They did not stop walking until the sun began to fall.
Lyra followed the road only long enough to make sure they were visible, then veered into the tall grass, choosing uneven ground over safety. Every few steps, she glanced back, half-expecting armored figures to emerge from the dust.
You remained quiet.
Not because you had nothing to say—but because this world was speaking first.
The land hummed with tension. Not fear, not hostility—anticipation. You felt it the way steel feels pressure before a strike. Something ancient in Eldranth had awakened when you left the cave.
I should have stayed sealed, you thought.
"No," Lyra said suddenly.
You paused.
She had not heard your thoughts—but she had felt them.
"If you stayed," she continued, voice low, "someone else would have taken you. Someone who wanted to use you."
She tightened her grip, just slightly.
"I won't."
That certainty startled you more than the Sanctum had.
They reached a ruined watchtower by nightfall.
Its stones were cracked, ivy crawling up its sides like veins. Lyra climbed inside, choosing the upper level where the roof had collapsed, leaving the stars visible.
She sat with her back against the wall and rested you across her knees.
Only then did exhaustion claim her.
You felt it settle into her muscles, into her bones. She was used to running—but not to being hunted.
The fire she lit was small, cautious. Its light reflected along your blade, and for a moment, you saw something you hadn't expected.
Faces.
Not reflections—memories.
A man in rusted armor, gripping you with bloodied hands.A woman kneeling, whispering apologies to a blade identical to you.A battlefield frozen in ash.
Your edge trembled.
So this was what resonance awakened.
Far away, in a city carved from white stone, bells rang.
High Sanctifier Caelum stood before a basin filled with liquid light. His robes were pristine, his expression serene.
"The relic has moved," an acolyte reported, kneeling. "Awakened. Resonant."
Caelum closed his eyes.
"Astrael," he said softly.
The basin rippled, forming the image of a sword reflecting firelight—and a girl holding it.
"A mythic blade choosing an unregistered wielder," he murmured. "Unacceptable."
He turned.
"Send the Pursuers. And inform the Forgemasters."
The acolyte hesitated. "If it reaches full resonance—"
"It won't," Caelum interrupted calmly. "All blades break eventually."
Lyra woke with a sharp inhale.
The fire had burned low. The stars above had shifted.
"You showed me something," she said quietly.
You did not deny it.
"They weren't my memories," she continued. "They were yours."
Yes.
Her fingers traced the leather wrapping of your hilt, reverent now, careful in a new way.
"You've been with others before."
You sent agreement—not pride, not regret. Simply truth.
She swallowed. "Did they all… end badly?"
You hesitated.
Some had.
Some had chosen violence when you had offered restraint. Others had died protecting people who would never remember their names.
One had tried to use you to become a god.
You had refused.
Lyra looked away. "If I ever become like that… you should leave me."
The thought struck deeper than any blow.
You pulsed firmly—No.
Not because she was perfect.
But because she was aware.
At dawn, they reached the edge of a town.
Smoke curled upward. Markets stirred. Life continued, oblivious to the hunters moving through it.
Lyra stopped.
"We can't go in like this," she said. "They'll notice you."
You felt her hesitation—fear not for herself, but for you.
You considered.
Then you did something you had never done before.
You withdrew.
The glow faded. The presence dimmed. You folded your awareness inward, becoming—outwardly—just a sword.
Ordinary.
She blinked. "You can hide."
For a while, you replied gently.
Her lips curved into a small, determined smile.
"Then let's keep moving."
As they stepped into the town, unnoticed, you felt it again—the pull of memory, the hum of fate tightening.
The world hunted blades.
But for the first time…
A blade was walking back.