Chapter Twenty-Six · The Blade of the Dead

That morning, a thin veil of silver mist hung over the Citadel.

Lyra stood beside her horse in the yard, with a piece of the map in her hand.

The silk stirred in the wind.

She remembered what the High Lord had said when he gave it to her:

“Now I understand why you earned Gemariel’s trust.”

Her grip tightened on the silk.

He had kept this piece locked away for fifty years.

Now he had placed it in her hands.

She wouldn’t forget that.

Caelor crossed the yard toward her, holding out a small pouch.

“For your wounds. The healer said you should take these.”

Lyra opened it. Small glass vials rested inside, each sealed with wax.

“Thank you.”

A gust swept through the yard, snapping Caelor’s cloak behind him.

He hesitated, then asked,

“You’ll come back… won’t you?”

The earnestness in his face caught her off guard.

She smiled, just a little.

“For Igsvar’s sake… you should focus on becoming a ruler worth following.”

Caelor stilled.

She saw the words land.

Lyra stepped into the stirrup and swung onto the horse.

The white stallion tossed its head, stamping its newly shod hooves against the stone.

The gates of the Citadel began to open.

She gathered the reins and spurred forward. The horse shot through the gate.

Caelor remained where he stood. After a moment, he reached into his sleeve and drew out the strip of cloth he had used to bandage her.

He still didn’t know who she was.

His father had said nothing about her.

But he would get stronger.

One day, he would find her again.

High above, on the Citadel balcony, the High Lord watched her go.

Thrudor blood. Strong from the start.

No wonder even an alliance with Aurelion hadn’t been enough.

He stroked his beard, thoughtful.

“A new generation is rising. And a new order will follow.”

Lyra’s horse carried her far from the Citadel.

Out on the open plains, a sudden downpour swept in, soaking her to the shoulders. She didn’t feel the cold.

Sun, wind, rain—none of it slowed her. The horse kept running.

She had left the palace that night, with only the cry of an owl echoing through the forest.

No power.

No allies. No attendants.

She hadn’t even known where to begin searching for the map fragments.

But things were different now.

She had two pieces of the map, and the favor of Gemariel and Igsvar.

It was enough to keep her moving.

One day soon, she would reclaim her magic.

She would.

Her soaked hair clung to her back, whipping in the wind.

Through the rain, she murmured,

“Father… Mother… Obewich… wait for me.”

The horse kept running until the rain finally stopped.

Her clothes slowly dried against her skin.

The sun broke through the clouds.

The white horse surged across the rain-soaked fields, heading for the small house by Bramor’s forge.

Smoke curled into view beyond a line of low trees.

A familiar sound rang out.

Clang.

Clang.

The steady rhythm of hammer on steel echoed through the valley.

Lyra pulled the reins, slowing the horse.

Sion was hanging laundry when she spotted her, then dropped everything.

“Lyra!”

She ran toward her, nearly slipping in the wet grass.

“I thought something happened to you…”

Her eyes glistened for a brief moment, then she threw her arms around the horse’s neck.

Lyra couldn’t help laughing. Sion carried a little sunlight with her, always finding the quietest corners of Lyra’s heart.

Sion pressed her cheek against the horse’s mane.

“Thank goodness… you’re both okay.”

Then she froze.

Her gaze dropped to the bag at Lyra’s side.

“What is that…?”

Lyra opened it.

The Emberheart lay in her palm, its deep red light washing over her face.

Sion’s mouth fell open.

“Wow…”

The hammering from the forge fell silent.

A moment later, Bramor stepped out, his gaze dropping at once to the bandages wrapped around Lyra’s hands.

“You’re back. Good.”

Lyra swung down from the saddle and held out the Emberheart.

Then she pulled a leather letter from her bag.

“The High Lord of Igsvar asked me to give you this.”

“High Lord Torvak?”

He let out a quiet breath. “It’s been a long time.”

Bramor grabbed the cloth at his waist and wiped the soot from his hands before taking the letter.

He read it in silence, then folded it with care.

His eyes returned to Lyra, but when he spoke, the words seemed meant for someone else.

“I’ll do everything I can.”

Then he turned and went back inside.

Lyra glanced around.

“Where’s Orin?”

“Out selling pots and pans,” Sion said.

Then, brightening, she added with unmistakable pride,

“I’ve been cooking for everyone. And I even learned how to polish them.”

The earnest look on her face almost made Lyra laugh, but she caught herself and forced her expression into something more serious.

Sion kept talking, spilling one story after another about the days Lyra had been gone, her words tumbling over one another without pause.

While the two girls talked, Bramor called from the doorway,

“Inside.”

Sion turned, then suddenly froze.

“Oh no.”

She looked at the pile of clothes on the ground.

“They’re all dirty!”

She rushed to gather them up.

Lyra stepped into the house. Firelight burned steadily, holding the room in a quiet glow.

Bramor crossed to an old wooden cabinet set against the wall.

He unlocked it with a heavy key and pulled out a long wooden box.

His rough hand brushed the dust from its lid.

The moment he set it on the table, Lyra felt her heartbeat quicken.

Something was inside.

Bramor opened the lid.

A cold light flashed.

An ancient sword lay inside. A green gemstone was set in the hilt, its color slowly deepening toward wine-red.

A faint black haze coiled around the blade, moving slowly like smoke.

A chill ran down Lyra’s spine.

“What is that…?”

Bramor studied the sword for a long moment.

“A legendary blade.”

“Fifty years ago, High Lord Aurelion and High Lord Torvak brought me rare metal and asked me to forge a weapon that could stand against Aethrador.”

Lyra stilled. Her grandfather’s name seemed to hang in the air.

“So that’s how it began…” she murmured.

Bramor gestured toward the black haze drifting along the blade.

“What you’re seeing is their resentment.”

His voice lowered.

“Thousands of warriors fell to this blade in the great war.”

The room fell silent. Bramor continued.

“I will forge a new blade for you from its steel. But I cannot promise it will hold.”

“Why not?” Lyra asked, unable to hide the tension in her voice.

“The resentment runs too deep. When it returns to the fire, the spirits may tear it apart.”

He reached toward the blade, and the dark haze curled around his wrist, tightening.

He flicked his hand, shaking it loose.

Lyra’s gaze remained fixed on the sword.

“Is there a way to cleanse it?”

Bramor was silent for a moment.

“Three drops of your blood on the blade.”

He looked at her.

“If the resentment fades, it means the fallen have chosen you.”

She had survived. She had brought the Emberheart back.

But survival was not the same as being chosen.

Bramor had tested her courage.

The High Lord of Igsvar had tested her will.

The rest was not hers to decide.

Lyra stared at the blade.

The decision would be made by the dead.

And she had no way to speak to them.