The ember burned in his palm.
It had no heat, not truly. But Arjuna could feel it pulsing like a heartbeat—his or hers, he couldn't say. The memory of Nyssara's voice still echoed faintly in his skull.
"You made the Vow. And broke it."
Tellen didn't speak as they left the ruined tower. The historian's face was tight with unasked questions, his journal forgotten beneath one arm. Snow fell again, soft as breath, covering the steps in ghost-white powder.
"What now?" Tellen finally asked.
Arjuna paused. "There's more beneath Ashwood. Roots deeper than stone. I think… something's buried there."
"A tomb?"
"No," Arjuna said. "A sword."
They descended through the outer keep, finding a collapsed staircase leading into what had once been the Hold's foundation. It was tight, broken stone pressing inward, roots tangled through every crevice like veins through dead flesh. The deeper they went, the warmer it became.
Until they reached it.
A hollow chamber at the base of the ruin. Old magic clung to the air like incense—thick, cloying, ancient. Moss grew in strange sigils across the stone, and in the center, surrounded by knotted roots, was a sword half-buried in the earth.
It was shaped like a crescent flame. Curved. Elegant. Old.
And alive.
The roots pulsed faintly, like veins feeding into it.
Tellen whispered, "That's no mortal blade."
"No," Arjuna agreed.
He stepped forward, and as he did, the air shifted.
The roots reared back.
And the sword… whispered.
Not in words, but in feeling. Pain. Loss. Oath.
A thousand memories he couldn't reach. A thousand deaths he hadn't lived.
He knelt.
Tellen reached out to stop him, but froze as the sword began to glow.
Arjuna laid the ember—Nyssara's ember—into the soil beside the blade.
And the roots shrank away entirely.
The sword lifted itself from the earth.
It floated.
Waiting.
Then it sank slowly toward Arjuna's outstretched hand.
When he touched the hilt, it burned through him—white fire and black grief. The memories didn't return. But something else did.
Purpose.
He staggered as the blade fused into his grip.
The mark on his chest—veiled since he awoke—flared briefly through his tunic. A sigil of shattered wings encircled by flame.
Tellen stared. "That's… the mark of the Forsworn Flame. A title sealed centuries ago. Only one man ever bore it."
Arjuna stood.
His eyes glinted. "Me."
The sword responded. The runes along its edge glowed.
Not red. Not silver.
But violet.
The color of memory lost to time.
They exited the roots by nightfall, and the snow had stopped. The sky above Ashwood was clear for the first time in days. Stars glinted like forgotten names.
Tellen sat by the fire that night, scribbling furiously.
"You've bound yourself to something older than kings," he said without looking up. "This blade—whatever it is—was meant to be wielded by a Vowkeeper."
"Then let it remind me," Arjuna said. He stared into the fire, silent. "Let it hold the pieces I've lost."
Tellen looked up, brows furrowed. "You think she left that ember for you deliberately?"
"I know she did."
"To guide you?"
Arjuna shook his head. "To warn me."
That night, Arjuna dreamed again.
But it was not of war.
He stood in a field of blue flowers, dusk light painting the horizon. In the distance, a girl with pale silver hair stood beside a tree.
She didn't turn.
"You should not have taken the sword," she said.
He didn't respond.
"Each piece you gather will cut you deeper."
Arjuna looked down. The sword was in his hands. And it was bleeding.
So was he.
But he stepped forward anyway.
"Then let me bleed."
The girl smiled without turning.
"And when you remember why you left me?"
He froze.
"I didn't," he said.
But she was gone.
And the flowers had turned to ash.
He awoke to silence.
Tellen was gone from the campfire.
And down below, in the woods beyond Ashwood's edge, something moved.
A faint glow—like foxfire or will-o'-wisps—floated between the trees.
Not human.
Not safe.
But familiar.
Arjuna stood.
He sheathed the new blade on his back.
And without a word, walked toward the light.