The whispers hadn't stopped since Rose touched the old chest in the attic. The iron latch had snapped under her hand, brittle with rust, revealing velvet eaten through by time. Beneath it, gleaming against the decay, was the sword.
It was unlike anything she had ever seen. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, darkened by age and something else—something that looked too much like dried blood. Intricate carvings lined the blade: winding serpents, curling flames, and words in a script she couldn't understand. But the most unsettling detail was how the steel itself shimmered, as though the metal breathed.
Her fingers hovered above it, trembling. That's when the attic seemed to grow colder, and the shadows around her deepened. The whispers grew louder, no longer vague but chanting, almost ceremonial.
"Rakta… Rakta…"
Blood.
Rose snatched her hand back. She wasn't fluent in the old tongue, but she knew enough to recognize that word. The lantern flame flickered, and in its glow, she saw something move.
A figure stood at the far end of the attic. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Armor glinted faintly in the half-light, though its form was incomplete, shrouded in a black mist. The figure's eyes, burning red, fixed on the sword.
Rose's chest tightened. This wasn't a ghost like the others she had glimpsed. This was something older, heavier—a remnant of war, of blood spilled long before her time.
"Who are you?" her voice cracked in the still air.
The figure did not answer. It simply raised an arm, pointing at the sword. The chanting grew deafening. Rose clapped her hands over her ears, but the voices pierced through, ancient and commanding.
She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the loose floorboards. Her mind screamed at her to run, but her body froze. The figure took one step forward, then another, boots striking the attic floor with a weight no ghost should carry.
The lantern light flared again, and for a heartbeat, the vision sharpened. She saw him clearly: a Rajput warrior, face scarred, eyes burning with wrath and grief. His armor bore the insignia of a sun, cracked through the middle. His mouth opened, and this time, the voice was his—low, thunderous, and filled with venom.
"Return my sword… or bleed."
Rose's throat went dry. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. She could only stare at the cursed blade that now seemed alive, its carvings pulsing faintly with light.
"I didn't take it," she whispered. "It was already here."
The warrior's eyes narrowed. His form flickered, splitting into three shadows before merging back again, as if reality itself couldn't hold him. The sword trembled inside its velvet lining, humming with a sound that made her bones ache.
Without meaning to, Rose stepped closer. Something about the sword called to her—not just to touch it, but to claim it. As if by doing so, she could end the whispers. End the presence.
But another thought gnawed at her: What if picking it up bound her to him forever?
The attic door slammed shut.
Rose spun around, heart hammering. The lock twisted itself into place. She was trapped.
The lantern dimmed, darkness swallowing the corners of the room. The warrior's red eyes burned brighter, now only a few feet from her. His voice roared like thunder breaking through stone.
"The oath must be fulfilled. Blood for blood. Death for dishonor."
Rose shook her head violently. "I don't even know your oath!"
The warrior reached out, his spectral hand passing within inches of her chest. The air froze, her breath frosting in front of her face.
Then, a memory not her own flashed inside her mind—sunlight, sand, a battlefield littered with broken shields. The Rajput stood among the fallen, clutching his sword, blood dripping from a wound across his chest. Betrayal seared his heart as his own kin turned against him, leaving him to die. His last vow: that none unworthy would wield his blade. That oath had chained his spirit to the sword for centuries.
Rose gasped, the vision fading. "You were betrayed…"
The warrior's eyes softened, if only for a moment. Then they burned again with fire. "And you will suffer the curse, as all who disturb it must."
The sword lifted on its own, rising out of the chest, hovering between them. Its blade gleamed silver, then darkened, dripping phantom blood that sizzled as it struck the wooden floor.
Rose's instincts screamed that touching it meant doom. But the warrior lunged forward, hand outstretched.
In that final second, Rose did the only thing she could. She grabbed the hilt.
The whispers stopped.
Silence.
Then—an explosion of light. The attic shook violently, dust and splinters raining from above. Rose cried out, but she didn't let go. The sword's carvings blazed with fire, and she felt something tear inside her chest—as though the weapon was reaching into her soul, searching, testing.
The warrior roared in fury and triumph all at once. His form surged, filling the attic, shadows writhing like serpents around him.
Rose screamed, clutching the blade. And in that scream, her voice was not her own.
The oath had chosen her.