Liliana and Sadek walked in relative silence, the late-morning streets quieter in this part of the city. Fewer vendors. Fewer eyes.

"I asked around," Liliana said.

Sadek didn't look at her. "About what?"

"About Namara." She glanced sideways. "Or Lirathiel. Or whoever she actually is."

That made him raise an eyebrow. "And?"

"There are only two recorded succubi powerful enough to match what we've seen. One is gone, probably dead. The other… was last seen nearly seventy years ago. Never called herself Namara. Different name. But the description fits."

"Fits how?"

"Violet eyes. Extremely powerful magic. A fondness for chaos and fine wine. And a habit of interfering in wars she has no stake in. She showed up, pushed things toward some unpredictable outcome, and disappeared."

Sadek was quiet for a beat. "Sounds familiar."

"There's a story," Liliana said. "Old one. About a fortress city under siege, walls too thick to break, supplies stockpiled for months. The attackers had no chance. Then a woman in a deep purple dress walked into the city through the front gate. No army. No weapon. Just a bottle of wine."

Sadek glanced at her. "And?"

"Three days later, the gates opened. The defenders marched out first, singing love songs, naked, completely unarmed. The attackers followed, just as confused. No one remembers who won. The city burned. Both generals vanished. And the river turned pink for a week."

"Huh."

"She didn't stay. Didn't explain. Just left."

"Did she say why?"

Liliana shook her head. "Only thing she left behind was a note. Said: 'They were boring.'"

Sadek shook his head. "Yeah. Sounds like her."

"Succubi live a long time. She could've changed her name, changed her look, changed her everything. But if it is her… what's she doing with us?"

Sadek grunted. "Been wondering the same thing."

"Do you trust her?"

Sadek shook his head. "No."

Liliana let out a slow breath.

Kale liked Namara. That much was obvious. Maybe he trusted her. Maybe he just liked looking at her. Either way, he didn't question her the way Liliana did. And that bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

Because she didn't trust Namara. Not even a little. The jokes, the charm, the way she always seemed one step ahead without ever appearing to try. It wasn't natural, it was practiced, weaponized.

But Sadek? Sadek was different. Sharp, skeptical, hard to fool. He saw things. Weighed people.

And if he was uneasy too—if he couldn't bring himself to trust her—then maybe Liliana wasn't imagining things after all.

Liliana nodded. "Me neither."

They walked a few more steps.

"Do you think you could kill her?" she asked. "If you had to."

Sadek didn't answer right away. His expression didn't change, but something in his stance did, barely noticeable, but there.

"I don't know," he said. "She jokes about everything. Flirts. Laughs. But none of it feels careless. It's like… the way a predator plays with food before the kill."

Liliana glanced at him.

"She doesn't take anything seriously," he finished. "Which probably means she doesn't have to."

Liliana gave a dry smile. "Exactly."

They turned down a narrower street, the sound of their boots echoing off stone.

"She's strong," Sadek added. "Stronger than she lets on. Maybe stronger than all of us combined."

"And yet… she helps us."

"For now."

Liliana's gaze sharpened. "That's what worries me. I don't know what she's getting out of this. And I don't like not knowing."

Sadek gave a small nod. "Same."

They walked on, silent again.

***

Kale slowed as they approached the door. Behind him, Rika was still carrying the vendor's chair.

"You're not bringing that inside," he said.

Rika scowled. "Why not?"

"Because it's a chair."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"It's my trophy."

"Leave it."

She grumbled, but set it down beside the wall like she was leaving behind a trusted weapon. "Fine. But I'm keeping the pants."

Namara stepped up beside the mirrored door, caught her reflection, and smiled. "Yep. Still the pretty one."

Rika snorted. "That guy really hurt you, huh?"

Namara waved a hand dismissively. "What? Please. I forgot his face the moment he opened his mouth."

She paused. "But also? I hope he dies."

Kale snorted.

Rika shook her head. "Totally fine. Not wounded at all."

Namara lifted her chin. "Emotionally unshakable. Ask anyone."

The mirrored door rippled, reacting to their presence.

"Uhuh," Kale said. "Let's just go inside."

The door rippled once more, then parted with a low whisper, revealing the interior of the guild.

Cool air swept out. The inside was quieter than Kale expected. Polished stone floors. Workbenches with glowing tools. Walls lined with fragments of varying size and hue, each floating in suspended crystal cases. Runes pulsed softly in the floor beneath them.

A woman glanced up from behind a reception desk shaped like a half-melted blade. Her eyes shimmered like cut glass.

"Visitors?" she asked.

"We're looking to speak with a shardsmith," Kale said.

The woman gave a slight nod. "You're in luck. Argen's available."

She gestured them toward a wide hallway. They followed it to a side room, where a lean, middle-aged man in a forgecoat was carefully shaving a sliver off a deep blue shard. His eyes shimmered faintly like light refracting through crystal, and the veins in his hands pulsed with a soft inner glow. He didn't look up.

"Give me a minute," he muttered. "This one's moody."

Moody, huh? Kale thought. Does each shard have its own personality?

They waited while he coaxed the shard into a smoother form, humming under his breath. Finally, he stepped back and exhaled.

"Alright. What can I help you with?" He glanced up and blinked at Kale. "Huh. You've got the look."

"The look?" Kale asked.

"You've spoken to a shard before, haven't you?"

Kale hesitated. "Once or twice. Sort of."

Argen nodded. "Not everyone hears them. Most people just carry the fragments around like fancy rocks. But some… some get called. You looking to become a shardsmith?"

"No," Kale said. "Just curious."

"Shardsmithing's a specialization," Argen explained. "Rare class. Not something you can just learn. You either get it, or you don't. We can teach techniques, sure, but unless the shard listens, it's just noise."

Kale nodded slowly, taking it in. "And if I wanted something made?"

"Depends." Argen crossed his arms. "If you've got a raw fragment, I can clean and shape it in a few minutes. Basic stuff—purity refining, edge prepping, low-risk alterations."

"What about something more complex?" Kale asked.

Argen raised an eyebrow. "You looking to build a weapon?"

"Eventually."

"Well then you're talking about full forgework. Weeks, maybe more, depending on the design. Enchantments take even longer. We'd need to align the shard's resonance, inscribe conduits, test binding stability—"

"Basically," Rika interrupted, "it's not quick."

"No," Argen agreed, unfazed. "But it's worth it. If you bring me a shard, I can start with a shaping. Let you feel how it responds. That'll tell you if it's worth forging."

Namara tilted her head. "What if the shard doesn't like him?"

"Then it doesn't," Argen said simply. "You don't force a shard. You listen."

Kale glanced at the tray of inert fragments they'd… acquired.

"None of those are real," Argen said, without even looking. "Good fakes, though."

Kale blinked. "How did you—?"

"Because they're silent," Argen said. "Real ones hum. Even when they're still. Even when they're asleep."

He stepped back toward his bench. "You bring me a real one, I'll show you what I can—" He paused, eyes narrowing. "A real one, like that sword you've got." He pointed.

Kale's hand instinctively dropped to Aeloria's Promise, resting at his side.

"That's… damn. That's masterwork. You don't see that kind of balance often. May I?" Argen gestured, clearly intrigued.

Kale hesitated. "It's… probably better if I don't."

Argen raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Fair enough. Just thought I'd get a closer look. Whoever made it knew exactly what they were doing. The flow, the join between blade and hilt—hell, even the silence of it says something. That's not just craft. That's intent."

"It serves me well," Kale said simply.

"I believe it," Argen muttered, still watching it with interest. Then he blinked, shook himself slightly, and said, "Anyway. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Kale nodded. "Yeah. Do you have any finished shards available?"

Argen tilted his head. "Maybe. Depends on what your class is."

Kale didn't answer immediately. Just met his gaze and waited.

Argen smiled faintly. "Right. Not the sharing type. I'll need to know your class to find a shard that actually fits. Others might be dangerous unless your soul's structured a certain way."

"Which means?" Kale asked.

"It means if I hand you the wrong one, you might die. Shards aren't toys. They choose who they sing for."

Kale exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I'm a bladeweaver."

Argen blinked. Then stared. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"Shit," Argen muttered, stepping back like he needed a second look. "Haven't seen one of you in… forty, maybe fifty years."

Kale frowned. "You don't look that old."

"I am," Argen said simply. "Or shard-touched enough that it stopped mattering."

He stepped away, crossed the room and unlocked a heavy cabinet set into the wall. "I don't have a shard that would suit you. Nothing tuned to that kind of soul. But…"

He returned with a cloth-wrapped bundle and set it gently on the table.

"I made this for the last bladeweaver who came through. Paid in full. Told me it wasn't for him. Said someone else would need it, someday." Argen looked up at Kale. "Guess that's you."

He pulled the cloth back to reveal the hilt—entirely bone-white, from guard to pommel. At the end, set into the pommel, was a single golden gem, glowing faintly, like the first light of dawn.

Kale stared at the hilt. "Just like that?"

Argen shrugged. "He said someone would come. Said I'd know."

Then he pushed the hilt toward him.

Kale reached out, and the moment his fingers brushed the grip, it was like being struck by lightning. A sharp jolt raced up his arm, into his chest, burning bright and cold all at once. For a second, the world went quiet. No breath. No heartbeat. Just a low, resonant hum in his bones, like something ancient had just woken up and recognized him.

Even Argen took a step back. "Well. That's a strong reaction."

Kale didn't answer. He was too focused. Carefully, reverently, he turned the hilt in his hands. It felt warm. Familiar. Like it had been waiting.

Then he saw the inscription etched in fine silver along the inside of the guard.

Even the longest night ends in dawn.

His heart stopped.

His mother used to say that. Not once. Not twice. Always. Every time he was hurt, or scared, or ready to give up.

He'd never questioned it. Never asked where it came from. Just figured it was hers. But now, staring down at the hilt—bone-white, warm in his hands, humming like it remembered him—he knew.

It wasn't just her saying.

It was his grandfather's.

And this was meant for him.

The dream came roaring back—no longer just a vision, but a memory.

A glowing-eyed man standing alone, sword raised against an impossible horde. A girl behind him, clutching her mother's hand.

"Go," the man said. "Now. And remember: even the longest night ends in dawn."

The portal closed.

This wasn't just a weapon. It was a message. A legacy.

And it had waited all those years for someone to come find it.

For him.

He stared down, his hands trembling around the hilt.

Rika stepped closer, frowning. "Hey. You okay?"

Kale didn't answer at first. He just stared at the hilt in his hands. "He left this for me."

"Who did?"

"My grandfather."

He looked up, eyes a little wide. A little lost. "He knew I'd come. Decades ago, he knew I'd end up in this city, in this guild, looking for something I didn't even know I was missing."

He let out a shaky breath. "How could he know?"

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