The Crownless Curse

Chapter 6 - The Blade That Remembers

The skies over Eldhollow had turned the color of wet ash by the time Kael reached the last stretch of the forest path. His cloak clung to his skin with cold sweat, his limbs heavy but alive with the heat of purpose. He had not stopped since leaving the clearing, not after what he had seen. Not after the shadow spoke his name.

He no longer ran from what hunted him. He was running toward it.

The scent of pine and damp stone thickened in the air. Between the trunks ahead, the outline of a moss-covered ruin emerged. Kael slowed. This was the place. Exactly as it had looked in the vision that tore through his mind the night before—broken archways, ancient stones wrapped in ivy, and the iron door embedded deep into the earth, half buried and waiting.

He stepped into the ruin.

Silence swallowed him whole. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. He moved through the shattered remnants of what had once been a temple, each step crunching over roots and fallen leaves. Something thrummed beneath his feet. Not sound. Not movement. Memory.

It pulsed in the air like the echo of a heartbeat.

Kael approached the door.

It was taller than he expected, arched and cold with old magic. Strange symbols had been etched into the iron, some glowing faintly with a dull red hue. His palm hovered just above the surface.

Then he pressed it flat against the metal.

The door hissed. A pulse of heat surged from the symbols into his hand, and the iron split down the middle with a groan. Dust poured from the cracks as the earth itself shifted, revealing a dark stairway spiraling down into silence.

He descended.

Each step felt heavier than the last. As if the stairwell was not built for the living. The deeper he went, the colder the air became. Kael drew his sword. Shadows licked the walls. His breath came shallow. This was no longer a temple. This was a tomb.

The stairs ended in a vast chamber.

It was circular, the walls made of seamless stone, and in the center stood a pedestal wrapped in thick chains. Upon it rested a sword.

No, not just a sword. The sword.

His vision returned in a rush. Fire. Screams. The blade flashing silver through the night. The woman’s voice screaming his name. And the dark figure watching from above, face hidden behind a crown of bones.

Kael stepped closer.

The blade was long and elegant, its hilt inlaid with ancient silver, runes curling across the metal like roots drinking deep from magic. It pulsed with power.

He reached for it.

“Not yet,” said a voice behind him.

Kael spun, sword raised.

A figure stood in the shadows. Tall. Hooded. Cloaked in the same dark fabric as the creature in his nightmares. But this one did not radiate malice. Instead, it felt like standing before a storm that had not yet decided whether it would destroy you or spare you.

“You are not ready,” the figure said.

Kael’s grip tightened. “Who are you?”

“I am what remains,” the figure said, stepping forward into the torchlight. His face was pale, eyes the color of dying stars. “A watcher. Bound to the blade. Bound to the curse.”

Kael lowered his weapon an inch. “This sword. It belonged to me, didn’t it?”

The figure nodded. “In your last life, you were its bearer. And its prisoner.”

Kael’s throat dried. “What curse?”

The figure moved to the pedestal. “This blade remembers. Every life it has taken. Every oath it has broken. It feeds not just on blood, but on the soul of its wielder.”

Kael felt the weight of the air shift. The shadows drew closer.

“If I used it before, then I can use it again.”

“You can,” the figure replied. “But once your hand closes around its hilt, the path will close behind you. There will be no return. No peace. Only war.”

Kael stepped forward. “War is already here.”

The watcher studied him.

“In your last life, you failed. The kingdom burned. She died. You died.”

Kael blinked. “She?”

The figure tilted his head. “You do not remember her. That is... mercy. But she remembers you.”

The sword pulsed once, as if it too remembered.

Kael looked down at it.

He thought of the shadow that whispered his name. Of the creature that tore through his home. Of the faces of the dead.

He reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the hilt.

The chamber screamed.

Light exploded from the blade, white and red and wild. Chains snapped like brittle vines. A wind tore through the tomb, shoving the watcher back. Kael stood firm, teeth clenched as energy poured into his body. The sword lifted itself free with a crack of thunder, and the runes along its edge blazed to life.

He heard voices. A thousand cries layered over each other.

Some begged. Some cursed. Some sang.

Kael staggered back, gripping the blade with both hands as the torrent of memory crashed through him. He saw cities burning, mountains splitting, oceans boiling. He saw himself atop a black horse. A woman in silver armor. A child torn from his arms. A kiss. A betrayal. A crown shattering under his boot.

And then the darkness.

The silence returned.

Kael stood in the center of the chamber, alone, sword in hand. The watcher had vanished.

He looked down at the blade. It no longer felt like a weapon. It felt like an extension of his very soul.

A low rumble shook the stone beneath his feet.

The way he came had closed. A new door stood before him, opening inward to another hallway, this one lit with torches that sparked to life as he approached.

He followed them.

The hallway twisted like a serpent, descending even deeper until it opened into a cavern bathed in red light. A pool of still water reflected a mural carved into the far wall. A dragon, wings outstretched, its eyes glowing with fury. Beneath it, armies marched. Cities burned.

And at the center, a single figure stood with the same sword Kael now held.

Him.

This was not prophecy. It was memory.

A movement at the edge of the cavern caught his eye.

He turned, blade raised.

Out from the shadows stepped a woman.

Tall, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes sharp as broken glass. She wore black armor laced with silver. A scar marked her cheek.

Kael’s breath caught. He had seen her before. In the vision. In the flame.

“You,” he said.

She studied him. Her voice was low and controlled. “So, it’s true. You woke it.”

Kael’s fingers tightened around the hilt. “Do I know you?”

She walked in a slow circle around him. “You should. You swore to kill me in your last life.”

Kael’s pulse thudded in his ears.

She stopped in front of him.

“I am Seris. Warden of the Last Flame. And I have waited a very long time for you to wake.”

Kael stared at her. “Then why are you here?”

“To see if you are still a threat. Or just another echo of a broken king.”

Kael stepped forward, lifting the blade.

“Try me.”

A tense silence filled the space between them. Her eyes flicked to the sword.

“I should kill you before it consumes you.”

“Then do it.”

But Seris did not strike. She looked at him again, truly looked, and something flickered in her expression.

“You’re not him. Not yet.”

Kael lowered the blade an inch.

“Help me remember,” he said.

She didn’t move. “Memory is not the same as truth.”

“Maybe not,” Kael said. “But it is a start.”

Seris hesitated.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the far tunnel. The air around her shimmered with heat.

Kael followed.

He did not know where the tunnel led. He did not know what truth waited at its end. But the sword pulsed in his grip. And for the first time in a long while, he did not feel lost.

He felt ready.