Riven lowered his head, lingering. His eyes never left his sister’s face as she lay asleep.
Mira’s breathing was calm, her body rising and falling slowly with each breath. Her fine hair was spread across the pillow, still damp with sweat. Her expression was peaceful—far too peaceful, compared to the one watching over her.
anwhile, Riven’s chest felt tight with sothing he couldn’t na. Worry. Gratitude. Fear. Pride. They all clashed and swirled in silence.
"I... need ti to think," Riven finally murmured, his voice hoarse, nearly a plea. "I want to talk to Mira when she wakes. I want to know how she feels... before making any decision."
Lord Valderacht nodded slowly. "Of course. This decision concerns her future. It shouldn’t be made without her."
His tone remained calm, but there was a glimr in his eyes that showed he understood the weight of the mont. He said nothing more. He didn’t push. He simply dipped his head—a rare gesture of respect from a noble to a commoner—then exchanged a few quiet words with Ashtoria before turning and leaving the room.
The door closed behind him.
Silence returned once more.
The oil lamp on the small table flickered slightly, casting soft shadows that danced along the walls. Riven continued staring at his sister, his fingers gently brushing her small, warm hand.
Monts later, he exhaled a deep breath and spoke softly, "Ashtoria... I don’t really understand all this. About nobility. About adoption. About living in a manor and its rules..."
He turned to look at Ashtoria, who was still seated beside him.
"You understand more. What do you think I should do?"
Ashtoria didn’t answer right away. She was quiet, as if weighing her words carefully. Her eyes lingered on Riven for a mont, then slowly shifted to Mira. Her expression remained unchanged—cold, graceful, and intimidating—but there was sothing different behind that gaze: sothing almost like... sympathy.
"If you want my honest answer," she finally said, soft but sharp,
"Mira cannot remain a naless girl. The world won’t allow it."
Riven stayed silent, listening.
"Even if we hide her now, it won’t last. With a talent and potential like hers, people will start watching. Targeting. Or trying to recruit her. The more she grows, the greater the danger becos. And you... you won’t be able to protect her alone."
Riven raised his head slightly. There was a flicker of resistance in his eyes.
He stayed quiet for a mont before continuing, his tone calm but firm, "Axel Valderacht is not just anyone. He’s no saint, and he has ambitions of his own. But if he says he’ll protect soone... he will. Even if it costs blood."
Riven gripped Mira’s hand tighter, his throat dry. "But if I let her go... doesn’t that an I’m giving up? Letting her go from my life?"
Ashtoria shook her head slowly.
"No. Quite the opposite. You’d be giving Mira sothing many like her never had, a chance to live, not just survive. If she becos Mira Valderacht, she’ll have a na that makes people think twice before touching her. She’ll learn, be trained, and grow..."
Riven looked down again. His breath was heavy, burdened with things unsaid.
Ashtoria continued, her voice softer now, almost a whisper, "This isn’t about pride. It’s about survival. And about giving her power that ans sothing... before the world turns it into a curse. But in the end, the choice is hers. And yours."
The room felt quieter than before. Only the ticking of a small clock on the shelf could be heard, marking the ti that never stopped.
Riven nodded slowly.
.
.
.
Night fell quietly, wrapping the Valderacht estate in a hush that felt almost sacred. In the sky, a waning moon hung pale behind a curtain of gray clouds. The night wind carried a chill that bit at the skin, but in the wide, empty courtyard behind the manor—Riven stood motionless.
His body moved.
Swing after swing of the sword whispered through the air.
Moonlight glead across the silver blade, flashing dimly each ti it cut through the emptiness. Sweat dripped from his brow and chin, soaking into his collar, but he didn’t stop. His palms had turned red, even raw but his grip didn’t loosen.
There was only one sound in the night: the slicing of steel through air.
His body was exhausted, but his mind was too restless for sleep. Every ti he closed his eyes, the conversations with Lord Valderacht and Ashtoria returned, ghosts that refused to fade.
Mira would beco a noble. Mira would have a na. Mira... would grow into soone far greater than him.
And he?
Riven swung again—faster this ti. His breath ca hard, shoulders rising and falling.
He was still standing in the sa place.
’You can’t protect her forever.’
Ashtoria’s words echoed in his mind. He knew she wasn’t lying. He knew she ant well. But still, the feeling gnawed at him—a quiet, hollow ache. The ache of being left behind.
I need to be stronger.
His swing slowed. Riven stood still. His head bowed.
Then... he rembered.
That mont. When he and his sword had beco one. When his breath, his pulse, his thoughts—his entire being—beat in ti with the steel in his hand. When the world went quiet, and all that remained was a single edge and a single direction.
He tried to recall it again. The feeling. The silence. The inner voice.
He closed his eyes.
And then the image ca—pulled from the dream that had haunted him.
That man... standing at the pinnacle of the world. One strike from him split the earth, split mountains, split continents. No magic. No shout. Just one motion—perfect, absolute.
How did he do it?
Riven opened his eyes. They glead with sharp resolve. His breath steadied.
He began again.
His feet shifted. His left hand steadied his fra, his right held the hilt like it was part of his own flesh. He slashed. Straight. Swift. Not rushed. Not sluggish.
He imagined an enemy before him. An assassin. A soldier. A monster.
He moved as if his life depended on every cut.
He rembered the mont in the tavern. The words Ashtoria had spoken—that he was destruction itself.
"I am the sword..." he whispered between ragged breaths. "Not just its wielder... I am the sword."
It wasn’t a mantra. It was a truth. He repeated it with every swing that tore through the night.
"I am the sword..."
Not blood, but steel ran in his veins.
Not flesh, but blade carved his fate.
Not voice, but the hum of his slashes would be his answer.
"I am the sword."
And I will sharpen myself...
...until no one can lay a hand on my sister without crossing my edge first.
.
.
.
On a stone road veiled in morning mist, a modest horse-drawn carriage rolled steadily downhill toward the city of Dorthlam. Its wheels clattered gently against damp earth, hooves striking a quiet rhythm that blended with the northern breeze.
Inside the small but comfortable cabin, a man reclined in silence.
His face was so beautiful it seed almost unreal—sharp jawline, flawless pale skin, and golden hair that spilled over his shoulders. His half-lidded golden eyes reflected boredom... or perhaps sothing colder. He wore a long black cloak lined with blood-red embroidery in the shape of flas, striking but not excessive.
But it was not the man himself that caught the eye—it was what lay cradled in his arms.
An egg.
Not just any egg. Large—roughly the size of a grown man’s head. Its shell was deep crimson, like solidified embers, covered in gleaming, scale-like patterns etched by nature itself. Faint pulses of heat radiated from it, like breath from a sleeping creature inside.
Reviews
All reviews (0)