THE BLADEBORN'S ECHO
The Sealed Library wasn't part of the Pavilion's main archives. It lay buried beneath the western chapel — accessible only through a corridor that glowed faintly with runes etched in ancient Tenrian dialect.
Deus followed a silent escort: a robed Keeper with no name, no voice, and eyes hidden behind silver-threaded cloth. He didn't speak. He only walked.
The air grew colder with every step.
Deus felt the pulse of Antrar even before the doors opened.
They were humming.
The doors creaked back, revealing a narrow hall lit by floating crystals. Rows of blackstone shelves curved like ribcages. Dust coated every surface, but nothing looked forgotten.
Only forbidden.
Deus was led to a pedestal at the far end. Upon it rested a single book — bound in serpent-skin, sealed with a rune that broke the moment he touched it.
The Chronicles of the Bladeborn.
He flipped the pages slowly.
And the story unfolded.
A boy — nameless — born during the Collapse Wars. Sickly, like Fred. Mocked. Alone.
Until the day he found the twin blades buried in snow.
He wielded them without training. Without intent.
And they answered.
He became legend.
He carved battlefields into memory.
He brought peace. Then order.
Then silence.
Then war again.
Not because he was corrupted.
Because he believed too much in his right to decide what should live and die.
The blades fed on that clarity.
And when he died, no one cried.
Not even the blades.
Deus closed the book.
He didn't move for a long time.
Then — from the shadow behind a pillar — came a voice.
"You see it, don't you?"
Deus didn't turn.
Kairen stepped into the light. "That story. It's not just history."
"It's foreshadowing," Deus said.
"Do you believe it?"
Deus looked down at his hands.
Felt the echoes of steel even when they were empty.
"Yes."
Kairen stepped closer. "So what now?"
Deus replied softly:
"Now I make sure I write the ending."
Later – Deus's Tower
He placed the book beside his blades.
Antrar pulsed once.
A low, quiet hum.
He placed a hand on each hilt.
This time, there was no resistance.
Only acceptance.
And a whisper.
Not from the blades.
From somewhere deeper.
You were always meant to find us.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
The first one thought he was chosen. He wasn't. He was hungry. The blades don't bond with virtue. They bond with certainty. The difference? Time.
He paused.
Then added:
And I'm not running out of that yet.