Dance of blades and blood

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Forty-five: 45

The chamber was vast and circular, carved deep into the heart of Flamepeak. Stone torches lit with silver fire flared to life as Varos stepped fully into the room. Every breath echoed. Every heartbeat felt like thunder. The walls were covered in etchings of battles long past, of kings crowned and dethroned, of blood oaths sworn under moonlight.

Draven stood tall, the sword Memory strapped to his back, its presence humming in his soul like a song both ancient and terrible.

Kael muttered behind him, "This one feels different. Older. He's not like the others."

"He's not," Morgha whispered. "He's been waiting."

Varos drew his blade in a smooth motion. Its steel was black, tinged with the red of dried blood, and veins of dark moonstone ran through its length. "This is Vesper," he said calmly, "Forged from the dying breath of the first traitor. It drinks the light."

He stepped into a duelist's stance.

Draven unsheathed Memory. The silver blade shimmered, the air around it warping slightly. "And this remembers every drop it spills."

Their blades touched.

And the room exploded with sound.

Varos was faster than expected—faster than anyone Draven had faced. Each strike came like lightning, with precision and brutal strength. Draven blocked, spun, ducked—but still, Varos pressed forward, never breaking rhythm. It was not a battle of strength. It was a dance.

The Dance of Blades and Blood, whispered about in old tomes. The rite of Moonblood warriors past, where memory and destiny clashed in steel.

Kael and Morgha stayed back, weapons drawn, but the force between the two fighters was too dangerous to step into. It was personal now.

"Why do you protect the curse?" Draven asked, gritting his teeth as their swords locked.

"I do not protect it," Varos answered, voice like stone scraping ice. "I protect the truth. You seek to break what you do not understand."

"I understand more than you think!" Draven roared, forcing Varos back. "I carry the blood. I've seen the past. I know the cost."

"Then you know that freedom is not free."

Varos vanished—and reappeared behind him. Draven turned just in time to block. Sparks flew. The ground cracked beneath their feet.

And then, the memories struck.

Every time Draven's blade touched Varos's, visions poured into him:

A girl, crying beside her brother, torn from her family.

A child king raised on prophecy and paranoia.

A thousand executions beneath a moonlit sky.

And then… himself. Alone. In the forest. Screaming.

Draven staggered.

"Memory is a gift," Varos said, circling him. "But it is also a burden. Can you carry the weight of every soul this blade has judged?"

Draven breathed hard. "Yes."

He raised Memory—not just as a weapon, but as a banner. "I fight for the ones you forgot. For the ones you silenced."

Their swords clashed again.

This time, Draven fought not with fury, but with purpose. Each strike told a story. Each step echoed with the cries of the fallen. The blade sang in his hands—silver light against the black moonsteel.

Then, he saw the opening.

A feint.

A twist.

And a final cut.

Varos fell to one knee, blood dripping from his side.

But he smiled.

"You… are worthy."

Draven held his blade steady. "Then yield."

Varos dropped Vesper, the cursed sword clanging against the stone. "The blade has chosen. So shall I."

With a heavy breath, he looked up. "At the end of the tunnel lies the Mirror of the First Moon. Your blood will awaken it. But be warned—what you see may break you."

"I've already been broken," Draven said quietly. "Now I rebuild."

They left Varos behind, alive but bowed. Not defeated, but passed.

The tunnel beyond was darker than the rest, lined with silver veins that pulsed with each step Draven took. Kael walked beside him, silent for once. Morgha's hand rested on her blade, alert, watchful.

Draven looked down at Memory.

The blade was quiet now.

But it would remember this day.

And so would he.