Chapter 8 – Fire, Sword, and the Fall of One

The temple felt heavier as the golden man stood beside the soul pond, its still waters shimmering faintly like glass holding a storm beneath.

Zayn crossed his arms, impatience evident on his face. "We don’t have time for bedtime stories, ghost man," he said. "Either tell us what we need to know… or we walk." The others said nothing. But none moved either. The golden man slowly turned to Zayn, his glowing face unreadable. “You humans are always in a rush,” he said softly. “Impatient even when standing on the edge of fate.” Without another word, he reached for the sword in Riven’s sheath. It floated to his hand effortlessly, as if called by its creator. He stepped to the edge of the pond, lifted the sword with reverence, and dipped just the tip of its blade into the water.

“Reveal,” he whispered,
“what must not be said to the unworthy…” The water rippled violently. Suddenly, the pond glowed white—then golden—and a swirling current of images exploded across the temple. The walls trembled, and a wind rose from nowhere. Time bent. Reality blurred. The five shielded their eyes as the world shifted around them… They were no longer in the temple. Instead, they stood amidst an endless sea of fire. Burning skies. Molten land. No life. No air. No time. Just flame.

Above the inferno floated a sword—pristine, glowing, untouched by the heat. Nine brilliant gemstones shimmered on its hilt, each glowing in a unique hue: deep crimson, violet, silver-blue, obsidian, emerald, gold, sapphire, ash-white… and a ninth gem—dark as the space between stars. “Before the Nine Realms,” the golden man's voice echoed all around them, though his lips did not move,
“there was only fire. A single world of endless heat and chaos. Nothing lived. Nothing died. Nothing… existed.” A figure appeared—a being of impossible light. His face was hidden. His hands were not of flesh. He forged the sword in silence, striking it with a hammer made of stars, cooling it in cosmic rivers, shaping it with words only the universe understood.

“The Creator made one thing,” the golden man continued. “A sword. The Sword of Soul and Flame. Nine gems. Each a core of an element unknown to mortals.” Then two figures emerged from light—one shining, the other shadowed. “The Creator made two,” said the golden man. “Two to bear the sword. One of fire and fury—Rashka. One of balance and light—me.” “It began with a prayer.” Suddenly, the scene shifted. Now they stood over a ruined city. Humans wept, enslaved, chained by grotesque, horned demons who towered over them with eyes like coals and laughter like thunder. A woman cried out to the sky. Her voice was hoarse, her arms trembling. A whisper followed. “And the sword answered…” The sword fell from the sky, splitting the ground. The two chosen stood before it. But only one was chosen.

“The sword chose Rashka first. But it saw too late… his thirst. His pride.” The vision showed Rashka holding the sword, grinning with power. But the blade began to dull in his hand, growing cold. He screamed in rage. “It rejected him.” It then turned to the second—the golden man. “Then… it chose me.” But Rashka was not one to accept defeat. The scene shattered. Now they stood above a great mountain. Rashka stood atop it, lifting a black stone, pulsing with rage. He hurled it. “Driven by hatred… Rashka threw the Worldstone at the very planet below—the land of humans and demons.” A roar of thunder followed. The world shattered. Split. Twisted. “That impact broke reality itself. It created the Nine Realms.” The fire faded, and now nine separate realms formed like bubbles—each glowing with different energy. Mountains of bone. Forests of whispers. Oceans made of glass. Each terrifying. Each majestic. “Each realm would be ruled by a demon king—creatures born of Rashka’s will. All loyal to him. All prisoners of his hate.” “But Rashka… he no longer lived in the realms. He built a place above them, where light itself dare not go. Even the kings he made fear him.”

Nyra clenched her jaw. “What happened to you?” “He tried to trap me,” the golden man answered. “But neither of us can kill the other. We were forged by the same flame. We are two halves of a whole. Part of the sword itself.” Kael’s eyes widened. “You’re part of the sword?” The golden man nodded. “And he stole a part of me… hid it in the Second Realm—behind the gate of a demon king you have yet to face.” Silence. Then, Lilu—curious and hesitant—asked softly: “Who… who is Ravaa? You mentioned the name.” The golden figure turned to her. For a moment, his golden light dimmed. “That is what they once called me,” he said. “In the old tongue. It means ‘Guide.’” Lilu tilted her head. “Is that your name?” He smiled faintly. “Names are only words. But… if you prefer… yes. You may call me Ravaa.” The world returned.

The temple’s walls, now feeling too small for what they had just witnessed, stood silent once again. The pond had gone still. The sword floated back into Riven’s sheath, the golden glow now faint on its surface. None of them spoke for several moments. Not because they had nothing to say. But because words… no longer felt big enough.