Wands vs Swords

The Saint's Chains

The descent to sub-level 9 took less time than William remembered.

The stairs seemed to fall away beneath his feet, each step carrying him deeper into the dark. The Rust on the walls pulsed with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. The black sword hummed, eager and hungry.

Julian walked beside him, his dagger drawn. Behind them came Elara, Marcus, Sasha, and the Blind Enchantress—her legs moving now, restored by some miracle of will or Rust. William did not ask how.

"The Saint knows we're coming," the Blind Enchantress said. Her empty sockets glowed faintly, lighting the way. "He's been waiting for this moment for fifty years."

"Then let's not keep him waiting."

They reached the bottom of the stairs. The corridor stretched before them—wide, dark, lined with Rust so thick it looked like velvet. At the far end, the Sword-Saint sat on his throne of bones.

He was different from the last time William had seen him. His chains were thinner. The blue light that bound them flickered like a dying flame. His black eyes burned brighter.

"You came back," the Saint said. "I knew you would."

"I came to end this."

"Yes." The Saint smiled. "One way or another."

William walked toward him. The Rust on the floor crunched beneath his boots. The sword in his hand trembled.

"Your mother visited me, you know. Before she died." The Saint's voice was soft. "She begged me to help you. To teach you. To save you from the fate she couldn't escape."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth. That you were already lost. That the Rust was in your blood from birth. That nothing could save you except embracing what you are."

William stopped a few feet from the throne. The chains were close enough to touch. The blue light pulsed weakly.

"I'm not lost."

"Not yet." The Saint leaned forward. The chains pulled taut. "But you will be. When you break these chains, you will release my power into the world. It will seek a vessel. It will find you. And you will become me."

"Or I'll control it."

The Saint laughed. It was a dry, broken sound. "Control? Boy, I have been trying to control this power for a century. It cannot be controlled. It can only be channeled. Directed. Aimed like a weapon."

"Then aim me."

The Saint's laughter stopped. His black eyes narrowed.

"You would let me use you?"

"You would let me use you." William raised his sword. "The power is in my blood. My mother's research showed me how to balance it. Not control. Balance. That's the difference between us."

The Saint was silent for a long moment.

"Your mother was a fool," he said finally. "But she was a brilliant fool." He raised his bound wrists. "Do it. Break the chains. Take the power. And prove me wrong."

William swung.

The black blade struck the first chain. The blue light exploded—not outward, but inward, sucked into the sword's hungry metal. The chain shattered.

The Saint gasped. His body shuddered. The Rust on his skin cracked and flaked away, revealing pale flesh beneath.

"More," he whispered.

William swung again. Another chain shattered. The blue light drained into the sword. The blade grew hotter, heavier, more alive.

The third chain.

The fourth.

The fifth.

With each blow, the Saint's body changed. He grew younger. Stronger. The Rust receded from his face, his arms, his chest. His black eyes faded to gray.

The sixth chain.

The seventh.

The Saint stood. His chains were gone. His body was whole—not young, but not ancient. A man in his forties, with brown hair and gray eyes.

William's eyes.

"No," William whispered.

The Saint looked at his hands. At his reflection in the black walls. At William.

"Thank you," he said.

And then he crumbled to dust.

William stared at the pile of ash on the stone floor. The throne of bones. The empty chains.

"The power," the Blind Enchantress said. "Where did it go?"

William looked at his sword. The blade was no longer black. It was white—blazing white, brighter than the sun. The Rust on his body surged, feeding into the blade, draining out of him.

"Into the sword," he said. "The Saint's power. The Rust. All of it."

The Blind Enchantress stepped closer. Her empty sockets reflected the white light.

"The sword cannot hold it for long. You need to release it. Channel it. Use it."

"Use it for what?"

"Whatever you choose."

William looked at his friends. Julian, his dagger raised, ready to fight. Elara, her brown eyes wide with fear and hope. Marcus, trembling but standing. Sasha, her gray eyes clear for the first time in weeks.

He looked at the Council's tower, visible through a crack in the ceiling. At the city above, with its lies and its prisons and its endless hunger for power.

He made his choice.

He raised the white blade and shouted.

The word was not balance. It was not resonance. It was a word his mother had taught him, in the years before the Council took her. A word that meant enough.

The white light exploded outward.

It swept through sub-level 9, melting the Rust, shattering the chains, crumbling the throne of bones. It swept up the staircase, through the tower, through the Academy, through the Core, through the Spire.

Every mana-draining machine in Veridias City went dark.

Every chain binding every prisoner dissolved.

Every Wand Councilor in every tower felt the wave pass through them—and knew that their power was gone.

The white light faded.

William fell to his knees. The sword was black again—ordinary, quiet, no longer hungry. The Rust on his body was gone. His hands were clean. His face was smooth.

"The Saint?" Julian asked.

"Gone," the Blind Enchantress said. "His power was released into the city. It will take years to fade. But the Council cannot use it. No one can use it. It's just... free."

William stood up. He looked at his hands. At the sword. At the empty throne.

"What now?" Elara asked.

William walked toward the staircase.

"Now we go home."