The morning dawned grey and cold.
Mist clung to the mossy trunks as Ruvan, Kellan, and Elion made their way along the forest road. Birds called from distant branches, muted in the damp air. Solrend's broken hilt weighed heavy on Ruvan's back, the pulse of its silent warmth a constant reminder of what he carried.
Kellan led them at a brisk pace, whistling tunelessly. Elion walked behind, silent as ever, his gaze flicking from tree to tree as though measuring every shadow for hidden threats.
They crested a low ridge by midday and found themselves looking down upon a clearing by the roadside. Smoke rose from a small cluster of travellers gathered around a cart. A horse snorted quietly, stamping against flies. At first Ruvan tensed, but Kellan raised a hand.
"Easy," he murmured. "Merchants. And… ah, look there."
A man sat upon an overturned crate, lute resting across his lap. His cloak was a faded tapestry of forest green and gold, patched in half a dozen places. He strummed a few lazy chords as his audience – mostly merchants and guards – lounged around the fire with steaming bowls of thin broth.
"A bard," Elion said softly.
Kellan grinned. "Haven't heard a good road song in weeks. Come on, Ash Hands. You could use some culture."
They approached cautiously. One of the guards, a burly man with a nose broken too many times, eyed them but gave a curt nod.
"Soup's still warm," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the iron pot over the fire.
Kellan dipped his head in thanks. Elion remained standing at the edge of the group, hands hidden within his robes, while Ruvan sat beside Kellan, folding his legs beneath him.
The bard looked up, a smile spreading across his weather-lined face. His beard was streaked with grey, and his fingers moved with careless confidence across the lute's neck.
"New ears," he said warmly. "Then let this old wanderer offer a tale of prophecy and ruin to brighten your day."
He plucked a gentle chord, and the murmurs around the fire fell silent. Even the breeze seemed to hush as his voice rose.
The Song of Ashenwind
"When sun is drowned by devouring dusk,
And mountains weep black flame,
A blade shall rise from forgotten dust,
To carve both death and name.
Born of silence, bound by sin,
The blade that saves is the blade that devours.
Blood of ash, heir of winds,
Your crown shall be the dying hours.
For every life its light redeems,
A thousand shadows wake,
Until the devourer's endless dreams
*Consume the world they break.
So stand, O child of broken thrones,
Stand though no hope remains,
For all that lives and all that groans
Shall whisper last your name."
Silence followed as his final note faded into the mist.
The merchants shifted uncomfortably. One spat into the grass and muttered about bad omens. But Ruvan sat frozen, his breath caught in his throat.
He felt Solrend's hilt pulse once under his cloak, like a heart echoing each syllable.
The blade that saves is the blade that devours.
The bard strummed a lighter chord, forcing a smile. "Well now. Let's not brood on grim fates all day. Any requests, good sirs?"
But Ruvan heard nothing else. The words wrapped around him like chains of smoke, tightening with every breath.
After the Song
They left the clearing soon after. Kellan tossed the bard a silver coin, though his easy smile was dimmer than usual. Elion walked in silence, his brows furrowed.
They followed the road until the sun slanted low, painting the mist with bloody light. At last Kellan spoke.
"Don't take old songs to heart, Ash Hands."
Ruvan didn't answer. His mind replayed each line of the prophecy. A blade that saves is a blade that devours. What did that mean? Was Solrend cursed? Or was it warning him of his own path?
Elion slowed his steps until he walked beside him. "Prophecies are like riddles," he said softly. "They mean nothing until they mean everything."
"That's… not comforting," Ruvan muttered.
Elion gave a faint smile. "It shouldn't be."
Ahead, Kellan paused, squinting down the road. "Smoke. Camp ahead, maybe."
They approached warily, emerging onto a low hill overlooking a ruined farmhouse. Smoke rose from within its collapsed walls. The doors hung open, creaking in the breeze.
Kellan gestured for silence. He drew his sword, slipping into a crouch as he advanced. Elion lifted his staff, faint golden threads spiralling around his fingers.
Ruvan followed, Solrend clutched tight, its broken blade humming with faint cold light.
They moved into the yard. Chickens lay slaughtered on the grass, blood pooled around shattered barrels. Inside, fire crackled in the old hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
Kellan raised a hand, signalling them to stop.
Voices. Low, guttural laughter. The scrape of metal against wood.
Bandits.
Kellan's eyes flicked to Ruvan, then to the side door. He mouthed silently: Flank them.
Ruvan swallowed. His hands shook. His heart thundered so loud he feared they would hear it. But he nodded, moving to the side entrance, stepping lightly over fallen beams.
Inside, three men sat around the fire. Their leathers were patched and stained, swords resting within easy reach. One poked the fire with a rusted spear, sending sparks spiralling into the smoke-dark rafters.
"…said he saw a boy with a broken sword north o' here," one bandit grunted. "Said it glowed like moonlight."
Ruvan froze.
"Probably horse shit," another laughed. "But if it's true… the buyer in Murnhold pays a hundred gold for relic steel. Maybe more."
"Shut up," the spear-wielder growled. "Eat."
Kellan slipped through the main door, silent as shadow. Elion entered behind Ruvan, staff held low, golden sparks dancing along its iron-shod tip.
The bandits never stood a chance.
Kellan lunged forward, blade piercing the throat of the first before he could rise. Elion flicked his staff, golden light slamming into the chest of the second, sending him sprawling against the wall with a dull thud.
The third bandit turned, reaching for his axe – and froze, staring at Solrend's pale glow in Ruvan's shaking hands.
Ruvan hesitated.
The bandit snarled, grabbing his axe and charging.
Move!
Ruvan stepped forward and swung. The blade carved through leather and flesh, humming with a cold, hungry pulse. Blood sprayed across the cracked stone floor. The bandit fell without a word, eyes wide in final shock.
Silence filled the farmhouse, broken only by the hiss of burning logs.
Ruvan stood trembling, staring at the corpse at his feet. The blade's glow faded, leaving only cold steel slick with blood.
He fell to his knees and vomited.
After the Fight
They dragged the bodies outside, burying them in shallow graves behind the barn. Kellan worked silently, his carefree mask gone. Elion stood nearby, staff planted in the earth, eyes distant and unreadable.
When they finished, Kellan clapped dirt from his gloves and looked at Ruvan. "You did what you had to."
Ruvan said nothing. His hands still shook, dried blood flaking from his knuckles.
That night they camped within the ruined farmhouse, blocking the doors with broken beams. Kellan cooked salted rabbit over the fire while Elion tended to Ruvan's scrapes in silence.
After dinner, Kellan drew his sword, gesturing for Ruvan to do the same.
"Come on," he said softly. "Lesson two. You need to swing without thinking."
Ruvan hesitated, but Solrend felt light in his grip tonight. Its hum was softer, like a wolf purring after a fresh kill.
They sparred until the fire burned low and the stars wheeled overhead in silent judgement. When they finally lay down to rest, Ruvan could still hear the bard's voice in the back of his mind.
"The blade that saves is the blade that devours…"
He curled on his side, staring at Solrend's dark hilt beside him. Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was filled with shadows whispering his name.