Cryptic Warnings

Ruvan's fingers tightened around the bronze pendant long after Marrick had disappeared into Iron Hold's morning crowds. The flame carved into its surface bit coldly into his palm. Each breath he drew felt shallow, rattling against the iron bands of fear tightening around his chest.

Kellan nudged him with an elbow. "You look like you just saw your own funeral pyre."

"Shut up, Kellan," Elion said sharply, for once without humour. He stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Ruvan's shoulder. "What did he tell you?"

Ruvan's voice felt scraped raw when he finally spoke. "That I carry a blade forged to seal away something that should never wake."

He glanced down at the cloth-wrapped shape hidden beneath his cloak. Even now, he could feel Solrend's silent pulse thrumming through the leather bindings and into his bones.

"He said… the devourer will consume everything when the seal fails. And I…" His voice cracked. "I'm supposed to stop it. Somehow."

Kellan let out a long, low whistle. "Well, I suppose that explains why every lunatic cultist and shadow-dweller is sniffing after us. Wonderful."

Ruvan didn't smile. He felt as if he stood upon a crumbling cliff edge, staring down into a chasm with no bottom. The pendant felt impossibly heavy in his fist.

⸻

They left the quiet courtyard, returning to the main market square where the morning crowd had thickened into a jostling, chaotic sea of bodies. Children darted between stalls, clutching baskets of bread rolls to sell. Street preachers shouted warnings of divine punishment while guards in flame-etched armour watched with bored indifference.

Ruvan moved silently beside Elion and Kellan, Marrick's words echoing in his mind with each step.

The sword feeds as much as it protects. Beware the price.

What price? His life? His soul? His humanity?

Or… worse?

He thought of the Silent King's voice in his dreams. The weariness. The grief. The chains.

All must burn before life begins.

A cold shiver travelled down his spine despite the press of sweating bodies around him.

⸻

They stopped at a shaded alcove near a row of pottery stalls. Kellan propped himself against a cracked pillar, scanning the crowd with wary eyes.

"So," he drawled. "We're carrying a sword that could save the world or end it. Do we even know how to use it?"

"No," Ruvan admitted.

Kellan snorted. "Excellent. That's exactly the sort of confidence I needed today."

Elion ignored him, facing Ruvan with quiet intensity. "Marrick gave you more than fear, didn't he? I saw his face. There was sadness, yes, but also hope."

Ruvan hesitated. Then he unclenched his fist, revealing the bronze pendant resting in his palm. Its carved flame gleamed faintly in the morning light, shadows dancing within its grooves.

"He said it belonged to the first Flamebound," Ruvan whispered. "That it might bring courage… or remind me what courage costs."

Kellan peered at it, unimpressed. "Looks like a trinket an old drunk would pawn for ale."

But Elion shook his head. "Symbols matter. Even small ones. Especially when you're standing against shadows large enough to swallow the sky."

He reached out and closed Ruvan's fingers over the pendant again, squeezing his hand.

"Keep it close," he said softly. "Let it remind you who you are, not just what you carry."

Ruvan swallowed hard. For a brief, flickering moment, he felt warmth bloom in his chest through the numbness. A small ember, but enough to keep his steps moving forward.

⸻

They moved on, weaving through narrow alleys thick with refuse and flies. A woman sat on the ground clutching a coughing infant to her chest. Beggars whispered curses at them from beneath lice-ridden blankets. Above, banners bearing Lord Maeven's sigil – a crowned flame devouring a serpent – snapped in the smoky breeze.

At a small stone shrine wedged between two merchant houses, Ruvan paused. The shrine was worn nearly smooth by decades of wind and ash, but faint runic carvings still glimmered in its base. Offerings of dried flowers, tarnished coins, and burnt rosemary stems lay at its foot.

He knelt, ignoring Kellan's scoff, and pressed the bronze pendant to the cold stone.

"Please," he whispered, though he wasn't sure to whom he prayed. "Help me understand. Help me carry this."

The runes remained silent.

But deep in his mind, a voice stirred. Ancient. Malevolent. Whispering from beyond the veil.

You wish to carry me? Foolish boy. I will carry you. Until nothing remains.

His eyes snapped open, breath ragged. Elion was kneeling beside him, concern etched into his gentle features.

"What did you hear?" the healer asked quietly.

Ruvan shook his head, unable to speak.

⸻

That night, they took shelter in a derelict warehouse near Iron Hold's southern gate. The stone walls were cracked with age, and the roof let in the pale glow of moonlight through shattered tiles. Rats skittered across mouldering crates stacked like tombstones.

Kellan kept watch near the doorway, cleaning his sword with methodical strokes. Elion sat with his back to a pillar, eyes closed in quiet meditation.

Ruvan lay staring at Solrend beside him. Its cloth wrapping shifted slightly, as if moved by a breath of invisible wind. He reached out, fingers trembling, and grasped the hilt.

The world blurred around him. Shadows thickened. In the silence, he heard the echo of chains rattling across stone floors. The scent of blood and burnt bone rose around him like a suffocating fog.

Then, the Silent King's voice rumbled through the void.

You cling to hope like a dying man clings to air. But you will learn – hope feeds the devourer as surely as despair. Only sacrifice binds it. Only blood seals the gate.

Ruvan's chest tightened. "What sacrifice?" he whispered. "Whose blood?"

The Silent King's laughter was hollow, devoid of mirth.

Yours. The world's. It matters not. The sword feeds as much as it protects. Beware the price, heir of ash.

⸻

He woke to Elion shaking his shoulder, dawn breaking cold and colourless over Iron Hold's distant rooftops. Kellan kicked over an empty barrel to rouse the rats and grunted for them to get moving.

But Ruvan moved as if in a dream.

Marrick's warning rang through his bones with every step they took towards whatever fate awaited them:

The sword feeds as much as it protects.

Beware the price.

And in the silent depths of his mind, Solrend pulsed softly – a hunger that felt far too close to his own.