The scent of victory was a fusion of sweat and blood; yet for Kaelen, only the sharp odor of ether lingered.
In the dimness of the locker room, Verrick's assistant examined the black veins on Kaelen's neck, scratching notes into a ledger. Rico sat in the corner, attempting to scrub the bloodstains from Kaelen's armor. The boy was silent. The carnage he had witnessed in today's match had turned even his stomach.
The pulse is irregular, the assistant said, attempting to mimic Verrick's cold tone. The dosage is becoming insufficient. Master Verrick will not be pleased with this.
Kaelen did not answer. He sat on a stone bench, staring at his hands.
His hands were trembling.
It was not out of fear. His body was a battlefield for two opposing forces. Verrick's blue poison sought to numb him, while the violet fury of GRIEF struggled to wake him. Caught in between, Kaelen's very frame creaked under the pressure.
Get out, Kaelen said to the assistant.
But the measurements are not yet fin—
GET OUT!
Kaelen's voice cracked like a whip through the room. His right eye flared with a violet light from beneath the bandages. The assistant dropped his ledger and fled the room in a panic.
Rico set down the bloodied cloth. Giant... are you alright?
Go, Rico. Leave me.
The boy hesitated, but seeing Kaelen's state, he did not argue. He closed the door softly and departed.
Kaelen was alone.
Or so he thought.
GRIEF stood leaning against the wall. The sword rattled slightly in its scabbard. The metal sensed its master's weakness.
Kaelen reached out but did not touch the blade. He was afraid. The moment he touched the sword, the agony of those twin brothers and the screams of the man who had lost his father would flood his mind once more. He wanted to forget. He craved the silence Verrick had promised.
It is heavy, a voice said.
Kaelen jerked his head up.
In the darkest corner of the room, a silhouette stood within the shadows. The door had not opened. No one could have seen how he had entered.
Jarek.
The Tower Guard stepped forward from the gloom. He was not wearing his arena armor; he wore a simple grey tunic, and at his waist hung a plain sword with an unadorned hilt.
What is heavy? Kaelen asked, grinding his teeth.
The memories of others, Jarek replied. He approached Kaelen slowly, his footsteps making no sound. That sword... GRIEF. It is not merely a piece of metal, lad. It is a headstone.
Kaelen tried to stand, but his legs failed him. Who are you? What do you know about me?
Jarek looked at GRIEF. There was a mixture of respect and sorrow in his eyes.
I know that sword. Years ago... I was there when it was forged in the smithies of the Silver Tower. The Alchemists fashioned it from memory metal. They intended for it to absorb the final breath, the final will of those it killed.
Jarek fixed his gaze on Kaelen's right eye.
Their goal was to create the perfect interrogation tool. Kill the enemy and learn their secrets. But the sword... the sword proved greedy. It absorbed not just secrets, but the agony as well. The first knight to wield it slit his own throat by the end of the third day. He could not endure the thousands of screams echoing in his mind.
Kaelen swallowed. His throat was parched.
Verrick... Verrick stops it with his medicine.
Jarek smiled bitterly.
Verrick is merely plugging your ears, Kaelen. The screams are still there. And when that dam breaks... as I saw it crack in the arena today... those screams will drown you.
Jarek placed a hand on Kaelen's shoulder. His hand was calloused and warm.
Leave the medicine. Accept the pain.
I cannot, Kaelen whispered. The pain drives me mad. That eye... it burns me.
You will burn, Jarek said sternly. You will burn until you are ash. But what will be born from those ashes? A leashed dog of Lord Arthus? Or a man with a will of his own?
Jarek pulled back. He turned toward the door.
The tournament is drawing to a close. We will not meet in the next round. They are saving you for the final. But in the final... Jarek paused, looking over his shoulder. ...In the final, the thing you face will not be a monster. It will be your own past.
What do you mean?
You will understand when you stand there, Jarek said. Until then, try to make peace with that sword. For it is not your curse; it is your only friend.
Jarek left.
Kaelen was alone in the room once more.
That mysterious pulse in his chest, that distant pull, began again. Thump... Thump...
Kaelen moved his trembling hand to GRIEF's hilt.
The metal was cold. But as Kaelen wrapped his fingers around it, he heard a voice in the depths of his mind, at the bottom of the swamp numbed by the blue medicine.
It was not his own voice. It was not the whisper.
It was the voice of the sword.
...Let them come... Let them tell their stories... We shall carry them...
Kaelen drew the sword slightly from its scabbard. A violet light illuminated the dark room.
Verrick wanted to numb him. Jarek told him to burn.
Kaelen looked at his own face in the reflection of the blade. His right eye was a pitch-black well; his left, the eye of a terrified human.
We will burn, Kaelen whispered to the sword.
That night, Kaelen did not sleep. The effects of the medicine were beginning to fade, and the pain was returning. But this time, he did not send Rico for the drug.
He ground his teeth, pulled his knees to his chest, and shuddered until morning with that pain, with that sensation of being. For he knew now; even if feeling meant suffering, it was more real than Verrick's false paradise.
Would you like me to continue with the next chapter, or shall we refine this part of the journey?