The silence in the Archives was suffocating. Eldric's eyes were fixed on the blood-red word—"Godslayer"—while Seraphine's revelation hung in the air like a blade poised to fall.
"A soul?" Karis's voice was a low growl. "Whose soul?"
Seraphine's fingers trembled as she traced the ancient script. "The text isn't clear, but… it suggests the soul must belong to someone bound by fate, someone who has touched the divine." Her eyes flickered to Eldric, guilt shadowing her gaze. "Someone like you."
Eldric's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep reading. The diagrams on the pages detailed a ritual—one that would draw upon the essence of a soul to forge a blade capable of severing even divine bonds. The power was immense, but the cost was undeniable.
Karis slammed her fist against a nearby pillar, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone. "There's no way in hell we're sacrificing you, Eldric. We'll find another way."
Seraphine hesitated, her voice pained but firm. "There might not be another way. If we can't fight the gods directly, this might be our only chance."
Eldric closed the tome, his eyes cold and steely. "We're not making any sacrifices. Not yet."
Karis's glare softened, but her hands still trembled. "Good. Because if you try to throw yourself into some heroic last stand, I'll drag you back myself."
A faint smile touched Eldric's lips, but the weight in his chest remained. "I'll hold you to that."
---
The Whispering Dead
They moved deeper into the Archives, each step heavy with the weight of what they'd learned. Ancient murals stretched along the walls, depicting battles against the gods—heroes wielding weapons of flame and shadow, striking down divine beings whose eyes glowed with a cold, pitiless light.
But it was the last mural that stopped Eldric in his tracks. It showed a warrior, cloaked in darkness, driving a blade through the heart of a god whose face was obscured. The god's blood fell like fire, searing the earth. At the warrior's feet lay countless bodies—friends, allies, innocents—all caught in the flames.
"The Godslayer," Seraphine whispered. "It wasn't just a weapon. It was a curse."
Eldric's eyes narrowed. "A curse?"
She pointed to the inscription below. "It says the Godslayer was forged in betrayal—that the warrior who wielded it lost everything in the end. His own soul consumed by the power he'd claimed."
Karis scoffed. "Great. So our best hope is a cursed sword that turns its wielder into a monster. Perfect."
Eldric ran a hand over the cold stone, his mind racing. "If the gods feared it, then it's still a weapon. We just need to control it."
"Assuming we can even find it," Seraphine replied. "And assuming it hasn't already claimed its next victim."
A chill swept through the hall, and the torches lining the walls flickered as if in warning. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and from the darkness ahead came a low, rumbling growl.
Karis drew her blades in an instant. "Tell me that's just the wind."
But the growl rose to a roar, and a figure stepped into the torchlight—no, not one, but many. Warriors in ancient armor, eyes hollow and glowing with an eerie light, their movements stiff and unnatural. Their flesh was half-rotted, their armor caked with dust, but their blades gleamed with an unholy fire.
"The guardians of the Archives," Seraphine breathed, her voice tight with fear. "Souls bound to protect the secrets here… even in death."
Eldric's grip tightened on his sword. "We don't have time for this."
---
The Guardians' Wrath
The dead moved as one, rushing forward with a chilling silence. Blades clashed, sparks lighting the darkness. Eldric's movements were instinctive, his blade a blur of steel as he parried and struck, but for every guardian that fell, two more took its place.
Karis fought at his side, her blades flashing with lethal precision. "I'm starting to see why no one's come back from this place!" she yelled, cutting down a guardian whose eyes glowed with cold malice.
Seraphine stood back, weaving spells that flared in bursts of ice and shadow, slowing the dead but never stopping them. Her eyes were wide with panic. "They're bound to the Archive! We need to find the source—their anchor!"
Eldric sliced through a guardian's neck, the body crumbling to dust even as another lunged. "Any idea where that might be?"
Seraphine hesitated, then her eyes flickered to a massive door at the end of the hall, carved with the same runes as the entrance. "There. The heart of the Archive. If the source exists, it'll be there."
"Then we cut a path," Eldric growled.
They fought their way forward, every step a battle. The dead seemed endless, their eyes glowing with the cold fire of divine wrath, but Eldric pushed on, his mind fixed on the door and the answers it might hold.
When they finally reached it, Karis all but kicked the door open, her breaths ragged. Inside, the chamber was vast and dark, lit only by the eerie glow of crystals set into the walls. At its center stood a pedestal, upon which lay a blade—long and dark, its edge shimmering with a crimson light.
The Godslayer.
---
A Choice in Blood
Eldric approached cautiously, the weight of the room pressing down on him. The blade seemed to hum, a low resonance that thrummed through the air and set his teeth on edge. Runes glowed faintly along its length, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Karis crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. "That thing just screams bad news."
Seraphine bit her lip. "It's the only way. If we can claim it, we might stand a chance."
Eldric stared at the blade, the chill in the air settling into his bones. The mural's warning echoed in his mind—a curse. But what choice did he have? Without it, the rebellion would be crushed. The gods would reclaim everything.
His hand closed around the hilt. Power surged through him—cold and burning, darkness and fire entwined. Memories that weren't his own flashed behind his eyes—wars fought in shadows, gods slain by mortal hands, a throne of ash and blood.
Pain lanced through him, and he staggered back, nearly dropping the blade. Karis caught his arm, her eyes wide with concern. "Eldric!"
"I'm… fine," he managed, though the power still roiled beneath his skin, wild and hungry. "We have what we came for. Now let's get out of here."
But even as he spoke, the air darkened, and the ground trembled. The door to the Archive chamber slammed shut with a thunderous crash, trapping them inside.
From the shadows, a voice echoed—cold, mocking, divine.
"You think you can wield that power, mortal?" it sneered. "The Godslayer is not a weapon for men. It is a shackle—a promise of what awaits those who defy us."
Eldric's eyes narrowed. "Then come down here and prove it."
A laugh, dark and echoing. "In time, little flame. In time."