The Sword That Remembers

The road to Daggerfall Monastery wound through a forest so silent it seemed the trees were holding their breath. Callan rode alone, his sword sheathed across his back, a simple pack at his side. He'd left Lyra and the others with little explanation—just a note and the promise he'd return before duskfall in three days.

He needed answers.

The cult wasn't just back. It was after him.

The spell the caster used—that flicker of ash when she vanished—it was identical to the technique once wielded by the Twelve Black Priors of the Hellmarch.

And all twelve had died by his hand.

Or so he thought.

The monastery was mostly ruins now, half-swallowed by ivy and earth. Stones tumbled like bones. What had once been an academy of divine martial arts was now a crumbling husk haunted by memories.

Callan stepped through the cracked archway that once bore the name Order of the Ember Star. He felt the weight of silence settle over him.

And beneath it…

Whispers.

The sword vibrated on his back.

He drew it slowly, the sound of steel like a prayer in the quiet.

"I don't remember calling for you," said a voice.

Callan turned.

A man stood on the edge of a broken pillar, hands stuffed in his robes, hair in disarray. Thin spectacles perched on his nose, and a string of silver charms jingled at his belt.

"Ren," Callan said.

"Still brooding, I see." Ren hopped down, his boots crunching on old gravel. "I thought you were pretending to be retired?"

Callan sheathed the blade. "I was."

"Well, you're terrible at it. You're trending again. Entire forest's talking about a demon-slayer who threw fire back into a mage's face."

Callan frowned. "You heard about that?"

"I felt it." Ren tapped his chest. "Every time you swing that thing, it echoes through the Veil."

Callan looked around. "Why are you here?"

Ren's expression darkened. "Same reason as you. This place is whispering."

Callan's eyes narrowed. "They've returned, haven't they?"

Ren nodded slowly. "Not all. But something wearing their skin."

He stepped over to an altar stone and swept off a layer of dust. Beneath, charred symbols glowed faintly—demonic runes, twisted and jagged.

"This wasn't here last month."

Callan clenched his jaw.

"Someone's reactivating the old paths," Ren continued. "Trying to reopen the gates sealed during the Final Severance. They're targeting former warzones. Sites of blood and memory. This monastery saw both."

Callan's grip tightened on his sword. "And now Brimholt."

Ren studied him. "They're baiting you. Why?"

Callan didn't answer.

"Callan." Ren's voice softened. "You said you burned the Book of Ten Names. That you shattered it."

"I did."

"Then why does your sword still sing when they whisper it?"

Callan said nothing for a long time.

Then: "Because it remembers."

He unsheathed the sword again and held it to the light.

The glyphs along the blade shimmered faintly—names he'd buried, etched in blood and fire.

Ren moved closer, lowering his voice. "You didn't destroy the book. You bound it, didn't you?"

Callan nodded once.

Ren stepped back. "You absolute lunatic."

"It was the only way. Burning it would've unleashed the names into the world. Binding them gave me control—"

Ren cut in. "No, Callan. It gave them a door."

A wind passed through the ruins, cold and sharp.

Callan sheathed the blade. "They've found the door."

As they exited the monastery grounds, Ren handed him a scroll marked with the sigil of the Exorcist's Guild.

"I've been tracking movement near the Hollow Depths. Ritual circles, disappearances. I can't be in two places at once."

Callan unrolled the map. The cult's sigils were marked in black. His own path traced in red.

The lines were converging.

At Dawnmere.

A fortress long-abandoned, once a bastion of the Empire.

Callan looked up. "They're not just baiting me. They're preparing for something."

Ren nodded grimly. "Something old. And angry."

Meanwhile, back in Brimholt, Lyra sat alone in the chapel, surrounded by candlelight. She traced a healing sigil in the air—absently, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

She kept seeing Callan's eyes when he fought.

Calm.

Dead.

Like the man she once knew was wearing a mask.

A knock echoed on the door.

Mireille stepped in, armor removed, cloak damp from mist.

"You knew who he was all along," she said.

Lyra nodded. "And I know what he's not anymore."

Mireille folded her arms. "You trust him?"

"No," Lyra said. "But I trust that he hates the things that want to burn this world more than he hates himself."

They sat in silence.

The next night, as Callan and Ren set camp beneath the whispering pine trees, Callan asked:

"Do you still hear them?"

Ren poked the fire. "The dead?"

Callan nodded.

Ren didn't answer for a while.

Then he said, "Only when I try to sleep."

Callan stared into the flames.

"They scream, sometimes," he murmured. "Names. Places. A battlefield I don't remember."

Ren looked over. "That's not memory. That's a curse."

Callan didn't blink. "What if I deserve it?"

Ren sighed. "If you think that, then you haven't changed as much as I thought."

He stood and walked to his tent.

As he left, he said over his shoulder, "Deserving it doesn't mean you let it win."

Callan sat by the fire alone, the sword lying in his lap like a slumbering beast.

He whispered a single name into the flames.

And the fire flickered… in answer.