Solrend’s Call

The deeper Ruvan walked into the forest, the more the world seemed to change around him.

The trees grew taller and thicker, their twisted roots coiling over each other like sleeping serpents. The air turned heavy, saturated with mist that clung to his skin and hair. Strange blue-white mushrooms lit his path, casting ghostly glows that made shadows dance across the gnarled trunks.

The broken sword pulsed faintly on his back, a steady thrum that echoed in his bones.

He didn't know how long he walked. His wound ached with each step, and dizziness clouded his mind. But something pulled him forward, a force he could neither name nor resist. It was like the blade whispered silent commands into his soul, and his feet obeyed.

Eventually, the mist cleared, revealing a massive hollow in the earth.

He froze at its edge.

The hollow was lined with black stone, carved with spiralling runes that glowed faint silver in the darkness. At its centre rose a wide platform covered in broken pillars and shattered statues. Stone steps led up to a raised dais, and upon it rested a sword unlike any he had ever seen.

The blade was planted upright in the stone, tall and slender, its steel a deep obsidian black that flickered with veins of molten gold running down its centre. The hilt was shaped like outstretched wings, and a single large sapphire sat embedded in the pommel, glowing with an inner flame.

Just looking at it made Ruvan's chest tighten.

This was no ordinary sword. It was beautiful, ancient, and terrifying all at once. Power radiated from it in waves, making the air ripple around the dais. The broken blade on his back pulsed in response, faster and faster, as if it recognised what lay before him.

"Solrend…" he whispered.

He didn't know how he knew the name. It wasn't something Marrick had mentioned in his tavern tales. But the word bloomed in his mind with absolute certainty.

Solrend. The sword that burned the world.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the hollow, scattering dead leaves across the stone. The broken statues seemed to watch him with sightless eyes. His heart thundered in his chest. Every instinct screamed for him to run.

Instead, his feet moved forward.

Step by step, he climbed the cracked stone stairs. The pulsing in the broken blade reached a fever pitch, vibrating so hard it rattled his teeth. His fingers trembled as he reached out towards Solrend.

The closer his hand came, the warmer the air felt. Sparks of golden light flickered around the blade, licking across his skin without burning.

Tears welled in his eyes.

Is this power… or madness?

His fingers brushed the hilt.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then the world exploded.

A blast of searing heat surged through his arm, slamming into his chest with the force of a hammer blow. His vision went white. The air filled with a deafening roar, like ten thousand fires igniting at once. The broken blade on his back screamed in his mind, the sound so piercing he thought his skull would split.

He tried to let go, but his hand wouldn't obey. It felt welded to the sword, fused by unseen force.

Flashes of images burned through his mind:

A blazing sun falling from the sky. Armies reduced to ash with a single swing. A figure clad in silver and black armour wielding Solrend as rivers of molten earth swallowed entire cities.

He screamed, but no sound left his throat.

Then the heat intensified, as if the sword recognised him – and rejected him. Flames erupted around his arm, engulfing his flesh in golden fire. Pain beyond anything he had ever felt tore through him, stripping away thought, memory, and identity.

In those moments, there was only agony.

And then darkness.

His knees buckled. His vision collapsed inward as the world vanished in a roar of rushing blood. The last thing he felt was his hand falling away from the hilt as his body crumpled to the cold stone floor.

The pulsing stopped.

Silence reclaimed the hollow, broken only by the faint crackling of Solrend's golden flames as they faded back into the sword.

Ruvan lay still at its base, unconscious. His chest rose and fell shallowly, smoke curling up from his burned forearm. The broken blade across his back flickered with weak silver light, its pulsing slowed to a feeble thrum, as if exhausted by what had just happened.

Above him, Solrend stood unchanged, embedded in stone, flames flickering gently along its obsidian edge. Its sapphire pulsed once, then dimmed, returning to silent slumber.

And in the stillness, shadows gathered among the broken pillars, watching the boy with ash-stained hands.