Chapter 4 — A Silver Oath at the Crimson Edge

Epitaph didn't.

That's probably what should've scared me.

A week after Lareth, the Council decided nearly getting myself killed counted as proof I was ready for a greater responsibility.

Their words, not mine.

I stood outside the Aetherian Reliquary in polished ceremonial clothes while three priests argued over whether the blood on my sleeve was disrespectful.

“It isn't mine,” I said.

That somehow made things worse.

Cassian leaned against a pillar beside me, dressed properly for once.

“Try not to insult anyone before we get inside.”

“I haven't insulted anyone.”

“One priest left.”

“He asked if I understood the sacred weight of destiny.”

“And?”

“I asked how much it weighed.”

Cassian covered a laugh with a cough.

Seris, standing on my other side with an archive satchel over one shoulder, didn't bother hiding hers.

A priest looked back at us.

She immediately pretended to study the ceiling.

I stared at her.

“Why are you here again?”

“Research.”

“You say that whenever you want to trespass legally.”

“It works.”

Cassian nodded. “She's learning.”

The bronze doors opened.

Every joke died.

Even now, I remember that room.

The Reliquary wasn't built like a vault.

It was built like a graveyard.

Rows of weapons rested inside tall crystal chambers stretching farther than I could see. Spears, swords, bows, strange relics whose purpose had been forgotten. Small plaques sat beneath each one, carved with names that belonged to heroes, kings, saints...

and people nobody remembered.

Blue-white light floated beneath the floor.

My halo reflected across the glass.

For once, nobody called me Star-Chosen.

The dead didn't care.

High Keeper Vaelor waited at the centre of the hall.

“You understand why you're here?”

“Because apparently ignoring orders impressed someone.”

Cassian made a noise behind me.

Vaelor's expression didn't change.

“The relics choose their bearers.”

“So I've heard.”

“You won't choose a weapon. You won't touch anything unless it calls to you.”

“And if nothing does?”

“Then nothing does.”

I liked him immediately.

That might've been the first person connected to the Council who'd ever told me it was acceptable not to be chosen.

We walked.

Nothing happened.

Honestly, I was relieved.

We passed a spear surrounded by tiny storms.

Nothing.

A bow made from something that looked suspiciously like bone.

Nothing.

A silver greatsword that hummed when Cassian walked near it.

He stopped.

“So that one likes me.”

Vaelor kept walking.

“It dislikes you.”

“Oh.”

Seris grinned. “Finally, a weapon with standards.”

“Cruel.”

We reached the oldest part of the Reliquary.

The air changed.

Warmer.

Heavier.

My halo flickered.

Then something pulled.

Not my body.

Something deeper.

I stopped.

At the end of a narrow chamber stood a sword.

No grand light.

No flames.

No choir of ancient spirits.

Just a silver blade resting upright inside cracked crystal.

It looked almost plain.

That made me nervous.

“What is that?”

Vaelor didn't answer right away.

Seris stepped closer to the plaque.

Her face lost its smile.

“Epitaph.”

The name sounded wrong in such a quiet room.

I approached the crystal.

The blade had no jewels. No gold. Just a dark grip, silver guard, and thin lines carved across the metal like writing too small to read.

When I lifted my hand, those lines lit.

One.

Two.

Three.

Nine silver sigils appeared along the blade.

Vaelor's voice hardened.

“Don't touch it.”

Naturally, the sword chose that moment to move.

The crystal shattered.

Cassian grabbed Seris.

I threw up my arms.

Epitaph crossed the room by itself.

Its hilt struck my palm.

Silence.

I stared at it.

Cassian stared at me.

Seris stared at me.

Vaelor looked like he'd just aged twenty years.

“Well,” I said.

“That seems bad.”

“Put it down.”

I tried.

My fingers wouldn't open.

“That seems worse.”

Seris came closer.

“Don't force it.”

“Wonderful advice.”

The sigils pulsed.

For half a second, I saw lines everywhere.

Across the room.

Across the wards in the walls.

Around the crystal chambers.

Even between Seris's archive token and the spell that let her enter.

Threads.

Structures.

Connections.

I somehow knew Epitaph could cut them.

Not break.

Cut.

Cleanly.

I looked at Vaelor.

“What does this thing do?”

He stared at the blade.

“Epitaph was created before the current Crown.”

“That doesn't answer me.”

“It severs magical structures. Barriers. Contracts. Oaths. Curses.”

Cassian's expression sharpened.

“Anything magical?”

Vaelor's eyes met mine.

“Anything.”

Seris went still.

“Souls?”

Nobody answered.

That was answer enough.

Vaelor finally moved toward us.

“There's a reason it was sealed in the oldest chamber.”

Cassian looked at the cracked crystal. “Sealed badly, apparently.”

“Cassian.”

“What? It escaped.”

Under any other circumstances, I would've laughed.

Vaelor didn't.

“The last bearer used Epitaph during the War of Three Oaths. He ended a binding spell that controlled an entire army.”

“That sounds useful,” I said.

“It was. He also severed every oath tied to the spell at once. Marriage vows. military pledges. guardian contracts. Soul bonds. Thousands of people woke up unable to feel the magic that had connected them to one another.”

Seris looked sick.

“What happened to him?”

“He vanished.”

“Convenient.”

“No. Frightening.”

Vaelor walked to the broken chamber and touched the old stone.

“Power like this encourages simple answers. If a bond hurts, cut it. If an oath traps you, cut it. If someone stands in your way...”

His gaze shifted to the blade floating beside me.

“Cut them too.”

I frowned.

“Then why keep it?”

“Because destroying a weapon that can sever magical structures is difficult when the weapon can sever whatever you use to destroy it.”

Cassian stared at Epitaph.

“That's almost funny.”

“It isn't.”

Seris looked at me instead.

She didn't seem afraid of the sword.

She seemed afraid of how easily it had decided I belonged with it.

At the time, I thought she was overreacting.

I nearly dropped the sword.

This time, Epitaph let me.

It didn't hit the floor.

The blade hovered beside me.

“Absolutely not.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow.

“Arguing with the sword?”

“Yes.”

“Winning?”

“No.”

Seris had moved past us.

She was examining the broken chamber.

“There's writing here.”

Vaelor turned sharply.

“What?”

“Behind the mounting.”

She brushed dust from the stone where Epitaph had rested.

Older letters appeared beneath her fingers.

I walked over.

“What does it say?”

Seris didn't answer.

That scared me more than the sword.

“Seris?”

She read it quietly.

“A blade that severs everything cannot distinguish justice from grief.”

Nobody joked this time.

I looked back at Epitaph.

Nine sigils.

Eight were simple marks.

The ninth was different.

A circle split straight through the middle.

“What does the last one do?”

Vaelor's jaw tightened.

“The first sigils sever increasingly complex magic.”

“And the ninth?”

“Epitaph's final sigil cuts without distinction.”

Cassian frowned. “Meaning?”

“A barrier has an edge. A curse has a structure. An oath has terms.”

Vaelor looked directly at me.

“A soul doesn't.”

My stomach turned.

“If the Ninth Sigil is fully drawn against a living being, it doesn't simply kill them. It severs the bond between body, magic and soul.”

Seris stepped beside me.

“Can it be healed?”

“No.”

One word.

That was all.

I stared at the blade for a long time.

Then I reached out.

Epitaph returned to my hand like it'd been waiting.

“You chose badly,” I told it.

Cassian snorted.

Seris didn't.

She was looking at the warning.

“Zyrion.”

“I know.”

“No, look at me.”

I did.

There was something serious in her eyes I wasn't used to seeing back then.

“Promise me.”

I tried smiling.

“That's dramatic.”

“Good. Then you'll remember it.”

Cassian went quiet.

Seris pointed toward the ninth mark.

“Whatever happens, don't draw that sigil because you're angry. Not because someone hurt you. Not because you hate them. If you ever use it, you make that choice with a clear head.”

I glanced down at Epitaph.

Back then, the blade was bright enough to catch my reflection.

White wings.

Whole halo.

Young face.

No scars worth mentioning.

Someone who still believed there was always time to think before anger became action.

So I nodded.

“I promise.”

Seris held out her hand.

“Properly.”

I sighed and placed my free hand in hers.

“I, Zyrion Caelaris, promise I'll never draw Epitaph's final sigil in anger.”

She squeezed my hand.

“Good.”

Cassian smiled.

“See? Responsible already.”

“Don't ruin it.”

We left the Reliquary together.

Epitaph floated at my side, silver sigils glowing softly beneath the afternoon sun.

People would later sing about that day.

The Star-Chosen receiving the weapon meant to protect the world.

They'd call it destiny.

They'd say sword and bearer had recognised each other.

History loves making things sound inevitable.

It wasn't.

Epitaph never made my choices for me.

Not at Lareth.

Not in the wars that followed.

And not on the night its silver edge turned crimson.

That choice was mine.

That's the part the songs always get wrong.

A weapon doesn't know justice from grief.

But I was supposed to.