Callan stood before the cellar door.
Not the wine cellar—the other one. Hidden behind the pantry shelf, obscured by flour sacks and the stink of mold. The wood of the door was ancient, stained dark and braced with iron. It hadn't been opened in over a decade.
He exhaled once, then reached behind the shelf and pressed a knot in the stone wall. There was a soft click. The shelf swung inward with a groan.
Behind it, the old staircase yawned downward like a throat.
He grabbed a lantern and descended.
The deeper he went, the colder the air became. Dust coated every step. Cobwebs brushed his shoulders, clinging like memories. His footsteps echoed as if walking through a forgotten church.
At the bottom: a small room. Bare walls. One rack, covered by a cloth.
Callan stood still for a moment.
He reached out.
Pulled the cloth away.
The weapon waited for him.
Not a sword in the royal style. No polished steel. No gemstones. Just a brutal, matte-black blade—jagged at the edge, curved slightly near the tip, and too heavy for most men to swing twice.
Its hilt was wrapped in worn crimson cloth. At the pommel, a sigil: the half-burnt eye of the Crimson Abyss.
Callan ran a hand along it.
"Still ugly," he murmured.
The blade said nothing. It didn't glow. It didn't hum with power.
But it remembered him.
This sword had carved through princes. It had deflected lightning and shattered enchanted shields. It was the last artifact of his old life.
He lifted it.
Dust cascaded from the blade. The weight settled naturally into his grip.
He swung it once.
The wind in the room shifted.
Satisfied, he set the lantern on a hook and stepped to the center of the chamber.
Then he began to move.
Forms. Slow, deliberate, and ancient.
Stances no longer practiced in this world.
Elbow forward. Pivot. Shift weight. Drop low—then rise with explosive force.
It was like dancing with a storm.
Callan's breathing stayed calm. His eyes distant. Each motion summoned ghosts of battles past.
He moved faster.
Steel blurred. Footsteps cracked stone.
A thrust shattered a wooden target. A follow-up swing split a column in two. Dust rose, swirling around him like ash in the wind.
He stopped only when sweat drenched his shirt and the lantern flickered from the pressure in the air.
Callan leaned on the blade, chest rising and falling.
He hadn't felt that alive in years.
And he hated it.
Upstairs, Lyra was reorganizing the herb shelf when she heard a muffled boom. She tilted her head.
Another one.
She frowned and crossed the hall to the pantry. The shelf had shifted slightly. Again.
"Callan?"
Silence.
She pushed the shelf and it creaked open just enough for her to glimpse the secret stairway.
She sighed.
"You said you wouldn't go back down there."
No answer.
She left it open and went to prepare tea. He'd need it after flailing that monster of a sword around.
Callan returned just before dusk. His shirt clung to him. His hair was damp. And his face…
Was blank.
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Did the sword insult your tomatoes?"
He gave her a tired look and collapsed into a chair. "It's heavier than I remember."
"Maybe you're lighter than you remember."
He chuckled faintly.
She poured him tea, then sat beside him. Her hands fidgeted with her sleeves.
"They'll come again, won't they?"
Callan nodded. "Sooner than I hoped."
Lyra looked down. "You never wanted to use that sword again."
"I still don't."
"Then why train?"
He was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Because I'd rather meet them at the door than bury you."
That night, while the manor slept, someone else arrived in the village.
Not in a carriage. Not in uniform. Just a hunched figure cloaked in rags, dragging a wooden staff with a curved top. Eyes like milky pearls peered from under the hood. Skin like bark, lips cracked.
The villagers watched the figure pass in silence.
Old man Holg, who ran the grain mill, muttered, "Another mad pilgrim."
But the figure paused at the edge of the well. Turned slowly.
And whispered, "The Ash is awake."
No one heard it.
But the crows did.
They scattered from the rooftops.
The next morning, Callan met with the steward to inspect the village defenses—or what passed for them.
A low wall. Some rusted spears. A few dozen men, most of them more used to hauling grain than holding lines.
Steward Bren was a former merchant. Thin, balding, and excellent at math.
"Lord Callan," he said, "we haven't seen conflict in decades. Raising a militia would alarm the neighboring lords. The king hasn't issued any martial directives."
Callan walked along the perimeter, glancing at the watchtowers. "And if we wait for the king's blessing, this land will burn before breakfast."
Bren swallowed. "Surely that's an exaggeration."
Callan turned.
"Five nights ago, an assassin entered my garden. Two nights ago, Lady Mireille arrived unannounced. The east is mobilizing. How long before they send a real army to test our borders?"
Bren looked troubled.
"I don't intend to start a war," Callan said. "But I'll be ready when it comes to me."
He turned back toward the wall. "Begin reinforcing the gate. Quietly. I want archers trained in the grove by week's end. Use hunting bows for now."
Bren hesitated.
Then nodded.
"As you wish, my lord."
Later that day, Lyra found Callan at the cliff near the old watchpoint.
He stood with his back to her, watching the valley.
The wind caught his cloak, snapping it slightly. The sword wasn't visible, but she knew he'd hidden it under the outer folds.
"You can't do this alone," she said softly.
He didn't answer.
"I'm not a child anymore, Callan. I can fight too."
"You're a healer."
"I'm your sister."
He turned.
His face was calm. But his eyes—they carried centuries.
"I know."
"I've studied restoration magic. I can shield. I can sense intent. I can bind wounds with a whisper."
"I know."
"Then stop pretending I'm a flower in your garden!"
He blinked.
Then, to her shock, he laughed.
Not cruelly. Not mockingly.
Just a weary, fond sound.
"Lyra, I've seen queens drown in their own blood because they hesitated. I've seen war priests burned at the stake by their own disciples."
She crossed her arms. "And I've seen you plant vegetables with perfect spacing and make peace with a squirrel."
His brow furrowed. "I never made peace. It stole my peaches."
"You need help."
He looked at her.
And, slowly, nodded.
"Fine."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"One condition."
"Name it."
"No swordplay."
She rolled her eyes. "Deal."
They stood together in silence, overlooking the valley as wind tugged at their cloaks.
Then Callan murmured, "They'll come from the north ridge. It's unguarded and easy to traverse. That's where I'd attack."
Lyra followed his gaze.
A hawk wheeled above the trees.
And far beneath it, in the forest shadow, something moved.
A glint of steel.
Then another.
Too precise to be hunters. Too silent to be traders.
Callan's jaw tightened.
"They're here."