The Sword Remembers

Evryn stepped into the room behind the closed doors. It felt empty—not just in the physical sense, but as if it had been abandoned and forgotten by time itself.

The air was thick, carrying the scent of dust and damp stone. His boots made soft scuffing sounds as he walked forward, but after a few steps, the ground beneath him changed. The rough, uneven cave floor gave way to something smoother—a path.

Evryn hesitated, glancing down. He couldn't see much—the darkness pressed in from all sides, swallowing any sense of depth or distance. He narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust to the lack of light.

As his vision adapted, shapes began to emerge from the gloom. The stone beneath his feet was smoother than the surrounding cave floor, yet fractured—broken in places, with jagged gaps where pieces had crumbled away. Some areas of the ground had collapsed entirely, revealing glimpses of something beneath, though he couldn't tell how deep it went.

"What the hell is this place?" Evryn muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Even that felt too loud.

He took another careful step, his movements cautious. The room felt big yet small at the same time, as if the walls had once stretched far beyond what he could perceive, only to be crushed inward by time and decay.

As Evryn's eyes adjusted further, he began to make out the outlines of towering pillars scattered around the room. Their presence made the space feel ancient—not just a natural cave, but something once built with purpose.

A palace? The thought surfaced, but he wasn't sure. The place was too ruined, too far gone to tell for certain.

He continued forward, stepping carefully over the uneven ground. As he passed one of the pillars, his fingers brushed against its surface. It was smooth but marked with designs—intricate lines, unfamiliar symbols, and faint grooves worn by time. Some of the carvings felt deliberate, while others were marred by age, cracked and faded beyond recognition.

But none of it mattered—not right now. His priority was finding a way out. Or at the very least, light.

Then, ahead of him, something caught his attention—a faint glow.

It bled from the outline of a hallway, barely visible through the thick darkness. A passage leading somewhere.

Evryn's heartbeat steadied. Finally.

As he closed the distance to the hallway, the dim glow became clearer. Small cracks in the ceiling allowed slivers of sunlight to pierce through, casting faint golden beams onto the ruins below. The shifting dust in the air danced within the light, making the space feel almost frozen in time.

With each step forward, more of the forgotten structure was unveiled.

Past the hallway, the stone path continued—more intact than before, though still fractured in places. The pillars returned, standing in solemn pairs along the sides of the path. Some remained whole, while others were crumbling ruins, their broken pieces scattered across the floor.

But the center of the room caught his attention first.

Four pillars stood apart from the others, encircling a raised platform with two small steps leading up to it. Unlike the others, these pillars were adorned with intricate carvings—lines spiraling upward in elegant patterns.

And now, with the sunlight revealing more details, Evryn could finally make out the symbol etched into them: a pair of wings, unfurled and majestic, with a radiant sun nestled between them.

That looks cool…

For a moment, Evryn couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship. Whoever built this place had put meaning into it. But now, it was nothing more than a ruin, its history lost to time.

No time to get distracted.

Steeling himself, he moved forward, stepping past the platform. Whether this place had once been a temple, a palace, or something else entirely, it didn't matter. He needed to find a way out.

The whispers grew louder with each step, curling around him like invisible tendrils, their voices distorted and indecipherable, but strangely… comforting. They weren't malicious, but their urgency seeped into his bones.

The voices were guiding him. 

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head to clear the mental fog. It felt like the voices were pulling him deeper into the place. Without fully understanding why, he obeyed the impulse, stepping into the next part of the ruins.

The hallway stretched ahead, but as Evryn entered, it felt entirely different from the cavern he had just come from. The air was cooler, and the walls… they weren't the rough, jagged stone of the cave anymore. Instead, they were smooth—polished marble, streaked with age and grime. Where the walls might've once been as white as freshly fallen snow, they had long since turned a dull, yellowed shade, stained by time, dust, and neglect.

It was hard to believe that this space had once been pristine, a place meant for something important. Now, it felt like a forgotten relic.

Evryn hesitated for a moment. Something about the surroundings seemed to hold him captive, like the building itself was waiting for him to make the next move. His fingers brushed the marble, feeling the chill of the stone beneath his touch.

He stepped out of the hallway, and what lay before him left him speechless.

The room was vast, almost like a throne room, its beauty only marred by the passage of time. Had it been restored to its original state, it would have been breathtaking, but even in its dilapidated form, it still held an undeniable grandeur.

The floor was made of smooth stone, though cracked and damaged in places. Scattered around the room were pieces of armor—pierced, broken, or beyond recognition. Swords were strewn across the floor, some lodged into the armor, others discarded haphazardly.

Then, his eyes landed on it.

The moment he saw the sword, the disoriented whispers returned, louder than before, their call growing stronger with every passing second.

The sword was embedded in the ground, partially covered by rubble. The cracks in the ceiling had widened, casting a faint, ethereal light onto the blade, making it appear even more majestic.

As he stepped closer, the whispers became more insistent, urging him forward. It felt as though the sword itself was calling to him, pulling him closer with an irresistible force.

And it was.

As Evryn took another step closer to the sword, the disoriented whispers surged back, louder now, swirling around him in an almost tangible cloud. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the voices faded into silence.

In the stillness, a single voice broke through the quiet, clear and resonant, almost as if it had been waiting for him.

"You found me."

Evryn froze. His heart skipped a beat as the voice echoed in his mind, distinct among the chaos of earlier whispers. It was calm, but there was a weight to it, a finality.

He stood there, processing the words, his mind struggling to catch up with the reality of what he had just heard. The haunting whispers faded away entirely, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

As he looked down at the sword, a strange feeling washed over him. It was as though the sword itself mirrored his own loneliness, it was waiting—waiting for someone to claim it.

Like him.

His hand, almost involuntarily, reached out toward it, fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the hilt.

As Evryn's fingers closed around the hilt, a jolt of purple electric energy surged through his hand, and the moment his grip tightened, an overwhelming rush of pain and fragmented memories flooded his mind.

The pain was blinding, and for a moment, he could hardly breathe. The world around him warped as visions—not his own—began to take shape.

He heard the screams first—raw, desperate cries, punctuated by the sickening sounds of metal slicing through flesh, bodies collapsing to the ground. The echoes of battle rang in his ears as if he were there, in the thick of it, the weight of the sword's past pressing down on him.

Then his vision blurred, but the images came fast and vivid.

The sun, once bright, now burned with a ferocious intensity. Below, soldiers—no, warriors—clashed with each other in a frantic battle, their forms indistinct, lost in the chaos. Evryn could feel the heat of the flames, the desperation in the air. The weight of the conflict was suffocating, each slash and cry tearing at him like the very fabric of his soul.

Ships—massive vessels—plummeted from the sky in burning wreckage, their wreckage falling like rain of fire and steel, leaving nothing but the acrid scent of destruction behind. Screams, cries for mercy, echoes of broken lives filled the air.

And then, above it all, a great golden light tore through the darkened sky, a blinding beacon that consumed everything in its path. The clouds twisted and churned around it, forming a chaotic spiral as the light grew stronger, brighter.

"They have forsaken us!" A voice cried out in horror, filled with anguish and despair.

The golden light descended like a cleansing fire, and in an instant, those beneath it were vaporized, their bodies disintegrating into nothingness. Chunks of torn flesh and severed limbs were flung in every direction as the light blazed across the battlefield. The cries of those it struck were silenced as their very existence was wiped away in a flash.

The vision around Evryn shifted once more, and he was thrust into the chaos of a battlefield unlike anything he had ever imagined. The ground was drenched, thick with rain and mud that sucked at his boots, while the air was filled with the deafening sound of blaster fire. Giant mechanical vehicles, towering over the battlefield, tore through the landscape with terrifying speed, firing relentlessly at the soldiers caught in the crossfire. Each blast left behind craters and debris, sending shockwaves that rattled the very air.

The rain fell in torrents, washing over the chaos below, but the water did little to cleanse the carnage. Instead, it mixed with the blood pooling on the ground, creating rivers of crimson that seemed to flow into the massive holes and craters left behind by the explosions. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh, the screams of those trapped in the inferno reaching Evryn's ears even as the heavens themselves seemed to roar with anger.

He glanced up, his eyes catching the figure soaring above the battlefield. A figure with wings, graceful yet deadly, cutting through the rain-soaked sky. This being was not human, not even close, as they conjured the very essence of the storm itself. With a swift motion, the figure brought their hands together, pulling them apart as crackling grey electricity swirled between their fingers. Evryn watched in awe as the figure cocked their arm back, before launching a bolt of pure, unrelenting power toward the soldiers below.

Boom!

The explosion that followed was catastrophic. The bolt collided with the ground, sending a massive shockwave through the air. The explosion grew outward like a sphere, expanding in every direction, ripping apart the earth and sending soldiers flying. The sound of the blast was deafening, like thunder itself had cracked open the very sky. The force of it was enough to shake the ground beneath Evryn's feet, the shockwaves reverberating through his bones as the battlefield around him was consumed by fire and destruction.

The sky above seemed to crack open with the intensity of the battle, the clouds swirling in a violent spiral around the epicenter of the explosion. As the dust settled and the screams of the dying echoed in his ears, Evryn couldn't help but feel a deep sense of dread. This was no ordinary battle. This was something far greater. The power wielded here was overwhelming, and the cost of it all was beyond comprehension.

The vision around Evryn shifted again, this time plunging him into an even darker, more sorrowful landscape. The sky above was heavy with dark, swirling clouds, reflecting the grief and torment that filled the air. Before him knelt a figure—a man with long, white hair that cascaded over his shoulders like a waterfall of sorrow. His body was pale, gaunt, almost lifeless, as if all the energy had been drained from him. He was on his knees, his hands pressed desperately against the lifeless body of another, a body that rested across his legs, cold and unmoving.

The man's face was a portrait of anguish, tears streaking down his face, mixing with the blood that stained his hands. His eyes were wide with disbelief, but there was a depth of pain there—an unbearable weight that seemed to crush him from the inside out. His sobs echoed through the empty, desolate surroundings, his chest heaving with every breath as he struggled to hold back the torrent of grief that threatened to consume him completely.

With a trembling motion, he lifted his arms to the sky, his mouth opening in a heart-wrenching scream that tore through the silence like a banshee's wail. His voice was raw, broken, and filled with a mixture of anger, sorrow, and desperation, as if he were pleading with the heavens themselves.

"Why have you forsaken me?" he cried out, his voice echoing across the barren wasteland. "I have done as you commanded!"

Evryn could feel the weight of the man's sorrow, the intensity of his pain. It seemed to seep into his very bones, filling him with a hollow sense of despair. The air around them seemed to tremble with the man's grief, the sky itself weeping with him.

The vision shifted once more, pulling Evryn back into the room he had walked into before. But this time, everything was different. The once decayed surroundings were now in better condition, more regal in nature. However, the beauty of the place was tainted by the chaos unfolding around him. The floor was slick with blood, pools of it collecting as bodies fell in every direction. It was as if the room had once been a place of power, now turned into a battlefield of destruction and death.

Evryn's eyes darted around, taking in the horrific scene, but it was the sky that truly caught his attention. Above him, the sky was a deep, unsettling red, streaked with shades of grey. The sun, once a radiant symbol of life, now appeared as if it were dying—its light dimming, as though the very life of the world was being drained away. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and blood, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest.

He glanced down to the ground, and there, at his feet, lay a man—bleeding out, his face twisted in pain and rage. The sword Evryn had just pulled from the ground was still in his hand, and it was buried deep into the man's chest. Blood oozed from the wound, pooling on the floor beneath him. The man's lips trembled as he looked up at Evryn, his eyes filled with fury.

"You are a traitor!" the man spat, his voice ragged, barely a whisper above the chaos. "You have betrayed everyone of the Vallion Empire!"

The words echoed in Evryn's mind, carrying with them the weight of accusation and betrayal. But before he could process what he had just heard, everything around him froze. The sounds of battle, the cries of the dying, even the falling blood—all of it came to an abrupt halt.

Time began to rewind. The blood that had stained the floor began to reverse, flowing back into the bodies of the fallen soldiers. The wounds that had torn through the soldiers' flesh seemed to heal, and the screams turned into whispers of past moments. The chaos unraveled like a twisted, broken film reel, replaying itself in reverse.

Then, everything stopped.

Evryn was back in the present, standing in the same room he had been in just moments before. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, trembling and drenched in sweat. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he had just seen, the overwhelming images flashing before him. The grief, the violence, the accusations—it all hit him with a force he could hardly comprehend.

The weight of it lingered, and he found himself horrified, shaken to his core by the vision of betrayal he had just witnessed.

Evryn's breath was heavy, horrified by the sight, his body trembling as he looked at the sword before him.

His gaze lingered on the blade, its design both beautiful and terrifying. The blade was long, slightly tapered, with the sleek, balanced elegance of a noble weapon—but there was something far darker about it, as if it carried a weight of power beyond comprehension. The deep, dark metal of the blade was subtly veined with glowing streaks, pulsing with faint traces of energy beneath its surface, as though the very essence of the weapon itself was alive.

Along the fuller, two engraved lines ran in parallel, adding a sense of symmetry and precision to its craftsmanship. It was a weapon forged for both beauty and war, a tool of death with a story to tell—one of glory, betrayal, and something even more ancient. The hilt was slightly extended, wrapped in dark, weathered leather, worn smooth by countless hands. The grip was firm, perfect for one who would wield it with purpose. The crossguard curved downward, its shape reminiscent of the wings of a fallen knight, twisted and broken. Time had not been kind to it, leaving the once-ornate carvings at the base of the blade faded and almost unreadable—but even now, they whispered of a history long buried, one of unimaginable power.

The pommel, shaped into a subtle, sharp curve, completed the sword's design, giving it a balanced yet ominous presence. It was not just a weapon—it was a symbol, a weapon of purpose, power, and a legend that had been forgotten by most.

Evryn felt his pulse quicken, the weight of the sword drawing him closer, even as a part of him screamed to run. The power that emanated from it was undeniable, and yet, in that moment, it felt like something far more dangerous than anything he had ever encountered. Something ancient, something buried deep within its steel, waiting to be awakened.