A blade named memory

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Forty-four: 44

The light faded, leaving silence in its wake.

The tomb was in ruins—walls cracked, pillars shattered, and Moonborn bodies strewn like fallen statues. Smoke curled around Draven's shoulders as he staggered forward, breath ragged. The silver fire still flickered faintly in his eyes, and the ring on his finger pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Kael was on one knee, coughing. "Whatever that was... don't ever do it near me again."

Draven looked down at his hands. "I didn't control it. It controlled me."

Morgha leaned against a cracked wall, her arm bleeding but steady. "You held it back. That matters."

They moved carefully through the broken tomb, each step echoing the memory of what had just occurred. At the far end of the chamber, behind the dais, a hidden passage had opened—a tunnel veiled in shadow, where even the silver light dared not linger.

Kael eyed it with suspicion. "What now?"

Draven stepped closer. "We keep going."

The tunnel descended deep into the roots of Flamepeak. Here, the rock walls were covered in symbols that shimmered faintly when Draven passed. Old Arodanian—records of rituals, names of kings long erased from memory, and prayers carved in the tongue of the first sorcerers.

And then… a sword.

It floated in the air at the tunnel's heart, untouched by time. Its blade was pure silver, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. Around it swirled thin strands of light—memories, drifting like smoke.

Morgha inhaled sharply. "That's not just a weapon. That's a legacy."

Draven stepped forward, feeling its presence draw toward him like a tide. His blood responded before his mind did. As his fingers brushed the hilt, the memories rushed into him like floodwater.

He saw a boy, weeping in the rain beside a burning village.

He saw a warrior, kneeling before a silver pool, whispering forbidden words to a moon-shaped idol.

He saw a king, crowned in silence, ruling a kingdom terrified of his own power.

Then he saw himself—Draven—facing the same throne, but with eyes that refused to bend.

He gasped as he gripped the blade.

Its name burned into his mind: Memory.

"What did you see?" Kael asked.

"Everything," Draven said. "The first Moonblood… the rise of Arodan… the cost of this curse. It was always about the blade. This sword doesn't just cut—it remembers. It carries the weight of the bloodline."

Morgha nodded slowly. "Then carry it well."

As Draven strapped the blade to his back, the air shifted. From the mouth of the tunnel came footsteps—slow, heavy, deliberate.

A man entered, cloaked in black, wearing armor marked with the crescent of the moon. His eyes were pale silver, and his voice was as cold as the tombs.

"Draven of Arodan. You've awakened the blade. Now you must face its keeper."

"Who are you?" Kael asked, drawing his weapon.

The man unsheathed a sword that hummed with dark power. "I am Varos. The Warden of the Forgotten. The last guardian of the curse."

Draven stepped forward, Memory pulsing at his back. "Then come. Let's remember together."