ECHOES OF A FORGOTTEN WEAPON

They had spent several days in the quiet village, a sanctuary suspended in time while the rest of the Altverse burned. Mio had left two days ago, but not before leaving more than paid for the care of the villagers and a pile of supplies for Asimil and Luce. Their recovery was slow, or at least, it was supposed to be.

Luce stretched, a whimper of pain escaping her lips. Despite the village potions and rest, her muscles were still protesting. Her fighting style, so focused on offense, always left her with more injuries than the others. She left the hut, expecting to find Asimil resting. Instead, she saw him in the center of the clearing, back straight and arms tensed, doing push-ups.

Sweat beaded his forehead, but his pace was steady, energetic.— Asimil! — she exclaimed, rushing toward him, a mixture of concern and astonishment in her voice. — What are you doing? Your injuries were worse than mine! You should be resting! —

He stopped and sat back on his heels, breathing calmly. — Don't worry, Luce. I feel fine. Strangely fine. —

She looked at him closely. It was true. The battle scars, which on her were still reddish, painful marks, on him had faded to fine silver lines. He was not in his best condition, but he looked much more recovered than she had. — But... How? — he muttered.

Asimil shrugged, but Luce knew there was more to it. Was it because of that cataclysm we suffered days ago, she thought, an uneasiness forming inside her. A corrupt blessing that quickens the body at the expense of the soul? He smiled at her, but she noticed that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Physically he was healing, but mentally, the war had just begun for him.

That night, Asimil sat alone under the shade of an ancient tree, far from the warm light of the village campfires. He held the Dagger of the Broken Echo in his hand. The weapon felt different now. He remembered Lyra's reaction, the headache, the warning. But when he held it, he felt no pain. He felt...a buzz. A call.

He knew he didn't qualify. To use it was madness. With everything that had happened, he felt that a battle would begin very soon, it echoed in his head. He couldn't afford to be weak. Just a few seconds, he told himself. He needed to understand what this was.

He tightened his grip on the hilt. The instant he channeled a pinch of his energy into the weapon, the runes on the dagger glowed with an emerald light. And then, his body moved of its own accord.

His posture changed. His back straightened, his grip became that of a master swordsman. His movements were precise, fluid, lethal. He traced arcs in the air, parries and thrusts against an unseen foe. It was not his clumsy, reactive fighting style; it was a graceful, terrifying combat dance, the muscle memory of a warrior he was not.

In the distance, hidden in the shadows of a hut, Luce watched, wide-eyed with astonishment and a shiver running down her spine. —  That... is not Asimil, she thought.  —

The ghostly dance lasted barely ten seconds. Suddenly, Asimil suddenly dropped to his knees, the dagger falling from his trembling hand. He gasped, sweat running down his forehead. The weapon had drained him of almost all his energy in an instant.

Luce rushed to his aid. — Asimil, are you okay? What was that? —

— I don't know... — he said, his voice an exhausted whisper. — It's as if the gun... remembers for me. —

He was too weak to walk on his own. Luce, despite the size difference, draped her healthy arm over his shoulders and helped him carry him back to his room.— You're surprisingly heavy for being so skinny — she joked, though her voice was full of concern.

Inside the hut, she guided him to her bed. But Asimil's dead weight threw her off balance. She stumbled, and they both fell onto the straw mattress in a tangle of limbs. Luce's face was inches from Asimil's, their breaths mingling in the air. A sudden, awkward silence filled the room, charged with unexpected tension.

— I brought you more soup! — The young villager who had taken care of them entered at that very moment, interrupting the moment. Asimil and Luce parted as if they had touched a red-hot iron, both with flushed cheeks.

Just behind the girl, the village chief entered, holding a glowing scroll.— Young heroes — he said, oblivious to the scene he had just witnessed. — A message has come for you. From one of the Eight Stars of the Firmament. —

Asimil and Luce looked at each other, confused. The chief handed them the message. A voice echoed from the scroll:   Survivors of the Twilight. My name is Valerius. I have heard of your exploits and the anomaly you faced. There are things you should know. I await you at my fortress on Steel Dragon Peak. It is two days' journey north. Do not delay.

The invitation was an order. A new path lay before them, one that promised answers, but would undoubtedly take them further away from home. 

— It looks like our break is over — said Luce, her usual adventurous smile returning to her face.

Asimil nodded, his gaze fixed on the north. The fear was still there, but now, mixed with the mystery of the dagger and the call of a new ally, there was also something else: determination.


They would leave tomorrow.