BLOOD OF THE FORGOTTEN BLADE

Alex hated sand. It got into his boots, his hair, and every damn corner of his gear. He kicked at a loose rock as he walked beside the caravan, squinting against the late sun. “Stay sharp, boy,” Bren muttered from behind him. The old mercenary always said that, whether they were on open roads or quiet villages. Alex grunted in reply. He was sharp enough. Hungry, sore, and tired of guarding merchants who smelled of perfume and fear, but sharp. The wagons creaked forward across the dry flats. Silk and spice—that’s what the merchants claimed they were hauling. But Alex knew merchants lied as easily as they breathed. No one hired six mercenaries to guard silk. By nightfall, they stopped by the ruins of a watchtower. Crumbling stone, black against the stars. The merchants lit their fires quickly, laughter spilling out as they passed skins of cheap wine around. Alex stayed away from the circle of light, chewing on dry bread. His sword leaned against his leg, old iron that had saved his life more times than he cared to count. Not much to look at, but neither was he. Bren sat beside him with a groan, rubbing his bad knee. “You watch too much,” the old man said. “And you drink too much,” Alex shot back. Bren barked a laugh. “Fair.” For a while they sat in silence, the fire crackling behind them. Alex’s eyes kept drifting to one of the wagons. It rode lower than the rest, heavy with something the merchants hadn’t mentioned. He’d noticed it days ago but kept quiet. Curiosity was dangerous when you worked for pay. But that night, when most of the others were asleep, he couldn’t stop himself. He crept to the wagon, heart pounding harder than he liked to admit. Pulling back the tarp, he found a chest. Iron, scarred with strange symbols, chained shut. Not silk. Not spice. Something else. He shouldn’t have touched it. He knew that. But his hand moved anyway. The chains snapped the moment his fingers brushed the lid, metal breaking with a sound that echoed too loud in the night. Alex froze, breath caught. Then the chest opened. Inside lay a sword. Black steel, rough and jagged like an animal’s fang. It looked old—older than the empire itself. Alex should have called Bren. He should have walked away. Instead, he reached out. His hand trembled, but he closed it around the hilt. A rush of heat slammed into him, burning through his veins. His knees hit the ground as a thousand whispers flooded his head—words he didn’t understand, voices too many to count. He gasped, fighting for air, but the blade wouldn’t let go. Then, just as suddenly, it eased. The whispers faded, leaving his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The sword pulsed faintly in his hand. Alive. Waiting. Alex stared at it, chest heaving. He wanted to throw it back into the chest, but his grip wouldn’t loosen. “Boy.” He spun around. Bren stood a few feet away, his one eye wide. Alex opened his mouth, but no words came. Bren’s face hardened. “Put it down.” “I… can’t.” The veteran swore under his breath. “Gods help us.” Alex swallowed, the weight of the blade pressing heavier than steel. Whatever he had touched, it wasn’t just a weapon. It was something the empire had buried—and if they found it in his hands, his life was already over.