Chapter 3: The Weight of a Name
The rain stopped. The world held its breath.
Kael stared at Lira's outstretched hand. Her fingers were calloused, her nails cracked. A fighter's hand. A survivor's hand.
He took it.
The moment his skin touched hers, the sword hissed in his mind. "Fool."
Lira pulled him up. Her eyes were gold—like fire caught in smoke.
"You chose dirty," she said. "Good."
They moved through the city's underbelly, where the streets stank of rotting wood, damp stone, and old blood. Kael's arm throbbed. The leather cord around his wrist felt too thin, too breakable.
Lira walked ahead, silent as a shadow, the rhythm of her boots lost in the noise of dripping gutters and distant dogs.
"You never told me your name," Kael said.
She glanced back. "Didn't I?"
"No."
She smirked. "Maybe I like secrets."
The sword whispered, "She's lying. They always lie."
Kael clenched his jaw. Ignored it.
They stopped at a crumbling bridge. Below, black water swallowed the moonlight like ink swallowing stars.
Lira leaned on the stone railing, eyes distant.
"Why'd you steal the sword?"
Kael's throat tightened. "For my sister."
"Lyss."
He flinched. "How do you—?"
"I pay attention." Her voice softened. "Sick?"
"Dying." The word hit like gravel on his tongue.
Lira was quiet for a long time. Then, almost a whisper:
"I had a brother once."
Kael waited, but she said nothing more.
The sword laughed. "She's weak. I can save Lyss. Just say yes."
Kael's hands trembled.
Lira turned to him. "Don't listen."
"It's getting louder."
"I know."
"How do I make it stop?"
She met his eyes. "You don't."
The wind stirred, cold as regret. Somewhere, a child cried.
Kael closed his eyes. "I'm scared."
Lira's voice was rough, but not unkind. "Me too."
And for the first time, the sword had nothing to say.
TO BE CONTINUED...