Blade of the Fallen Kingdom

The bells of Arvendral tolled like thunder, not to summon worship, but to warn of doom. Smoke clawed at the sky, turning the moon red, and fire spread across the marble streets where children once played. The kingdom was burning.

Kael staggered through the chaos, the taste of ash sharp on his tongue. Only hours ago, he had stood in the royal courtyard, training with wooden blades, dreaming of knighthood. Now the courtyard was rubble, and the air rang with screams.

“They’ve breached the gates!” a guard shouted, his armor torn and bloody. “The capital is lost!”

Kael froze. Lost? How could a kingdom that had stood for centuries fall in a single night? He gripped the small dagger at his side, the one his father had left him. It felt like holding a twig against a storm.

Then he saw it.

Through the smoke-filled street, the king’s guard fought desperately to shield a figure cloaked in gold. King Dareth himself—Kael’s sovereign, the man every child swore loyalty to—was retreating toward the palace. But he wasn’t running from the invaders. He was clutching a weapon.

A blade unlike any Kael had ever seen. Black as obsidian, its edge shimmered with ghostly light. The soldiers around the king screamed as the sword moved, not by the king’s strength, but by something… else. Each strike carved through steel as though it were silk. Each swing left a whisper in the air, like a chorus of the dead.

Kael’s heart hammered. That’s no ordinary blade.

“Kael!” A hand yanked him aside just before a flaming beam crashed where he stood. It was Lira, his childhood friend, her face streaked with soot, her bow clutched tight. “We have to move! The invaders are everywhere.”

But Kael could not move. His eyes were locked on the king, and on the blade that pulsed with a terrible, hungry glow.

Then it happened.

From the shadows emerged a cloaked warrior, taller than any Kael had ever seen, armor black as night. With a single strike, he drove his spear through the king’s chest. Gasps echoed, even through the chaos. The king dropped to his knees. Blood spilled across the stones.

“No…” Kael whispered.

The blade slipped from the king’s grasp, clattering across the ground, spinning until it stopped just feet from where Kael stood.

Time froze.

The whispers grew louder. They weren’t in the air—they were in Kael’s head. Voices, hundreds of them, speaking at once. Promises of power. Cries of pain. Warnings wrapped in temptation.

Pick it up… or die.

His hand trembled as he reached for it.

“Kael, don’t!” Lira hissed, pulling at his arm. “That’s no weapon for us. Leave it!”

But the black-armored warrior turned his gaze toward them. Eyes like burning coals locked on Kael. The invader began to march forward, his spear dripping red.

Kael’s heart thundered. He had two choices: run, and surely die. Or take the blade that had consumed kings.

His fingers closed around the hilt.

Cold fire seared through him, not burning his flesh but burning his soul. The voices screamed louder, demanding, pleading, commanding. The blade pulsed with dark light as if alive.

Kael staggered but held on. The black warrior paused, tilting his head as though intrigued.

Then Kael raised the sword.

The whispers fell silent.

The fire around him flickered low, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

Kael exhaled, and the blade hummed. His body no longer felt weak. Strength surged through his limbs. His vision sharpened. He could see every crack in the enemy’s armor, every tremor in the ground.

The black warrior lunged—faster than thought.

Kael swung.

Steel met shadow, and the clash shook the burning street. Sparks flew like falling stars. The power of the blade nearly threw Kael backward, but he held firm, his arms no longer his own but guided by something vast and ancient.

The enemy staggered back a step. Just one step—but it was enough to shock even him.

Kael panted, sweat stinging his eyes. He had survived a strike no one else could.

But at what cost?

He glanced at the blade. For a heartbeat, he saw his reflection in its edge—not himself, but a twisted version, eyes hollow, face pale, like a corpse still walking.

This is only the beginning, the voices whispered.

The black warrior straightened, his lips curling into something close to a smile. He pointed his spear at Kael.

“You are chosen,” the man said, his voice like gravel grinding stone. “The blade has found its host.”

Kael’s grip tightened. Chosen? No. He hadn’t chosen this. He hadn’t asked for this.

But there was no turning back.

The fires raged higher. Lira pulled at his arm, her voice shaking. “Kael, we have to run! Now!”

The black warrior lunged again, faster, stronger.

Kael raised the cursed blade.

And the night of ashes swallowed the kingdom whole.

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