Ashes And The Questions
832 Words
The camp was no longer a camp. It was a graveyard.
Smoke curled from burning wagons, casting the desert night in sickly orange light. The stench of scorched wood and blood clung to the air, making every breath taste like ash. Screams had quieted to groans. Those still alive either fled into the dunes or lay where they had fallen, praying the Empire’s blades would miss them.
Alex stood in the center of it, chest heaving, sword in hand. His ears rang with the clash of steel still echoing in his head.
“Move, boy,” Bren growled, grabbing his arm. The older mercenary’s axe was slick with blood, and his face was streaked with soot. He was limping, though he tried to hide it. “If you stay here, you’re a corpse. Come on.”
Alex let himself be pulled. His legs felt numb, unsteady, but they carried him. They weaved through smoke and shadows, past the fallen, past burning wagons. Alex tried not to look too closely at the faces—men and women who had been alive minutes ago. Some merchants. Some friends.
When they broke through the smoke, the desert opened before them. The dunes rolled pale beneath the starlight, endless and cold.
They didn’t stop until the fire behind them was only a glow on the horizon. Bren finally collapsed against a rock outcrop, clutching his leg. His breathing was rough, wheezing through his teeth.
Alex stood a moment longer, sword hanging at his side. The Fang’s dark edge still gleamed faintly red, as if it fed on the blood staining it. His grip wouldn’t loosen, no matter how he willed it.
Bren’s eye found him. It wasn’t a kind look. It wasn’t even grateful. It was wary, like a man watching a wolf circle too close to his fire.
“What in the nine hells was that?” Bren rasped. “I’ve seen you swing a blade before. You’re quick, but not… that quick. That wasn’t you fighting back there.”
Alex’s throat tightened. He wanted to deny it, to laugh it off as adrenaline or luck. But Bren knew better. Bren had trained him, watched him grow from a reckless boy into a half-decent fighter. He knew Alex’s limits—and what he’d done tonight had broken them clean.
“It—” Alex swallowed. “It wasn’t me. The sword… it moves on its own. Guides me. Like it knows how to fight better than I ever could.”
Bren’s lip curled. “Cursed steel. I knew it the moment I saw the glow.” He spat into the sand. “And you were fool enough to draw it.”
Alex’s temper flared. “What choice did I have? You’d be dead back there if I hadn’t.”
“And now?” Bren snapped. “What do you think you are now, boy? A hero? You’ve tied yourself to something foul. A blade that whispers in the dark doesn’t save men—it eats them.”
The words stung because they felt true. Alex lowered his gaze, watching the sword. His hand still trembled from the power of it, from the way it had surged through him like lightning. Even now, he could hear faint whispers, soft as a breath against his ear. He couldn’t make out the words, but the intent was clear. Fight. Spill blood. Feed me.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Alex muttered. “I just… I wanted to survive.”
Bren’s eye softened, but only a little. He leaned back against the rock, grimacing as he adjusted his leg. “Survival comes with a price. That thing’ll bleed you dry, piece by piece, until nothing’s left but the sword swinging itself. You want to live? You better learn how to master it—or throw it away before it masters you.”
Alex wanted to believe throwing it away was possible. But he couldn’t. His hand wouldn’t obey. His heart hammered whenever he even thought of letting go. The Fang wasn’t just bound to him—it was inside him.
He sat down heavily beside Bren. For a long while, the two said nothing. Only the wind moved, hissing across the dunes like a warning.
Finally, Bren broke the silence. “Empire won’t stop. Not after tonight. They’ll hunt that blade, and anyone carrying it. Which means you.”
Alex closed his eyes. Images of the burning camp, the screams, the blood—all of it rushed back. He hadn’t saved anyone. Not really. Just Bren. Just himself.
“What do I do?” he whispered.
Bren’s voice was low, tired, but steady. “You run. You keep running until you understand what that sword wants. Then, maybe, you choose if it’s your weapon… or your grave.”
Alex stared at the Fang, the faint red glow pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark. He didn’t feel like he had a choice at all.
But he nodded anyway.
- Writer
