The world was gone.

  Darius stood in a whiteness that had no depth, no ceiling, no floor. It pressed against his senses, too absolute to be natural. There was no wind, no shadow. Just him—alone—and the sword.

  It floated ahead of him in the emptiness.

  A single weapon, suspended. The blade was sheathed, its length wrapped in layer upon layer of protective sigils. Each band glowed faintly, shimmering like crystal: jagged runes, looping lines, pulsing glyphs that flickered with a rhythm not his own. Some swelled and shrank like a beating heart, others crawled across as if they were alive. From a distance, it looked less like a weapon and more like a star cocooned in a cage of light.

  Even bound, the weapon radiated power. Heat pressed against his skin, carried by no breeze. He had faced monsters, witches, even demons in half-ruined temples, but the only thing that came close to this feeling was the Dragon's Heart. His body knew instinctively: this was not a tool. This was a will.

  He stepped forward. The white floor rippled under his boots like stretched fabric. The heat grew stronger, crawling up his arms as he approached.

  Then a voice cracked the silence.

  “Darius.”

  He froze.

  The voice was deep, rough as gravel yet steady as stone. He knew it as surely as he knew his own heartbeat.

  “Garran…”

  He turned—and there he was.

  The scarred jaw, storm-grey eyes, and broad shoulders of the man who had raised him from the gutter. Garran’s form stood in the void, not entirely flesh, not entirely shadow. His cloak stirred, though there was no wind. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, fixed not on Darius but on the blade.

  “This sword,” Garran said, his voice echoing across the white expanse, “I found in the chambers of a demonkin I slew many years ago.”

  Darius turned back to the weapon, listening with a clenched jaw as the voice carried.

  “It was not the demonkin’s. He could not wield it. He tried, but the blade rejected him. When I laid my own hand upon it, I too was denied. Yet even in my grasp, I could feel its spirit.” Garran’s eyes narrowed. “It was crafted by dwarven hands. Its sheath and hilt are from the holy trees of the elves. And its blade… carved from dragon bone itself.”

  The words struck Darius like hammers. Dragon bone. He had heard whispers of such things, relics so rare they were dismissed as myth. But Garran did not embellish.

  “I do not know who first forged it,” Garran continued, voice low, “nor why it was left in such a place. But I felt what lived within. Determination beyond measure. Unrelenting, courageous, stubborn. A fire that burned so fiercely it could scorch the world to ash if loosed without care. I hid it away, because of that fire…” His gaze cut to Darius. “…it reminded me of you.”

  The words drove a tremor through Darius’s chest.

  “I kept it sealed,” Garran said. “Because as long as I lived, you would not need it. But if I fell, you would need every ounce of strength to hunt down the creature that slew me—if I had not already dragged it to hell with me.”

  The image stepped closer, looming tall. “I know what you wanted me to leave behind. Encouragement. Sweet words to comfort you.” A faint shake of his head. “But that is for soft men. I found you in the gutter, boy. I raised you to be iron. And iron does not need to be cuddled. It needs to be sharpened. And given a target.”

  The void thrummed with the weight of the words.

  “Your target is clear. So take that blade that I could not. Sharpen your resolve. That is all that is needed of the son of Garran Veyle.”

  Tears burned at the edges of Darius’s eyes. His throat tightened. He stepped forward, step after step, until the sword loomed before him. Every step he took towards the sword, he could feel the rising heat.

  He reached out. His fingers brushed the hilt.

  The sigils shattered.

  A soundless crack split the void, shards of light scattering like broken glass. Heat surged into Darius’s arm, searing up his veins, clawing into his chest. His body arched, his knees nearly buckling. His vision flared red.

  The sword rejected him.

  A roar detonated inside his skull—not human, not earthly, a dragon’s cry that shook his bones. His grip trembled as the weapon’s will slammed into him, testing him, demanding he yield.

  “No!” he snarled, voice raw. “I will not be rejected by a lump of steel!”

  The fire pressed harder, blistering his skin, tearing through his nerves. His mind filled with visions: claws rending stone, wings blotting out the sun, mountain ranges burning in dragonflame. The weapon’s fury was an ocean, vast and unrelenting.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Darius clenched his teeth until his jaw creaked. Images surged from his own memory—rainwater in the gutter, his numb fingers clutching stolen bread, the jeers of men who spat on his existence. Then Garran’s iron grip on his collar, dragging him up. The training yard, the weight of the blade, the sound of his own body hitting dirt again and again. Rising. Falling. Rising again.

  The gauntlet that gripped the sword was reduced to ash, and the heat of the blade did not stop there. The flesh on his hand began to burn away to the bone. He didn't make a sound; he only poured Vaylora into his now skeletal hand.

  “I endured the gutter,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I endured Garran’s trials. I endured the ridicule. I'll endure the suffering, but can you endure me?!”

  His grip tightened, his Vaylora spiked. The void quaked. Another shockwave burst outward, rattling unseen walls.

  —

  Outside, the barrier blazed.

  Stone cracked. Dust rained from the ceiling. The Inquisitors staggered back as the seal pulsed with violent light.

  “He’s going to burn alive!” Eryndor shouted, voice cracking as the heat lashed their faces. He pressed forward a step before Calder’s arm blocked his path.

  Myrren’s quill trembled in her fingers. “The barrier’s pulse—look at the wards—it’s climbing beyond safe thresholds. He should already be dead.”

  “Then we have to act!” Eryndor snapped, eyes wild. “We can’t just stand here while he’s being roasted from the inside out!”

  Calder spat on the stone. “If he can’t hold, then he was never worthy.”

  Eryndor rounded on him, face pale but defiant. “Worthy? He’s still a man! Garran’s heir! You’d call that unworthy?”

  “Enough,” Isolde cut in, her staff lifting, her voice like iron striking. “This is not for us to decide. If this is the trial he must pass, all we can offer is prayer. Do not disgrace his courage with panic.”

  Eryndor’s jaw worked, fury and fear warring on his face. At last, he bowed his head, but his knuckles stayed white around his staff. He immersed himself in prayer, since it was the only thing he could do.

  Aelun only smirked, eyes reflecting the glow. “Garran was right,” he murmured. “The boy is iron. Let this fire reforge him.”

  Another shockwave slammed outward, almost knocking them off their feet. The barrier thrummed like a drum stretched to breaking.

  —

  Within, Darius roared, pouring every shred of will into his grip. His vision blurred white, his body felt aflame, but he held. He layered himself in Vaylora to fight the flames. The sword’s fury met his own.

  “I am not a boy to be cast aside,” he spat. “I am Darius Veyle. I will not break!”

  The blaze faltered. The weapon bent. Those flames that threatened to burn everything in its wake began to not eat away at his Vaylora, but merge with it. His Vaylora no longer fought against the flames; it became the flame. With one final surge, the light shattered. The flames did not vanish all at once. They crawled back into him, searing his nerves as if knitting muscle thread by thread. Each heartbeat drove a fresh line of agony through his arm—then sealed it. Ash became skin. Charred tendon twisted into living flesh. His bones rang like struck steel as marrow returned, reforged.

  At last, the fire coiled into a single mark. Red scales shimmered faintly along the back of his hand, as though the dragon itself had branded him. The sword’s will had not merely accepted him—it had left its mark, a reminder that this pact would never be a gentle one.

  Darius stood with the sheathed sword in hand, and then he drew it. The void collapsed.

  —

  On the outside, they all felt the heat die almost instantly. Then a thin line appeared in the barrier, before a scorching slash of white hot fire flew past them.

  Darius stepped through the forced opening.

  In his hand, the sword was drawn.

  The blade gleamed impossibly soft, as though woven from light itself. Vaylora streamed from it like mist, flowing naturally, unbidden, without him drawing a drop of his own strength. It came in the form of white flames, gently glowing with unspeakable power.

  The others stared, silent. Some in awe. Some in fear.

  Darius lifted it high and slashed behind him.

  What remained of the barrier screamed as the blade cut through its bindings. Threads of Vaylora parted like silk, severed utterly. The seal collapsed, undone. The barrier's Vaylora, its magic was cut, and it faded into the ether to return to the earth.

  For a breath, silence. The air was sharp, honed, as if the world itself had been edged.

  Jareth whispered, “Saints…” Kaelen muttered a curse and stepped back. Even Isolde’s composure wavered, her lips parting before she caught herself.

  Aelun’s smirk widened. He stepped forward, eyes alight. “So. Garran was right. You were the one it waited for.” His voice dropped to a low hum of satisfaction.

  "Waiting for? I'm not so sure, but I will be the one taking it." Darius said as he looked at the blade once more before resheathing it. Instantly, the heat vanished, and the others could breathe easy again.

  Aelun’s smile was thin, eyes gleaming. “Fate does not wait to be handed down. You seized it. That alone proves that it is yours.”

  “Let me walk with you, Inquisitor. I would see how Garran’s son performs.”

  Darius met his gaze. He was a friend, or at least a colleague of Garran. Someone close enough to him to trust to protect this sword and help guide him to it. There was no doubt that this Elf was skilled. Even standing right in front of him, he could hardly make out the sounds of his moments.

  With his age being easily double that of Garran's, his experience and knowledge of the world would be invaluable.

  He gave a single nod.

  "But you must follow my command, understood?"

  "As long it doesn't go against my principles, you will have my blade and my bow." Aelun gave a gentle bow, and they fell in line as they made their way back to the others.

  Once outside, they were greeted by the sight of their company. Confusion plastered on their faces. They did not witness the events, but they had felt the shockwaves and felt the sputtering of heat. Some of the nearby snow had begun to melt.

  Darius stood in front of them and drew his blade. The white flames rolled off the blade, and they all felt the heat radiating. Only it was not harsh; it was gentle, filling them with courage and resolve.

  Then he raised the blade. His voice rang steady, iron-hard.

  “By fire and thorn, we cleanse the unfaithful. Sanctum Eterna.”

  "Sanctum Eterna!!" The company shouted at the top of their lungs. Their declaration rumbled the ground. Before, they were apprehensive and doubtful about this journey. Hunting the Princess of the Hallow, while a worthy cause, seemed hopeless.

  However, the white flame that illuminated even the afternoon sky filled them with renewed hope and faith.

  The inquisitors’ roar echoed in the trees, but Darius only felt the silence where Garran’s voice should have been. The loss pressed like a weight in his chest, yet he kept his back straight. Iron did not bend. Not until his work was finished.