I have watched many rituals begin with nothing more than a spark and end with a world changed beyond repair.
This one began with a command.
The High Priest stepped through the gates of the Sanctuary of Torvas, his robes still holding the dust of the royal capital. Knights and priests bowed as he passed. The weight of the king's decree walked with him.
"Light the ritual flames," he said.
His voice echoed across the stone halls, carrying the authority of Torvas and the burden of a kingdom.
The priests moved at once.
They knew what this meant.
For generations, the flames had only been lit when it was time to choose a new Blade of Torvas. It was a call not with sound, but with spirit. The flames themselves would burn in the sacred chamber, ordinary to mortal eyes. But their presence would race across the land, like a bell only the blessed could hear.
every priest, every knight, every worshipper close enough to Torvas's firewould sense it.
In the heart of the Sanctuary, the ritual brazier stood waiting a massive bowl carved from black stone, etched with ancient symbols of flame and justice. The priests circled it, whispering prayers, their hands steady despite the tension in the air.
The High Priest lifted a hand.
"Begin."
One priest old, scarred, eyes steady stepped forth. He held a small torch lit from the eternal flame at the altar of Torvas. Slowly, with both reverence and fear, he lowered it into the cold brazier.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the air rippled.
A tongue of fire rose small, then large, then impossibly deep. It did not roar. It did not blaze wildly. It simply burned with a still, focused intensity that made every priest drop to their knees.
The ritual flame was lit.
To the eye, it looked almost ordinary.
To the spirit, it was a shockwave.
I felt it roll outward an invisible burst of divine summons reaching across forests, mountains, rivers, and towns. It slid through temple walls, soaked into holy relics, and brushed against the hearts of every person who had ever truly called Torvas' name.
Some fell to their knees without knowing why.Some woke from dreams with their hearts racing.Some, far from the Sanctuary, simply stopped what they were doing and whispered, "It's time."
And they began to move.
Warriors.Priests.Pilgrims.Those who sought glory.Those who sought redemption.Those who had been waiting all their lives for this sign.
They all turned toward one place.
The Sanctuary of Torvas.
Erias felt it too, though differently.
He stood in the training yard, hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword Kaelar left behind. The moment the flame was lit, something pressed lightly against his chest not pain, not warmth, just a weight, like the feeling of being called by name.
He knew what it meant.
People would come.
Not just ordinary folk, but strong warriors, priests with deep blessings, chosen fighters from all over the kingdom. All of them hungry for a chance to be tested, to see if the mantle of Blade would fall upon them instead.
Erias looked down at the sword in his hand.
The blade felt heavier.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He trained.
His body moved out of habit first basic forms, strikes, footwork Kaelar had drilled into every knight in the Sanctuary. Step, swing, parry, turn. Sweat began to drip down his neck. His breath grew sharper.
He did not stop.
The Sanctuary felt different now. There was a hum in the air, a quiet energy in the stone. The knights around him trained harder. The priests walked with a new urgency. The simple fact that the flame had been lit changed everything.
Erias knew very soon, people stronger, faster, more experienced than him would walk through those gates. Men and women who had seen more war than he had seen years. If he wasn't ready, he would be crushed under the weight of their expectations and the shadow of Kaelar's name.
So he pressed on.
Cut.Step.Block.Turn.Repeat.
His arms ached. His legs screamed. His mind replayed Kaelar's final moments, the last stand, the fire that consumed the demons and, finally, the Blade himself.
Kaelar, gone.
The thought pressed against his ribs until he could barely breathe.
"You still know why you carry that blade?"
The voice cut into his focus.
Erias turned.
Varos stood a few paces away, watching him. To everyone else, he was still just a strange foreigner a man too calm for the chaos around him. But I knew, and Erias had begun to suspect, that there was more to him than simple steel and flesh.
Erias lowered his sword slightly.
"I remember," he said. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.
Varos walked closer, stopping just outside Erias's striking range.
"Then say it," Varos replied. "Out loud."
Erias clenched his jaw.
"For Torvas," he said automatically. "For the kingdom. For justice."
Varos didn't move.
Erias frowned.
"For Kaelar," he added. "Because he chose me."
Varos' eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?" he asked.
Erias looked down at the sword. For a moment, he didn't answer. The Sanctuary echoed with distant voices, metal clashing against metal, priests chanting near the ritual chamber.
"Because if I don't," Erias finally said quietly, "then his death will feel like it meant nothing."
There it was.
The real answer.
The weight.
Varos watched him carefully. As Erias spoke, the small fragment of dream-energy inside him flared faintly, but clearly. It pulsed through Erias's chest and into the blade in his hand, like a heartbeat aligning with another rhythm.
I saw it.Dream saw it.Erias did not.
The energy did not make him stronger in that moment. It did not grant him some dramatic power. But it responded.
That was enough.
"The circumstances have changed," Erias said, staring at the ground. "When Kaelar was alive, it was easier. He was there. I could watch him, learn from him, follow his lead. Now he's gone, and I'm supposed to stand where he stood. I'm supposed to become what he was."
He looked up at Varos.
"I still know why I carry the blade," he continued. "But now… it feels like I'm carrying him too. And I don't know if I can do that."
Varos didn't answer immediately.
He walked closer, until he stood directly in front of the boy.
"You are not Kaelar," Varos said.
The words hit Erias like a slap.
He flinched.
"You never will be," Varos continued. "You shouldn't try to be him."
"Then how am I supposed to"
"Carry the blade as yourself," Varos cut in. "Not as his shadow."
Erias went silent.
The flicker of dream-energy inside him trembled again, and this time Dream beneath the mask of Varos focused on it more closely.
It was faint, but it was growing.
Erias wasn't like the corrupted dream-born. He wasn't one of Dream's citizens. But his spirit had brushed against Dream's realm so many times in training with Seros, in nightmares, in quiet conversations with Death that something had stayed.
A trace.
A spark.
And now, with the ritual flame lit and the weight of expectation pressing on him, that spark responded to his conviction and grief.
"You carry the blade because you chose to keep standing," Varos said. "Not because Kaelar forced it into your hands. Not because Torvas demands it. Because when you were given the chance to walk away, you didn't."
Erias swallowed.
"Kaelar is dead," Varos continued. "That won't change. But the reason he chose you is still here. It doesn't vanish because he's gone."
Erias tightened his grip.
He didn't feel ready.
But he wanted to be.
His mind still screamed that he was just a boy who'd been picked out of nowhere. Yet something inside him refused to back down, refused to give in, refused to lay the sword down and walk away.
That something pulsed again with dream-energystronger now.
Varos saw it.
Erias didn't.
The boy lifted the sword again.
"Then I'll carry it for myself," he said. His voice steadied. "And for him. And for everyone who will die if I fail."
Varos nodded once.
"That," he said, "is closer to the truth."
They stood there for a moment in silence.
Around them, the Sanctuary moved like a hive of preparation. Messengers rode out to escort those called by the ritual flame. High knights refined their formations. The priests prepared the inner chamber where the candidates would stand when the ritual began.
Each new arrival at the gates warriors, young nobles, devoted priests meant more competition, more eyes, more judgment. Word had already begun to spread:
The Blade is dead.A new one will be chosen.The ritual begins soon.
Erias could feel the pressure gathering with every hour.
But he lifted his sword again.
He moved through the forms once more, slower this time but more focused. Every step had purpose now. Every cut was not just an attack, but a question he was asking himself:
Can I stand?Can I endure?Will I break?
Varos stepped back, watching.
"You will be tested in ways you do not understand yet," he said. "The ritual is not just about strength. It's about whether your spirit can hold the weight of what the blade truly is."
"What is it?" Erias asked.
Varos looked at the sword. For a moment, his eyes unfocused, as if looking at something only I could see.
"A promise sharpened into steel," he said quietly. "And promises like that always demand a price."
Erias didn't fully understand.
But he nodded anyway.
He went back to training.
I watched him move beneath the sky of Vvralis while in the distance, travelers began to make their way to the Sanctuary. Some came with pride. Some with fear. Some with desperation.
All of them would stand beneath the same flame.
Only one would walk away as the Blade.
And whether Erias was ready or not, his name was already written into the center of that storm.