chapter 18

Veyra moved first.

A blur of red and iron. No warning, no posturing—just velocity. Her blade shrieked as it split the air. Kael dove to the left, rolling behind a cracked pillar smeared with old sigils. Her strike hit the stone full-force. It didn't chip.

It evaporated.

Dust clouded the room.

Kael came up coughing, Knife already in hand.

"She's not testing reflex," the Knife muttered. "She's testing will. If you fold early, she ends it."

"Good," Kael said, backing away. "I was worried this was a date."

Kael's body seized for half a second.

A sharp pull—not pain, but pressure. Like his blood wanted to walk out of him.

Kael gritted his teeth and shoved the pressure down, lunging forward.

He didn't aim for Veyra.

He aimed for the ground—where half-buried relics lay scattered, forgotten beneath the dust and dried gore. A broken glaive haft. A cracked battle horn. A bloodstained medallion shaped like a serpent biting its own tail.

Kael slid behind the nearest artifact and touched it.

The memory hit instantly.

"We followed her into the Fire Plain. We bled for her. Died for her. Then she left us. Left me."

Kael's grin sharpened.

"She knows you, doesn't she?"

The relic pulsed.

Kael reached into his coat, found a binding sigil—weak, unranked, usually used to glue minor charms together. He slapped it onto the relic and whispered, "General Kael. Temporary command. Stand."

The glaive haft twitched.

Veyra halted mid-charge.

Her eyes locked on the object in Kael's hand.

"What are you doing."

"Having a conversation," he said. "Like you asked."

He raised the haft.

The dust in the room shifted again—this time not toward Veyra, but away from her. A faint hum started to build in the air. Low. Old.

The Knife vibrated with energy. "Relic attuned. You flipped one of hers."

Kael twirled the half-weapon experimentally. "She really should've cleaned up after her wars."

Veyra's smile returned—but this time, it didn't reach her eyes.

"Fine," she said.

Then she lunged again.