The sea murmured against the shore, a lullaby of salt and stars.
In the heart of the coastal village, Elira sat beside a roaring fire, her cloak drawn close, the Weeping Blade across her lap. The flames danced in her eyes, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the children gathered around her. Their eyes were wide with wonder, the kind only stories could summon.
And tonight, she told the one that mattered most.
"His name was Caelen," she began, her voice steady, though grief still shaped its edges. "He walked the world with a curse that let him feel all of it—your sorrow, your fear, your tears. Not to burden you. But to carry it… so you wouldn't have to."
The wind tugged at her hair. Somewhere behind the clouds, the moon watched.
"And he did it," she continued. "Not because it was fair. Not because it was easy. But because he believed in kindness. In you."
The Weeping Blade glowed gently, each pulse in time with her words. The children leaned closer, their breath fogging in the chill air.
A small girl, her hair braided with shells, reached out. Her fingers brushed the blade's hilt.
"Did it hurt him?" she asked.
Elira paused. The fire crackled between them.
"Every day," she said, voice low. "But he said it was worth it. Just to see a child smile."
The girl smiled. The others did too. And for a moment, the curse's weight in Elira's chest eased—lightened by laughter, by the warmth of memory. But as the children were led off to sleep, their dreams kindled by heroism, an elder stepped from the shadows.
Her eyes were ancient and troubled.
"Elira," the woman said. "There's a child. Newborn. Doesn't cry. Doesn't blink at pain. The mother says he's calm. I say… he's wrong. Others are changing too. It's spreading."
Elira's breath caught.
The curse stirred—not grief, not fear, but absence. A numbness too familiar. A hollow echo.
"Take me to him," she said.
The cradle was small, tucked in a sun-bleached room overlooking the sea. The baby slept, his face serene—too serene. Elira leaned in, her hand hovering. The Weeping Blade pulsed once, faintly.
She reached with the curse.
Nothing.
No pain. No fear. No spark.
Only void.
"It's him," she whispered, her voice breaking. "The echo. Eredan-Mir's seed… it survived."
She stepped outside, the surf roaring in her ears. The stars spun overhead, merciless in their silence. And there, at the edge of the world, Elira sank to her knees, the blade resting beside her.
"Caelen… I need you."
Her tears fell, hot against the salt wind. "I don't know if I'm enough. I don't know if I can do this without you."
But the wind answered.
A breath, soft and sure.
You're never alone, Elira.
Tell my story. It's enough.
She closed her eyes. Breathed in the promise.
Then she rose.
Back to the village. Back to the fight.
She gathered the people—elders, farmers, children—and told Caelen's tale again. Not as a legend, but as a warning. As a shield. As a flame in the dark. The Weeping Blade shone brighter with every word, the curse no longer a burden, but a compass.
And the people listened.
Because a story told in firelight can become a revolution.
And in Elira's voice, Caelen lived again.