Kneel! The Fallen Hero Has Returned!

Chapter 9: The Weapons That Bowed

"Let the cripple bless us. Let him touch the Blade of Judgment."

Damon Cross smiled as he said it, and the grand hall of the Temple of Dawn laughed with him. Ronan sat at the back of the crowd in his wheelchair, and he felt Bram's hands tighten on the handles.

It had been two days since the statue wept. Damon had scrubbed his hands raw and said nothing more about Core Lords, but Ronan had seen how he watched him since. Every glance was a test, and every smile hid a question.

*He suspects,* Ronan thought. *But he cannot prove it.*

"Young Master, please," Bram whispered. "We shouldn't have come. They only invited you so they could laugh."

"I know," Ronan whispered back. "But I'm family, remember? I couldn't miss my fiancée's engagement."

"Ex-fiancée!"

"Shh." Ronan gave him a small, miserable smile. "Let them have their fun."

The hall was packed with the city's richest families. Gold banners hung from the pillars, and incense curled toward the high ceiling. At the front stood a long altar of white stone, and on it rested twelve Abyss weapons.

At the center lay the largest of them, a long, pale blade with a cold edge. The Blade of Judgment.

"Quiet, please," the head priest called, raising both hands. "Today, two great families will join under the eyes of these sacred weapons. Let the ceremony begin!"

Seren and Damon stepped up to the altar, hand in hand. She wore white and gold, and her smile was perfect and bright. She never once looked toward the wheelchair at the back of the room.

Near the altar, a slender figure in plain temple robes knelt beside the weapons with a soft cloth in her hand. Her hood was low, and a gray veil covered half her face, so that only her eyes showed. She was polishing the curved sword, slowly and carefully, as if nobody else were in the room.

"Who is that?" a young noble whispered nearby.

"Just the Keeper," his friend muttered. "Some orphan from the temple. She cleans the weapons. Don't mind her."

Ronan watched the Keeper's hands. They were scarred and strong, and she handled the weapons like old friends. She did not flinch even when the sword hummed under her cloth.

*Odd,* he thought. *Those blades should not let anyone touch them.*

A long shape wrapped in gray cloth was strapped across her back, and something about the way she carried it tugged at his memory. He frowned, but he could not place it.

"And now," Damon said, turning, "we have a special guest. A war hero! A man who gave everything for this city!"

The crowd began to murmur. Ronan's chair stiffened.

"Ronan Vale, come forward!" Damon called, grinning. "Don't be shy! We owe you a blessing."

"Damon, no," Ronan stammered, shaking his head. "I'm not worthy. Please, I'll just watch from here."

"Nonsense! Bring him!"

Two guards seized the chair and rolled it down the aisle while the crowd snickered. Bram hurried after them, pleading. When the chair stopped before the altar, Ronan looked up at the twelve weapons glowing in the candlelight, and a quiet worry stirred in his chest.

The core was awake. It always was. But near these weapons, it felt like a hungry animal near a row of locked cages.

"Let the cripple bless us," Damon announced, pointing at the Blade of Judgment. "Let him touch it, and if the weapon accepts him, I'll call him a hero myself! Come on, Ronan. Just one touch."

"I can't," Ronan whispered. "It's holy. I'm, I'm unclean."

"That's the point!" someone laughed.

"Do it!" a woman called. "Make him do it!"

Seren's voice finally cut in, bored. "Just touch it, Ronan. It will be over faster."

Ronan looked at her for a moment. Then he lowered his head and lifted one trembling hand toward the Blade of Judgment, inching it forward as if each finger weighed a ton.

He stopped one inch from the cold steel.

*Do not touch it,* he told himself. *Do not let it feel you.*

His fingertips hung in the air. Damon's smile began to twist.

"Well?" he said impatiently. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm s-scared," Ronan whispered. "It's so cold."

"Touch it!"

And then, with no warning, the Blade of Judgment began to hum, until all twelve weapons were vibrating.

"What's happening?" a man gasped.

"The weapons," a woman whispered. "They're shaking!"

Ronan froze. *I did not touch it,* he thought, and a cold sweat ran down his back. *I held the core still. Why do they feel me?*

The humming grew louder. One by one, the twelve weapons rose, floating an inch above the altar. Then, all at once, their tips turned toward the wheelchair.

They bowed.

It was a slow, deep, perfect bow, every blade tilting down until their points almost touched the floor. The Blade of Judgment lowered last, and its pale edge came to rest in front of Ronan's knees.

The entire hall went silent.

Nobody moved. A priest dropped his censer with a clang, and a woman fainted into her husband's arms. Damon stood with his mouth open, and his face lost every drop of color.

"No," the head priest breathed, stumbling backward. His round face was white as chalk. "No, no, no, that's not possible! They only bow to a Core Realm Lord!"

Gasps rolled through the hall. People shrank back from the wheelchair as if it were a coffin. Seren clutched her chest, and Damon's hands began to shake at his sides.

At the altar's edge, the Keeper had gone completely still.

She was gripping the curved sword with both hands, and it was pulling her down. Her arms trembled, her knuckles went white, and the blade dragged her to her knees as it bent toward Ronan. Her veil slipped, and for a moment Ronan saw a sharp, strong jaw and a thin scar along her cheek.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, and she spoke in a hoarse, disbelieving whisper that carried through the silent hall.

"He's crippled! He can't even stand! Everyone in the city knows he's a cripple!" Her voice shook with something close to anger. "So why are you bowing to him?!"

The weapons did not answer. They only trembled.

Ronan went cold.

He knew that voice and it had lost every trace of the amusement it carried that night in the alley. She had been sitting on a rooftop with a blade across her knees, watching him.

*The rooftop,* he thought, and his heart slammed. *She is the Keeper. Think. Think!*

He did the only thing he could do. His face crumpled, tears burst from his eyes, and he threw both arms over his head and began to sob.

"I don't know!" he wailed. "I didn't do anything! Please don't hurt me! Please, I just wanted to go home!"

The cry broke the spell. People began to whisper again, and some even looked at him with pity. Damon took a stumbling step forward.

But the core had already stirred too far.

A hot pulse shot down Ronan's spine, and his feet slid off the footrest and landed flat on the stone floor.

"Bram!" he gasped.

Old Bram reacted without thinking. He yanked the blanket across Ronan's knees and tucked it hard around his legs, hiding everything, while shouting at the crowd. "Stop staring! Can't you see he's terrified?"

Ronan slumped in his chair, shaking and weeping, looking like nothing but a frightened cripple.

But the Keeper's eyes had not left his feet.

Kneeling beside the bowing sword, she slowly tightened her lips, and she said nothing at all. Only she had seen it. The twelve weapons were still bowing, and the whole hall was still silent.