Elara's POV
I wake up screaming—except I can't scream because I'm a sword.
The nightmare clings to me: Morgana's smile. The blade through my chest. Three hundred years of darkness closing in again.
"Elara!" Darian's voice cuts through my panic. "You're having a nightmare. You're safe. Well, as safe as a soul in a sword can be."
Through our bond, I feel him sitting up in his tent. It's still dark outside—maybe three in the morning. His body aches from yesterday's fight.
"Sorry," I whisper. "Bad dreams. You'd think after three hundred years I'd be used to dying."
"I don't think you ever get used to that."
His sympathy wraps around me like a warm blanket. It's strange having someone who can feel what I feel. But also... nice. I haven't had anyone who understood me in so long.
"Can't sleep?"I ask.
"Not really. Too much to think about." He picks me up, and I feel the now-familiar rush of connection. Our souls pressing against each other through the bond. "That vision we had. About Lucian and the dagger. Do you really think the weapons are planning something?"
"I know they are. I felt it when we connected—like an echo of dark magic." I hesitate. "Darian, I need to tell you something. Something I should've mentioned earlier."
What?"
"When I died and ended up in this sword, part of my soul... shattered. Split into pieces. I think fragments of me went into all seven weapons from my collection."
He goes very still."You're saying—"
"I'm saying the evil spirits in those swords might actually be corrupted pieces of ME. Driven insane by three centuries of isolation and darkness."
"That's..."
"Horrifying? Yeah. But it makes sense. The Blade of Remembrance—this sword—got the biggest piece. The part that kept my memories and personality. But the others got smaller fragments. Angry fragments. Broken fragments."
Darian stands and walks out of his tent. Dawn is just starting to break. Through his eyes, I see the camp: small fires, soldiers sleeping, Nyx on watch duty.
"So when we fight Lucian," Darian says slowly, "we're really fighting a piece of you?"
"A twisted, evil piece. But yes."
"Can you... I don't know, talk to it? Convince it to stop?"
"I don't know. Maybe? But Darian—" I force the words out "—there's something else. Something worse."
Before I can explain, Nyx appears from the shadows.
"Talking to your sword again?" she asks. Her tone is light, but her eyes are serious.
"She had a nightmare," Darian says. Out loud this time, not in his head.
Nyx raises an eyebrow. "Swords have nightmares?"
"Tell her I'm sorry for being weird," I mutter.
"She says sorry for being weird."
Nyx laughs despite herself. "This is the strangest thing I've ever seen, and I once fought a dragon made of cheese."
*"There are cheese dragons here?!" I ask, distracted. "That's amazing!"
Darian smiles. "Elara wants to know more about the cheese dragon."
"Later. Right now, we have a problem." Nyx's expression turns grim. "I did a long-range soul scan on Celeste last night. Like I promised."
My entire consciousness focuses. "What did you find?"
"What did you find?" Darian echoes.
Nyx pulls out a small crystal that glows with blue light. "Celeste's soul has two layers. The outer layer is normal—a regular person who grew up in Aethermoor. But underneath..." She holds up the crystal. "There's another soul. Older. Foreign. Buried deep."
"Morgana," I breathe. "It's really her."
"Elara says it's Morgana. Her murderer from Earth."
Nyx nods. "The buried soul is starting to wake up. Probably triggered by you bonding with Elara. Celeste is having dreams—memories from another life. She doesn't fully understand them yet, but she will soon."
"How soon?" Darian asks.
"Weeks. Maybe days." Nyx pockets the crystal. "When she remembers completely, she'll know Elara is here. And she'll come for her."
"Good," I say fiercely. "Let her come. I've been waiting three hundred years for round two."
But Darian feels my fear underneath the bravado. Feels how terrified I am of facing my killer again.
"We'll face her together," he promises silently. "You're not alone anymore."
Warmth floods through me. Real, genuine warmth.
"There's more," Nyx continues. "I also scanned the general area around the capital. There are at least three other soul-weapons active. Lucian has the Dagger of Rending—we knew that. But someone else has the Lance of Sorrow. And there's a fourth weapon I couldn't identify."
"That's four out of seven," Darian says. "Where are the other three?"
"Scattered," I tell him. "I can feel them vaguely through our bond. The Axe of Ending is north—I think with some warlord. The Bow of Truth is in the royal treasury. And the Shield of Forgetting..." I focus harder. "I can't sense it at all. It's either destroyed or hidden somewhere my magic can't reach."
Darian relays this to Nyx, who looks increasingly worried.
"If these weapons are gathering power, planning something..." She trails off. "We need to find them first. Stop whatever they're doing."
"While also building an army to overthrow my brother," Darian adds. "In three months. No pressure."
A throat clears behind them. Garrett steps into view, his expression dark.
"How long have you been listening?" Darian asks.
"Long enough to hear about evil weapons and reincarnated souls." Garrett crosses his massive arms. "My lord, with all respect—this is insane. We can't fight Lucian AND hunt down magic swords AND deal with ancient prophecies. We're thirty people!"
"Then we recruit more," Darian says firmly.
"From where? Everyone's too scared of Lucian. Too scared of—" Garrett stops himself.
"Too scared of me," Darian finishes. "Too scared of the prince with the cursed sword."
The silence is heavy.
"I'm making things harder for you, I realize. "People are afraid of me. It's driving away potential allies."
"I don't care. I'm not giving you up."
"Darian—"
"I said I don't care."
His determination burns through our bond, and I'm overwhelmed by it. By how much he means it.
"My lord," Garrett says quietly. "You need to think strategically. That sword gives you power, yes. But it also makes you look dangerous. Unpredictable. People won't follow—"
"RIDERS APPROACHING!" a soldier shouts from the perimeter. "Three of them! Fast!"
Everyone grabs weapons. Darian's hand tightens on my hilt, and I feel his battle instincts sharpening.
"Can you sense them?"nhe asks me.
I push my awareness outward through our connection. Three life forces racing toward camp. One feels familiar somehow. Like I should know—
"Oh no."
"What?"
"That's not a rescue party or an attack," I say, my consciousness reeling. "That's a messenger. And they're carrying one of my swords."
The riders burst into camp. The lead rider dismounts in a panic, holding a sword wrapped in cloth. Even covered, I can feel its energy. Another piece of my shattered soul.
"Prince Darian!" the rider gasps. "Thank the gods we found you. I'm from the Northern Territories. Our warlord sent me. He's been possessed by a cursed axe—the Axe of Ending. He's gone mad. Killed half his own army. We need help before he destroys everything!"
Garrett swears. "The Northern Warlord has two thousand soldiers. If he's gone rogue—"
"It's not him," the rider interrupts. "It's the weapon. It speaks to him. Commands him. Makes him do terrible things."
"Another piece of me," I whisper to Darian. "Another fragment driven insane."
The rider continues: "But the warlord fought the possession long enough to send us here. He said to find the Blade of Remembrance. Said only that sword can stop him. Said—" The rider looks directly at Darian. "—said to tell the woman in the blade that he's sorry. That he knows what it's like to be trapped now. And that she has to kill him before he kills everyone else."
The camp goes dead silent.
Nyx stares at me—at the sword. "Did he just... did that warlord just apologize to Elara?"
"He can feel it," I realize, my voice shaking. "He can feel the evil piece of my soul inside the Axe. And he knows it's wrong. He knows it's corrupted."
"We have to go," Darian decides immediately. "How far north?"
"Three days' hard ride," the messenger says.
"We can't," Garrett protests. "We don't have the soldiers. The warlord's army will—"
"Will be slaughtered if we don't help," Darian snaps. "And that axe will move on to someone else. Someone we might not be able to stop."
He's right. I know he's right. But I'm terrified.
"What if I can't control it?" I ask him. "What if the corrupted piece is stronger than me?"
"Then we'll figure it out together."
"My lord," Nyx says carefully. "If we go north, we leave the camp undefended. Lucian could attack while we're gone."
"Then we take everyone," Darian decides. "The whole camp moves north. We save the warlord, recruit his army, and come back strong enough to challenge Lucian."
It's risky. Crazy even.
But it might work.
Garrett looks like he wants to argue more, but then he sighs. "Fine. But when this all goes wrong, I'm saying 'I told you so.'"
"Fair enough."
The camp erupts into action. Tents coming down. Supplies being packed. Soldiers preparing for a three-day march.
Through it all, I feel the Axe in the distance. Feel the twisted piece of my soul screaming from inside it.
"I'm coming," I promise it. "Hold on just a little longer."
Then another sensation hits me. Something cold and familiar.
"Darian!" I gasp. "I feel Celeste! She just woke up from a dream. And she remembers. She remembers EVERYTHING."
"You can sense her? From this far away?"
"We're connected through the reincarnation. I can feel—oh god. Oh no, no, no.""What? Elara, what?!"
"She's going to the treasury. Right now. She's going for the Bow of Truth. If she bonds with another weapon from my collection—"
I don't finish. I don't have to.
If Celeste bonds with the Bow, she'll have the same power Darian has. Maybe more, if the Bow's fragment is stronger.
We'll be matched. Two reincarnated souls, each wielding cursed weapons, heading for a confrontation that's been three hundred years in the making.
"What do we do?" Darian asks.
And I realize the terrible truth:
"We can't be in two places at once. Either we go north and save the warlord but let Celeste get the Bow. Or we race to the capital and try to stop her but abandon the north to destruction."
"That's impossible. There has to be another way."
"There isn't. We have to choose."
Dawn breaks fully now, painting the camp in red and gold light.
Darian stares toward the north, then toward the capital.
"Split the group," he finally decides. "Garrett takes ten soldiers north. I take twenty to the capital."
"That's not enough men for either mission," Nyx protests.
"I know. But it's the best we can do."
"Darian, if we fail—"
"We won't fail. We can't. Too much depends on us."
He starts shouting orders. The camp reorganizes in minutes—decades of military training showing.
But as Garrett's group prepares to ride north, the second messenger bursts into camp.
This one is wearing Lucian's colors.
"I have a message for the traitor Darian," the messenger announces. "From Prince Lucian, rightful heir to the throne of Aethermoor."
"Speak," Darian says coldly.
The messenger unrolls a scroll. "Prince Lucian cordially invites his dear brother to the coronation ceremony. Three months from today. You are welcome to attend—" The messenger's smile turns cruel. "—in chains. Surrender yourself before the coronation, and your followers will be spared. Refuse, and every person in this camp will be hunted down and executed. You have one week to decide."
The scroll burns to ash in the messenger's hand—magic from Lucian's court mage.
The messenger rides away, laughing.
"One week," I whisper. "He's giving us one week before he attacks."
"Then we have to move faster."
But how? How can we save the warlord, stop Celeste, build an army, AND prepare for Lucian's attack in one week?
"This is impossible," I say.
Darian looks at me—at the sword that holds my soul.
"Good thing we're good at impossible."
But through our bond, I feel his doubt. His fear.
And I realize: we're not going to win this.
Not without sacrificing something precious.
The question is: what will we lose first?
Our souls? Our lives? Or each other?