The last flicker of fire had just burned to ashes by the time Aethon stirred. The ghost of yesterday's incident still lingered in the air, a whisper just beyond hearing. He flexed his fingers around the Reaper's Fang, the metal colder than the morning frost gathering on the dead grass.
The sword had given him a gift—and taken something in return. He could feel it,He wasn't sure what yet.
Aethon stood, his joints protesting from the cold and the long night spent unmoving. The horizon bled pink and gold as the sun clawed its way over the jagged teeth of the mountains. He shouldered his pack, the weight of it familiar, and stared at the path ahead—a narrow trail winding through the skeletal remains of a long-dead forest.
The sword hummed against his hip. Not a whisper, not a command. Just… acknowledgment.
It had tested him. And he had resisted.
That should have felt like victory.
The forest gave way to rocky foothills by midday. Aethon's breath fogged in the crisp air as he climbed, his boots slipping on loose stone. The higher he went, the more the wind howled, carrying with it the scent of snow and something else—smoke.
Not campfire smoke. Thick. Cloying. The kind that came from burning homes.
Aethon crested the ridge and froze.
The valley below was a graveyard.
Blackened timbers jutted from the earth like broken ribs. The remains of a village—small, maybe a dozen buildings—lay in ruins. Figures moved among the wreckage, picking through the debris. Survivors.
The Reaper's Fang pulsed against his thigh.
No.
Aethon clenched his jaw. The sword wanted him to descend. To offer his blade to their grief, their rage. To let their pain feed its hunger.
He turned away.
Night found him in the shadow of an ancient watchtower, its stones worn smooth by centuries of wind. Aethon built no fire, ate no meal. He sat with his back against the cold stone and watched the stars blink to life one by one. His life has been on the line since the begining of the journey, death was always on his back, most times closer than his shadows.
The sword whispered now, its voice a serpent curling around his thoughts.
You could have helped them.
Aethon closed his eyes,gripping his head, as if trying to force the thoughts out of his head
You could have given them vengeance.
He knew what the sword meant. Knew the price of that gift. for every wisps of power that the gained, blood was the price, not his blood mostimes, but bloods of people, though they are enemies, aiming to kill him,but they are human, and he knew that survival brought the beast in people.
You will break eventually.
Aethon's fingers found the hilt, not to draw it, but to trace the worn leather wrapping.
"Maybe," he murmured. "But not today."
The wind swallowed his words. The stars did not answer.
And the sword, for once, fell silent.
The trail led him downward, out of the mountains and into the rolling foothills beyond. The air grew warmer, the ground softer underfoot. By afternoon, the first hints of civilization appeared—a cart track, then a mile marker, then the distant silhouette of walls.
A city.
The Reaper's Fang stirred, its hunger a living thing.
Aethon kept walking.
The gates loomed ahead, their iron spikes gleaming in the sun. Guards patrolled the walls. Merchants and travelers streamed in and out, their voices a cacophony of life.
Aethon hesitated at the threshold, his hand resting on the sword's pommel.
Then he stepped forward.
Into the noise.
Into the chaos.