The morning sun cast a warm glow over the Crimson Vow's room, yet a heavy silence hung between them.
Lyra stood at the edge, her back to her companions, feeling their gazes on her.
"You're really going alone?" Iris, the group's healer, asked, crossing her arms.
"I move faster that way," Lyra replied, adjusting her cloak. "I need answers."
"And if you find them?" Gaius, their tank, leaned against his axe, studying her.
Lyra's grip tightened around her dagger.
"Then we'll know what kind of monster we're truly following."
None of them could argue with that.
Leon was unpredictable. He had always been different from the past heroes—but his blade was something else entirely.
A sword that shouldn't exist.
She needed to know why.
With one last nod, she turned, her body sinking into the shadows as she vanished—heading for the archives in Solmaria.
Days passed, and Lyra found nothing.
The libraries of Solmaria were vast, filled with the tales of summoned heroes, their battles, their victories.
But there was no mention of weapons appearing during summoning's.
Not Leon's.
Not anyone's.
It was as if the truth had been erased.
That left her with only one option.
Eldoria.
The kingdom that had summoned Leon.
The kingdom ruled by King Edric.
The throne room of Eldoria was as grand as it was cold.
Golden chandeliers illuminated polished marble, and banners of the summoner's crest lined the walls.
At the head of the chamber sat King Edric—his gaze sharp, calculating.
He had been expecting her.
"I should have you executed for entering my palace uninvited," the king said, his voice calm.
Lyra knelt before him, unfazed.
"But you won't."
A smirk ghosted his lips. "No, I won't."
He leaned forward, hands clasped.
"You wish to know about Leon's sword."
Lyra met his gaze, unwavering.
"Tell me everything."
King Edric exhaled, as if this was a conversation he had expected to have for some time.
"The blade appeared with him," he admitted. "An anomaly, yes—but not unheard of."
Lyra's breath caught. "You mean this has happened before?"
The king nodded.
"Out of the hundreds of heroes we have summoned across the ages, only seven have arrived with weapons of their own."
Lyra felt a chill crawl down her spine.
Seven—including Leon.
"And what happened to them?" she asked.
The king's expression didn't change.
"They fulfilled their roles."
Lyra's fingers twitched toward her dagger.
"You mean they died."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Yes."
"Leon is a weapon," King Edric continued, standing from his throne. "And I will use him until there is nothing left to use."
His golden eyes locked onto Lyra's.
"If you and your Crimson Vow stand in my way, you will suffer the same fate as the others."
Lyra's jaw clenched, but she refused to show weakness.
Instead, she took a step forward.
"You're playing with fire, Your Majesty." Her voice was quiet but deadly.
King Edric raised an eyebrow.
"Leon is not like the others," she continued. "You keep pushing him, and one day, he will turn on you."
The king smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
"If that day comes," he said, "then I will put him down myself."
Lyra stared at him, searching for any sign of doubt.
She found none.
A king who viewed heroes as disposable tools.
A hero who would not allow himself to be used.
This was going to end in blood.
With one last glance, Lyra disappeared into the shadows.
Her search would continue.
But now—
She knew what she was looking for.
* * * * *
The dim torchlight flickered against the stone walls of the hidden archive.
Dust filled the air, the scent of old parchment and forgotten history settling deep into Lyra's lungs.
She turned the brittle pages of the leather-bound diary with care. The ink was faded, but the words…
They were clear.
"To be summoned is to be bound."
"We are called heroes, but we are merely weapons in another's hands."
"I have walked beside three others who wielded weapons not of this world, just as I do. We were not chosen for our strength but for our nature—our weapons chose us as much as we chose them."
Lyra's heart pounded.
One of the Seven.
Leon is one of them.
She kept reading.
"The others are different, but we share something in common. Our weapons are a part of us. They reflect us. They whisper to us. And sometimes, they consume us."
"There was the knight who wielded a greatsword that shone like a star, his pride as sharp as his blade. There was the rogue whose daggers could cut through dimensions, his lust for power making him see threats where there were none. The archer whose bow struck without needing sight, for she trusted only in herself."
"And then, there was me."
"I wield a scythe, bathed in a violet glow. It feeds on envy, just as I do. Envy for those who live free, envy for those who were never slaves to another's call."
Lyra froze.
A violet glow.
A scythe.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the next page.
Her mind reeled, flashes of a battle from the recent war playing in her memory.
A woman clad in darkness.
Eyes burning with violet hatred.
A scythe cutting through flesh like paper.
Cassandra.
Lyra swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep reading.
"I will not let this fate claim me."
"The others do not see it, but we are meant for something more. We were not given these weapons to be thrown away like disposable tools."
"I will find a way out."
"Even if it means—"
The words ended.
Lyra flipped the page—
Torn.
The last pages had been ripped away.
Her breath came shallow, the weight of the diary heavier in her hands than it should have been.
What had happened to this hero?
Had she escaped?
Or had she been silenced?
And more importantly—
Was Cassandra her?
Lyra pressed her lips together, gripping the diary tighter.
She had more questions than answers.
But one thing was certain.
This wasn't just about Leon anymore.
The past was coming back to life.
* * * * *
The royal archives of Eldoria were supposed to be untouchable. A place where history was recorded, not rewritten.
Yet as Lyra moved through the rows of dusty tomes and brittle scrolls, she found nothing.
No records. No books. No names.
The past had been erased.
She ran her fingers along the empty shelves, the absence of knowledge more chilling than any battlefield.
"How is this possible?" she muttered.
The Six should have been legends, yet it was as if they had never existed.
Except for the diary.
The one thing they had failed to destroy.
Her mind raced. If the weapons were tied to their wielders—if they reflected their emotions, their essence—then that meant…
Leon's blade was a reflection of himself.
And that was terrifying.
Lyra clenched her fists.
She needed to leave.
She needed to tell the Crimson Vow.
She turned toward the exit—
And that's when she heard it.
A whisper of movement.
Then—
Pain.
A sharp sting in her stomach.
Her body froze.
Her breath hitched as warmth spilled down her abdomen.
She looked down—
A dagger.
Beneath her ribs. Buried deep.
When? How?!
She staggered, her vision warping. The walls twisted, the bookshelves seemed to bend.
Her knees buckled, and she coughed.
Blood.
Her head felt heavy, clouded.
Poison?
Her fingers fumbled at the wound, but her strength was fading.
Footsteps approached.
A shadow loomed.
Lyra's gaze flickered upward, her vision darkening, but she saw it—
A figure cloaked in darkness.
And in its grasp—
Torn pages.
Pages detailing the other six weapons.
Pages that should not exist.
And at the bottom of the stack—
A sketch.
Of a girl.
With horns.
With a violet scythe.
With Cassandra's eyes.
Lyra's lips parted, but no sound came.
Her vision flickered, her breath shallowing as warmth trickled from the wound in her stomach.
She could barely keep her eyes open, but the shadow loomed closer.
It moved like mist, silent, fluid—yet its presence was suffocating.
A voice, smooth as silk yet cold as death, echoed around her.
"You should have just stayed in the dark like everyone else."
Lyra tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, sluggish.
Poison.
She could feel it burning through her veins, stealing what little strength she had left.
The figure stopped just before her, tilting its head in amusement.
"It's always the curious ones that get themselves killed first."
She glared up at it, swallowing the blood pooling in her throat.
The shadow laughed softly.
"But… maybe I should commend you."
It lifted the stolen pages, letting them fan out between its fingers.
"You found more than you were supposed to. That's an achievement, at least."
The words were laced with mockery, but beneath them was something else.
Something calculating.
It knelt before her, just enough for her fading vision to make out its featureless mask—a void in the shape of a face.
"You're getting in the way of the Demon Lord's fun, you know."
A chilling chuckle.
"That's a dangerous thing to do."
Lyra's fingers twitched toward her weapon.
But before she could even touch the hilt, a blade pressed against her throat.
Sharp. Cold. Unseen.
Her breath hitched.
The shadow leaned in, its voice a whisper of silk and malice.
"But I suppose I can spare you."
Lyra's blurred gaze flickered upward in shock.
The shadow's presence shifted, something akin to amusement radiating from it.
"You might prove useful later… entertainment, perhaps."
It chuckled again, standing to its full height.
"Survive, if you can."
And then—darkness swallowed it whole.
Gone.
Leaving only silence.
And Lyra, bleeding out on the archive floor.
The shadow was gone.
But its words lingered, wrapping around her like invisible chains.
"Survive, if you can."
A challenge. A mockery. A sentence.
Blood pooled beneath her, the warmth slowly fading as her body trembled.
She was dying.
Lyra clenched her teeth.
She would not die here.
Not in the depths of this cursed archive.
Not as a nameless corpse, forgotten beneath shelves of erased history.
Her fingers twitched, reaching for her wound.
The dagger was still there.
A jagged, cruel blade embedded deep in her side.
She could feel the venom in her veins, eating away at her strength.
Lyra exhaled, forcing herself to move.
Every breath burned, but she bit down the pain.
One inch.
Then another.
Her vision blurred. The room spun.
Her body screamed at her to stop—
But stopping meant death.
Her trembling fingers brushed against the dagger's hilt.
She knew what she had to do.
Rip it out.
Her stomach twisted. She wasn't sure if she'd survive the blood loss, but leaving it in would be worse.
Lyra sucked in a breath.
Then—she pulled.
A choked gasp escaped her lips as a fresh wave of agony ripped through her.
The blade came free.
And with it—more blood.
She bit back a scream, forcing herself onto her side, pressing a shaking hand to the wound.
She had to stop the bleeding.
She had to move.
The poison was still coursing through her veins, but she had little time before it took hold completely.
She forced herself to her knees.
Then—she crawled.
The door to the archive felt miles away.
She dragged herself forward, leaving streaks of red in her wake.
Her breath was shallow, her vision darkening at the edges.
She could hear something—footsteps.
Was it coming back?
Her heart pounded.
No.
She couldn't fight like this.
She could barely breathe.
She reached for her magic—but nothing came.
Her strength was draining fast.
Too fast.
Her fingers dug into the cold stone floor.
She clenched her jaw.
Move.
One more inch.
She would not die here.
She could see the light of the hallway now, flickering in the distance.
Just a little further.
Her body was failing her.
Her limbs were numb.
But she was close—so close.
With the last of her strength, she reached out—
And collapsed through the doorway.
The cold air hit her like a wave, but she barely felt it.
She was shaking, barely conscious, her breath a broken gasp.
Her vision swam—
Then, in the haze of pain and exhaustion—
She saw movement.
A figure.
Then—darkness.