Chapter 2 – The Weight of a Blade
1093 Words
Lincoln's POV:
Morning in Castle Duskbane began with the clang of steel.
From my chamber window, I could see soldiers drilling in the courtyard, their swords gleaming under the pale light of twin moons now faded by dawn. The rhythm of their training was hypnotic—strikes, parries, shields raised in unison.
I had only ever held a video game controller back on Earth. The thought of lifting a real sword made my arms ache just imagining it. And yet… this body wasn’t the same. My muscles carried a strange familiarity with movement, like they remembered something I had never done.
By mid-morning, Seraphine—my so-called protector—escorted me to the training grounds.
“You’ll need to prove yourself, my lord,” she said, her emerald eyes sharp as her blade. “Not just to the knights, but to the people. They won’t follow a prince who can’t even hold steel.”
“I’m not really prince material,” I muttered. “I failed gym class twice.”
She ignored my protest and handed me a longsword. The weight nearly pulled me forward, though I caught myself. The weapon felt… alive somehow. My palms tingled where they touched the hilt.
“Feet apart. Shoulders straight. Grip firmly—but not stiff.” Seraphine’s voice was cool and exact. She stepped behind me, correcting my stance with a gentle push to my elbow. “Yes. Like that.”
I exhaled slowly. Then raised the sword.
The knights nearby had stopped their drills to watch. Whispers spread quickly.
“That’s the hidden son?”
“He looks weak.”
“Can’t even hold the blade right.”
Their doubts stabbed harder than any weapon. But before I could lower the sword in defeat, something surged inside me.
A hum. A vibration. Like the ticking of a clock echoing in my bones.
Suddenly, the blade in my hands shimmered with faint, golden cracks of light—like glowing fractures running along the steel. My grip tightened as heat rushed up my arm.
“What is this…?” I gasped.
Seraphine’s eyes widened. “My lord… your power.”
The sword pulsed. And then, before my very eyes, it changed.
The blade shortened, folding upon itself into a dagger. Another pulse—and it lengthened into a greatsword. I could feel time itself shifting around the weapon, like every possible version of its existence lay in my palm.
Chrono-Forge. The name whispered in my mind.
I dropped the sword in shock. It clattered against the stone, returning to its original form. The whispers of the knights grew louder now—not of doubt, but awe.
“He… changed the blade…”
“That’s impossible.”
“Magic?”
Seraphine knelt before me, head bowed. “The gods have blessed you. The heir of Duskbane carries the forge of time itself.”
My power didn’t stay secret for long.
By noon, the news had spread through the castle like wildfire: the hidden son had awakened, wielding a weapon that bent reality. Servants bowed more deeply, knights looked at me with something between fear and reverence, and the old steward—the silver-bearded man who first called me prince—watched me with watery eyes as if his greatest prayer had been answered.
But power attracts danger.
That evening, as I walked the torchlit halls, a scream tore through the silence.
“Help! The kitchens—fire!”
I rushed with Seraphine toward the commotion. Flames licked up the wooden beams near the back corridors, smoke curling into the air. Servants ran, carrying buckets, but the blaze was unnatural—burning blue, feeding on stone as much as wood.
“Mage fire,” Seraphine hissed, drawing her sword. “An intruder.”
As if summoned by her words, a figure emerged from the smoke. Cloaked in black, face hidden, chanting in a guttural tongue. With a flick of his hand, the fire spread wider, cutting off the servants’ escape.
Panic surged through me. I wasn’t a fighter—I was just a kid who died in a car accident. But as the screams echoed, I felt that same hum in my chest again.
Time.
My hand darted to a fallen sword nearby. The moment I touched it, golden cracks spread once more, reshaping the weapon into a sleek spear. Without thinking, I hurled it.
The spear split through the air faster than my eyes could follow.
It struck the intruder’s arm, breaking his chant. The mage hissed, stumbling back. His cloak fell, revealing a scarred face twisted in rage.
“You shouldn’t exist,” he snarled. “The hidden heir was supposed to stay dead.”
My blood ran cold. He knew.
Seraphine charged, her blade clashing with his conjured fire. Sparks flew as they fought, the heat searing the air. I stumbled forward, the spear dissolving back into a sword in my grip. My legs shook, but something deeper pushed me on.
I wasn’t just fighting for myself. The servants trapped behind the flames, Seraphine struggling against the intruder, the very castle that had taken me in—they needed me.
I raised the sword again. This time, I willed it to change.
The blade shifted into a massive shield, golden light bursting from its surface. I slammed it into the ground. Time itself seemed to slow—the flames froze mid-curl, embers suspended like stars in the air.
Everyone gasped.
The intruder’s eyes widened in horror. “Chrono-Forge… it can’t be!”
I charged. My shield caught his next blast, deflecting the fire harmlessly. Seraphine seized the chance, her sword plunging forward. The intruder screamed, then vanished into smoke.
The flames died with him.
When the smoke cleared, silence filled the hall. Dozens of eyes turned to me. The boy who had been nobody on Earth… now stood as the heir of Castle Duskbane, wielding the power of time itself.
Seraphine sheathed her blade and looked at me with something new—respect.
“You may not believe it yet, my lord,” she said softly, “but today you’ve proven it. You are not just a boy reborn. You are the son of Duskbane.”
I stared down at my hands, trembling. The power still hummed within me, a rhythm like ticking clock hands, reminding me that my life would never be ordinary again.
And for the first time since I opened my eyes in this world… I felt ready.
Ready to live.
Ready to fight.
Ready to be Lincoln Lewis.
- Writer
