Mireya couldn't help but think that Daelviaha knew more than she was saying. The old witch's hesitation wasn't fear—it was something deeper, something more entrenched than her words.
Days went by, and Mireya came back to Daelviaha's hut, set on discovering the truth. The air was thick with the dry scent of herbs and smoke, and the very faint hiss of a dying fire crackled through the air.
"I have to learn more about the blade," Mireya stated bluntly.
Daelviaha sighed heavily. "I told you—it's lost."
"But you know something about it," Mireya pressed. "Please. If there's any possibility it's real, I must find it."
Daelviaha was silent for a long time. Then, very slowly, she spoke.
Daelviaha conceded. "My ancestors made it centuries ago—forged of accursed iron, tempered in witch's blood, and sealed with runes so potent that no shadow could endure its blow."
Mireya frowned. "Accursed iron?"
"It wasn't always cursed," Daelviaha explained. "The iron fell from the sky, cold and dark as night. When the shadows neared it, they burned. My family thought it was a gift—a sword that was sent to battle the evil. They hammered it into a blade and quenched it with their own blood, so that only the witches would ever be able to wield it."
"Where do we find it?" Mireya insisted.
Daelviaha's face hardened. "My family kept the blade hidden, passing its location down through generations. But by the time the knowledge reached me..." She paused, her voice faltering. "All that remains is a riddle. A riddle I've spent years trying to solve."
Mireya's breath caught. "What does it say?"
Daelviaha hesitated, then recited the words as though they had been carved into her mind:
Beneath the sky's reflection cold and wide,
Where light won't reach and shadows hide,
The lost and fallen's tears in silence flow,
The blade lies waiting, deep below.
"I've searched for years," Daelviaha continued. "I followed every clue I could find, but nothing fit. I gave up hope long ago."
"You gave up because you were scared," Mireya challenged. "You didn't want to face whatever you found."
Daelviaha's eyes darkened. "I gave up because I lost him." Her voice wavered. "Vohrer... I fought for his soul, freed him from the shadow that claimed him. But it cost me him, my world, the person I swore I'd protect with my life. After that, I swore I'd never face the shadows again. I couldn't bear to lose anyone else."
Mireya knelt beside her. "I won't let anyone else die because of Uhrin and the shadows. If the blade is real, I have to find it." Her gaze hardened. "And I will."
Daelviaha reached out, grasping Mireya's hand tightly. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't do this alone."
Mireya squeezed her hand in return. "I promise." But something gnawed at her, a lingering sense that Daelviaha was still holding something back. "Is there more to the riddle?" Mireya pressed.
Daelviaha exhaled heavily, her gaze distant. "There is," she admitted. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she recited the forgotten verse:
The blade seeks no death, yet two must stand,
One whose blood sealed iron by hand,
One etched with the monster's seal,
And only their song will have the iron reveal.
"It doesn't demand a life," Daelviaha added quietly, "but it demands something just as rare."
"But... you bore no children," Mireya said, realization dawning. "That means after you, no one could ever summon it."
Daelviaha nodded grimly. "Unless fate has other plans."