The night was thick with smoke. Lucien staggered through the ruins, each step echoing in the hollow silence that followed the slaughter. The air tasted of ash and copper, and the only sound was the rasp of his own breath.
He leaned against a shattered wall, gripping his side where blood seeped through his armor. The wound burned, but it was nothing compared to the weight dragging at his spirit. All around him lay the broken forms of the fallen—friend and foe alike. The massacre had erased the difference.
The sword in his hand, Requiem, gleamed faintly as if feeding on the death that soaked the ground. Lucien clenched his teeth. The weapon felt heavier than steel, as though every soul it touched anchored itself inside the blade.
"Why do you thirst so much?" he whispered hoarsely.
The runes along its length flickered once, like an eye opening. Lucien shuddered and forced the blade back into its sheath. The whispers at the edge of his hearing grew louder when he touched it, tempting, promising, demanding.
---
A crack of stone behind him made him whirl, blade half-drawn. Out of the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in tattered gray, a mask of smooth iron concealing their face. They moved without sound, as though the darkness itself carried them forward.
"You survived," the stranger said, voice calm, almost reverent.
Lucien's hand tightened on the hilt. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted their head. "A herald. I speak for that which remembers. And you… you carry its memory."
Lucien frowned. "What are you talking about?"
The herald pointed to his sword. "That blade is no mere relic. It is the echo of a vow made in blood, a requiem carved into steel. You wield more than a weapon—you wield a curse older than kingdoms."
Lucien's pulse quickened. He thought of the slaughter he had witnessed, the unnatural way the dead had stirred, the whispers clawing at his mind.
"If it's cursed," he said, voice rough, "then I'll break it."
The herald gave a low, hollow laugh. "You cannot break what was forged in eternity. You can only choose—master it, or let it master you. Most who came before failed. Their names forgotten, their bodies hollowed. The sword keeps only their screams."
Lucien's chest tightened. He took a step forward, anger cutting through his fear. "Then why tell me this? Why not kill me and take the sword yourself?"
The herald shook their head slowly. "It cannot be stolen. It must choose. And it has chosen you."
The words struck like a hammer. Chosen. The thought made Lucien sick. He wanted nothing of destiny, nothing of curses or legacies. He only wanted to live free, unbound. Yet the blade pulsed at his side as if affirming the herald's words.
---
Before he could speak again, the ground trembled. From beneath the charred earth, pale fingers clawed upward. One corpse rose, then another, their eyes burning with faint crimson light. Dozens of the fallen shuddered and stood, jerking like puppets pulled by invisible strings.
Lucien's breath caught. "The dead…"
The herald's voice was calm, almost ceremonial. "This is the test. Will you be master of the requiem—or its prey?"
The corpses lurched toward him, their jaws hanging open in silence. Lucien ripped the blade free. The runes blazed with crimson fire, the whispers inside his skull swelling into a chorus.
He struck.
The first corpse fell, cleaved from shoulder to hip. The second's head rolled free in a spray of ash. Lucien moved faster, harder, the blade drinking deeply with every kill. But with each strike, his vision narrowed, and the whispers grew louder, almost drowning out his thoughts.
More, the blade seemed to hiss. More. Feed me.
Lucien's muscles screamed, his breath tearing from his lungs. The corpses were endless, their charred hands grasping, dragging, biting. He roared and carved a crimson path through them, the sword's hunger spilling into him, making his movements savage, merciless.
When the last corpse fell, silence slammed into him. Lucien dropped to one knee, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. His arms trembled from exhaustion. The sword still pulsed in his grip, alive, eager, demanding more.
The herald's voice drifted through the smoke. "You see now. Power without restraint is ruin. But without power, you would already be among the dead."
Lucien looked up, his eyes burning with fury. "What do you want from me?"
The herald stepped back into the shadows, their form dissolving into the smoke. "Not what I want. What the sword wants. And it will not stop until the requiem is complete."
And then they were gone, leaving Lucien alone with the whispers and the bodies.
---
Lucien staggered back to his feet, gripping the hilt until his knuckles turned white. His heart thundered, torn between rage and fear. He knew one thing now with absolute certainty: there was no escaping this path. The sword had chosen him.
The only question was whether he would remain its wielder—or become its next forgotten scream.