The candle flickered, and the ink bled strange shapes.
Alex's quill danced over the parchment in slow, practised strokes. The symbols came from dreams—visions, maybe. He never remembered them clearly, only the pressure they left behind. Like echoes pressed into the bone. He called it The Oracle, though he didn't know why.
The room was quiet, lined with books no one read and relics no one understood. At its centre behind his desk, loomed a sword.
It wasn't decorative.
The thing hung bolted into the stone wall. Too massive to lift, too sharp to be rusted, its surface was dark—darker than shadow, darker than night. A stillness radiated from it like something was listening. Waiting.
Alex didn't know where it came from. Only that it had always been there.
---
The door slammed open.
Ciara stepped in without knocking, cloak brushing the dust. She was sharp-eyed and dangerous, like a blade in motion.
"You're writing again," she said, walking to the desk. "Still with the riddles?"
He didn't look up.
She snatched the page from under his hand, scanned the symbols, and scoffed. "This is madness wrapped in mystery. If you're trying to impress the Scholars, they're not interested."
"It's not for them."
"Then who, Alex?" she asked, leaning forward. "Because you sure as hell don't read it."
He paused. "No. I feel it."
Her lips parted, a retort forming—but footsteps echoed down the hall.
A soldier appeared at the door, sweat-drenched and blood-specked. "Commander Ciara! The northern gate—it's under siege. Beasts. Dozens—no, hundreds. Coming fast."
Ciara's eyes sharpened. "Tell the archers to hold formation. I'll gear up."
She turned to leave, already pulling her gloves tight. Then paused.
"You staying in this tomb, or are you coming?"
Alex finally looked at her. His gaze was quiet. Calm. But something behind it seemed...older.
"I'll be there."
---
Ciara's boots thundered down the corridor. The soldier stayed, hesitant. He shifted his weight.
"Sir… We could use every hand."
Alex stood.
The candle's flame flickered again. His shadow stretched, unnatural, curling around the base of the chained sword. As he stepped forward, the chains unlocked with a dull *clink*. No force. No sound. They just opened.
The sword fell slowly into his grip, silent and impossibly heavy—yet he held it like a memory.
"I'll be there," he said again.
And without another word, he sank into the shadows.
Gone.
---
The northern gates screamed with war.
Peter stood atop the wall, shouting orders. His hammer glowed faintly in the dusk, stained from the last attack. Jack was beside him, sleeves rolled, blade humming with pressure. Neither man looked afraid.
Below them, the beasts howled. Fanged, rabid things, all muscle and hunger. They weren't creatures. They were nightmares with bones.
At their centre stood a man who called himself a God of War—no one believed him, but none dared question it.
And then— Ciara arrived. Her daggers linted, drawn. Her stance fierce.
"We hold," she barked. "No retreat."
Peter laughed bitterly. "Easy for you to say. Backup's a myth."
"No," she whispered.
Her shadow twitched.
Then split.
From its depths, Alex rose.
Sword in hand. Eyes calm. And silent.
---