Chapter 8: Echoes of Obedience
The wind howled at the edge of the Caedros walls, where towers rose into the cloudline like spears piercing the heavens. Andrew stood alone, cloaked in black and dusksteel, Ashren at his back, watching the city breathe beneath him.
It had been four weeks since the prince fell.
Four weeks since the tournament paused.
And every day since, Andrew had trained, meditated, endured visions—and yet, he still felt the edges of his power fraying. Still barely scratching at the vast, dark mountain that loomed within him.
That night, the air shifted.
Not from wind.
From presence.
He turned without drawing, instinct already warning him he wasn't alone.
A figure stood a few meters away, leaning casually against the tower rail.
Tall. Wrapped in a tattered gray cloak. Pale hair bound in old soldier's braids. One eye glowing faint violet beneath a cracked mask.
The man bowed his head—not mockingly. Reverently.
"You took longer to awaken than I expected, my lord," the man said, voice smooth as cold steel. "But I suppose even you need time to stretch after sleeping for three hundred years."
Andrew tensed. "Who are you?"
The man's violet eye gleamed.
"I am Mihai. First Shadow of the Endblade. Commander of the Thirteenth Legion. Your blade-bearer. Your monster. Your memory."
Andrew felt Ashren stir on his back—heatless, but pulsing.
Mihai stepped forward slowly.
"I swore myself to you across lifetimes. I followed you through the ruin of Trel'vir, through the burning of the Aether Temples, through the Silent War. You—we—broke the world and tried to reshape it. And now…"
He knelt.
"…you have returned."
Andrew stepped back, voice low. "I'm not him. I don't remember. I didn't choose this."
"You don't have to remember," Mihai said, rising again. "You only have to accept. The shadows within you are not curses. They are tools. Gifts."
He tapped the hilt of Ashren.
"This sword was forged from your own soul. Every time you draw it, you are feeding it your mana—your memory. That's why it shows you visions. That's why it calls to you. And it's why it hasn't consumed you yet."
Andrew said nothing. His heart beat faster—not in fear, but recognition.
Mihai continued.
"You've barely touched its potential. You can awaken echoes of the swordmaster you once were—draw upon past forms, techniques, even summon pieces of your old army if your blood holds steady."
Andrew's jaw clenched. "You want me to become him again?"
"I want you to understand what you already are," Mihai said. "Whether you use it to conquer, protect, or destroy—that is your choice. But if you don't train, don't listen… the shadows will choose for you."
Ashren vibrated softly, like a heartbeat.
Mihai stepped into the dark, slowly disappearing into the wind—but his voice echoed one last time.
"Seek the Wound in the Earth. The sword remembers more than it shows. If you want true power, go there."
Then he was gone.
That night, Andrew sat with Ashren unsheathed before him, the blade casting no light—only reflection.
He stared at it, into it.
And for a brief second, he saw something in its surface:
A crown of black flame.
And himself… wearing it.