voice whispered. 'This world is cruel. You must be crueler.'