Chapter 29
MORGAN
The ruins around us felt heavier in the silence that followed Xavian's nod, the glowing runes on the walls casting a soft, otherworldly light that danced across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the shadows under his eyes.
I sat on the stone bench, my back against the cool wall, the rune on my arm still humming faintly, a reminder that I'd clawed back some piece of control in this madness.
But control was an illusion here, in this world where the air pressed down like it had weight and the ground seemed to breathe beneath my feet.
Xavian settled against the opposite wall, his posture relaxed in a way that didn't match the tension in his voice when he finally spoke, as if pulling these words out cost him something deep and personal.
"Alright," he said, his tone low and edged with a bitterness that made me lean forward despite the ache in my stump. "You want everything? Fine. But it's not a pretty story, Morgan. It's mine, and it's ugly."
I nodded, my good hand flexing against my knee, the phantom itch in my missing fingers a constant distraction. "Ugly I can handle. If we're in this together now, really in it, I need the whole thing. Start from the beginning.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, and for a moment, he looked almost reluctant, like saying it out loud would make the wounds fresh again.
"Nyra is my sister. Older by three years.
We grew up in House Seraxen, one of the great Houses in Velrith, built on bloodlines that trace back to the forging of our worlds.
Our family wasn't at the top, not rulers, but guardians of something powerful.
Virentha. The Oathstone. It's not like the blade—Virelya doesn't bind; it consumes.
But Virentha... it's different. It was forged by our ancestors to hold things together, to make vows unbreakable, truths undeniable.
Through blood and contact, it can compel someone to speak only what's real, seal promises into compulsions that can't be ignored, anchor loyalties so deeply they become part of you.
It can even knot two souls, sharing magic or strength, or preserve memories across time, contain echoes of a person after they're gone.
But it only fully responds to Seraxen blood.
That's what made our House matter—we controlled it, kept its deeper functions locked to us. "
I listened, trying to wrap my head around it, the words painting a picture that felt both fascinating and terrifying.
An artifact that could force truth or bind souls?
It sounded like a tool for kings, or tyrants.
"Wait, contain echoes? Like ghosts? Or trapping someone's mind? That sounds... invasive."
He nodded, a grim acknowledgment in his eyes, but there was pain there too, a shadow that deepened as he continued.
"It is. And Nyra saw that potential before I did.
We were close once, or I thought we were.
She was always the ambitious one, pushing boundaries, while I trained as a guardian, learning the rituals to wield Virentha safely.
There was a prophecy, speaking of an ancient blade lost to time, a counterpart to the stone.
Reunite them, and their power would reshape Velrith—bind not just souls but fates, control truths on a scale that could topple rivals or forge empires.
Nyra convinced me it was our birthright, that finding the blade would secure House Seraxen against threats.
She had leads, fragments of lore pointing to places where it might have been hidden.
I trusted her. Why wouldn't I? She was family, the one who taught me to fight, to question the Houses' games.
We quested together, crossed into forbidden fringes, and when we found Virelya.
.. she let me take it. When I told her I could hear whispers, she said it called to me, that my blood would bind it true. "
Xavian's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second before meeting mine again, raw with the weight of it.
"Back then, they felt like destiny, not a curse.
The blade hummed when I approached, resonating with my blood, I assumed.
Nyra stepped back, encouraged me. 'It's yours, brother,' she said.
'Our House's future.' I believed her. Gripped it, felt the bond snap into place.
And then... the hunger hit. Overwhelming, like fire in my veins, demanding essence, pulling me under.
I blacked out, woke in a village we'd passed through, bodies everywhere, drained and broken.
My doing. The blade had used me to feed, and Nyra.
.. she was there, watching, her face not horrified but calculated.
She used Virentha on me that night, twisted its rituals into something dark.
Bound my silence so I couldn't speak of her involvement, altered memories of witnesses to paint me as the monster, the rogue guardian who unleashed a curse on innocents.
She reshaped loyalties in our House, forcing oaths that aligned them to her, suppressing truths that would have exposed her.
One-sided bonds, obedience without choice, histories rewritten to fit her narrative.
By dawn, I was the villain, exiled with the blade as my punishment, while she ascended, claiming Virentha and the power of reunion for herself. "
I stared at him, the pieces clicking into place with a sickening weight, horror building in my chest as I processed it. "God, that's... that's monstrous. You trusted her, and she ruined you for power."
He nodded slowly, pain etching deeper lines around his eyes, his voice dropping to a bitter whisper.
"Thirteen years, Morgan. I've scraped by in your world, feeding that thing to survive, blackouts erasing pieces of me, while she reshapes Velrith in her image.
I can only imagine what it's become—Houses bent to her will, truths suppressed, loyalties knotted so tightly no one questions her rule.
I was her tool, disposable once I bore the curse.
And now, with you... whatever you unlocked in the blade, it's tied to this.
But I never saw it, not in all those years.
You touched it once, and you knew—it's a prison, containing something.
I carried it, fed it, and never realized its true nature. Blind, or maybe willfully so."
I interrupted then, my voice rising with the outrage building in me, the personal horror of it hitting closer as I saw the man in front of me not as my captor but as someone shattered by betrayal.
"Blind? Xavian, she manipulated you from the start.
Used your trust, your bloodline, to get what she wanted.
That's not on you. But the blade... if it's a prison, and you've been feeding whatever's inside, that means Nyra knew.
She sent you off with it, let it consume you, while she played god with the stone. It's sick."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the bitterness giving way to a weary resolve, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that carried the full weight of those lost years.
"The prophecy, the artifacts—they're intertwined, and Nyra's hold is deep.
She's turned Velrith into her empire, using the stone to bind dissent and rewrite alliances.
I've been gone too long to know the full extent, but if we can reach allies, expose her... it starts with understanding what the blade really is, and what the hell you mean to it.”