The Necessary Preparations

The thing didn’t look like much. Just a cylinder, really.

Polished metal, yes. Whispering with a kind of old world authority, sure. But not sharp. Not blazing. Not even a tiny bit threatening.

Which, considering it was intended as a defense against a horde of vampiric overlords and who knows what else with delusions of godhood.

It felt like a letdown.

But I suppose that was the trick.

Our enemy built his empire on sharpness. On thrones and blades and the ability to kill what he couldn’t own, or at the very least make them so miserable they’d off themselves. He taught the world to bow before the loudest voice and heaviest boot.

And here I was.

Me, Lydia.

Standing on the ruined rise, clutching a glorified antique cylinder that hummed like it was going to shatter when I breathed too loudly. Thank you, lessons in silence.

“I was expecting something more… more stabby,” I muttered, turning the relic over in my hand to examine it further.

The groom, who still hadn’t given me his real name because of mystery, offered a half smile.

“That’s because you haven’t spun it yet,” he said. Eyeing the tumbler with an appraising look.

“Ah, yes. Of course. Spin the magic metal. Obviously." I cast a scathing glance his way. “Then what? Heavens open? Trumpet blasts? Maybe a precise meteor strike?”

“Not quite,” he said. "It's different for every bearer."

“Oh, good. More cryptic answers," I said.

I wrapped my fingers around the golden base and gave it a tentative spin in my palm. At first, the movement was clumsy. Awkward. Like trying to dance with a broom. But then-

Then it caught.

And then the air changed, charged with an indescribable power. Everything went still, as if the world had stopped.

A single soft golden thread spilled from the tip, floating midair.

Another letdown?

Not quite. Memory in motion. A whisper woven into silk. Images bloomed in my mind. My mother’s laugh. The smell of a campfire. The taste of honey. The first time I saw the power of the ocean slashing against the shore. But then it went deeper.

A person on the battlefield, using this very artifact to stop a war with a single strike. Another binding a corrupted one and jettisoning them into space as punishment.

One who died with it clutched in her hands, smiling—a life filled with joy.

And then –

Someone young. Earnest. Desperate. At the groom’s side.

Wait. Hold up.

I turned to face him, my voice as quiet as a blade slid from its sheath. "You watched him burn the world."

A shudder ran through me. "You did nothing. You let him rot everything he touched inside and out." I continued. "All because of what?

His lips parted in protest.

I raised the thread-bound weapon between us before he could speak. It vibrated like it sensed treachery in the room.

“Lydia-“

“Don’t ‘Lydia’ me. Not after what you let him become," I said.

"I didn't know-" His gaze dropped.

"You knew," I snapped. "Don't insult my intelligence."

"I thought – “ He looked away. “I thought he could be reclaimed. If I kept him close, he would come back to himself.”

"No." I stepped forward, boots crunching against old stone. "You feared what he'd do if you stopped him. You let ambition guide your mercy. You let the kingdom rot because you couldn't stomach being the villain in your brother's story."

He didn't answer.

"Your silence is its own confession."

The thread between us buzzed louder now, angry, like it hungered for restitution or revenge. Like the anger I felt in my heart toward him.

“He drinks the marrow of gods and calls it justice. He debases humans for fun. Humans like me." I paced.

His voice showed no trace of familial emotion. "He's a threat to everything now."

"Convenient," I said. "He's a monster once your power is at risk. “He’s your burden,” I said.

“No,” he said softly. “He’s yours.”

“Oh, I see how it is." I stepped in, close enough for him to feel my presence. "Fobbing the family fubar off on the outsider. Ridding yourself of your cursed legacy on a girl you can't even say you adequately trained."

I tilted the weapon. It buzzed, or whimpered. "This thing- It's broken, just like your bloodline.

I let the silence stretch, then said with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Take me back. I want to speak with the weapons master. If I'm expected to clean up your mess, I'll need something that doesn't hum like your guilty conscience."

We woke at daybreak. The first test came shortly after. A threadbreaker known for his depravity, once a loyal guardian of the Southern Archive, now little more than a memory leech wrapped in armour and bitterness, stood between us and the path.

He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t have to. The moment our boots hit the shadow of the Southern pass, the ground pulsed just beneath the surface—a warning.

Our opponent stepped out from a rip in the fog, steel plates creaking, helmet catching the first cruel light of morning. A banner fluttered nearby, its sigil eaten away.

I reached for the relic and shook it with force. “Work you useless piece of crap!” It fizzled, as if it knew what the words meant.

I gripped the piece more solidly this time. The intensity of the hum increased, its heat rising in my hand. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, an inscription upon a tomb sprang to mind.

The Dusk Oath.

Many nights, I contemplated this verse—an oath to the light. I hadn’t grasped its meaning before this moment. My mouth opened, and I began to carve sound into words.

“I do not beg the sun, nor borrow its mercy.

I invoke fire with an open hand. Ash with every beat of my heart.

Let the light of day know me as one of its own.

The night must remember it cannot keep what it stole.

By blood given free, by flame hidden, I blind this light to my breath, with wrath as my aim, guided by glory much greater than my own.

I am the edge of dawn, the last warmth the damned shall know.

I name you, weapon of judgment – Mavis, who sings before the sun.

So long as shadow dares to rise.

You will burn with holy fire.

And I will not flinch.”

Mavis began to hum with approval and started spinning.

My travelling partner's eyes grew wide as a branding of gold swept up my forearm.