Chapter 25: 25 The two blades

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25: The two blades 25: The two blades The path to Dareth’s Ridge wound like a steep ribbon between dark, damp rocks.

Low clouds hung over the world, blocking the light.

Kairan strode forward, her healed wounds now scars, given the prince’s rapid recovery.

Far away in the village, Zaphira stood motionless on the doorstep, her gaze fixed on the mountainm, her heart pounding.

Her mother, barely recovering, regarded her with eyes filled with wonder and a strange, inexplicable reverence.

“Incredible,” Thila murmured, her voice faint.

“A demon so different from what is said of his brother Misael, the heir to the throne.

But…” She paused, breathing hard, “if not even the Demon Emperor could wrest the swords of Vezareth and Kharmul, how could an eight-year-old child do it?” She was silent for a moment, then added, almost to herself, a shiver running down her spine: “And yet…

I don’t know why, but it’s as if I know he’ll make it.” The words hung in the air, like an omen.

** Kairan, meanwhile, reached the Crest Cave.

She advanced into the darkness, her footsteps echoing on the wet stone like a rhythmic beat.

The air was cold, still, almost thick, yet her presence seemed to pierce the silence, like a ray of light piercing the darkness.

There, before her eyes, embedded in the rocky soil of Dareth’s Ridge, were the two katanas.

They were legendary relics, shaped by the darkness and fire of the Demon Realm’s early days.

One was completely black, like the deepest darkness.

From its blade emanated a powerful aura, a purplish color, pulsating, alive, that seemed to vibrate in tune with every molecule of the surrounding rock.

Next to the black katana was the other.

An even more terrifying presence.

The blade was red, like the purest, brightest blood, like incandescent magma.

It released an aura so intense it made the very earth tremble beneath Kairan’s feet.

The mountain seemed to vibrate to its rhythm, rocks large and small slipping down the slopes, the wind bending to that immense energy, and a barely audible but annoying buzzing sound filled the entire cavern.

He paused for a moment, breathing slowly.

There was no fear, only a reverent awareness.

With measured steps, Kairan approached the black katana first.

His hand touched the blade, and he immediately felt the flow of energy, a current that seemed to try to fuse him with the steel itself.

There was no direct malice in that contact, but an irresistible call, as if it had been waiting for him forever.

Then Kairan moved toward the red katana.

The moment he touched it, the aura exploded like a shockwave, shaking the entire cave.

The ground beneath his feet vibrated more forcefully, the rock walls pulsed, and a tremor ran through the entire mountain, as if the Ridge itself recognized the blade and reacted to the contact of the one destined to wield it.

The aura was warm, intense, palpable.

It was like holding the very essence of war and domination in his hands, a power so immense that every muscle in Kairan’s body had to adapt to contain it.

The two katanas lay before him: a testament to the legacy Vezareth and Kharmul had left behind.

No spell, no force of demonic bonds, no heir to the throne had ever wielded them together.

Kairan heard a voice.

It came from the red katana.

“Are you, the child of unwritten promises…” “Or are you the vengeance of the world, reborn to fulfill what was broken?” A second voice came from the dark katana.

Kairan did not speak, but the swords felt his heart and spoke again.

“You thirst for truth, for revenge, for war.” “You hunger for balance, for light, for destruction.” “You hold within you the fragments…

of both of us.” Then, a shiver and a light that blinded him, then flared up in a distant place.

An angelic place.

Millions of years ago Kairan found himself in the deep heart of the Celestial Realm, where light was not reflection, but substance.

Or at least, so he intuited, seeing the place crowded with angels with immense, shining wings.

But among them all, only one caught his gaze.

A Seraph.

They called him Azrael, the first of the Seraphim, and the closest to the Throne.

Among the celestial columns, the golden vaults, the cascades of ether, and the choral harmonies that sang the glory of the First Thought, Azrael walked alone.

Not because he was exiled or feared, though he was, but because he chose silence.

Among the Seraphim, beings of perfect light, each wore a white robe, a symbol of purity, fidelity, and harmony.

Azrael also wore one, long and flowing, woven of pure rays and stardust.

But on him, it looked different, because the light on his skin did not reflect, but rather absorbed.

The His face was both beautiful and terrible.

His hair, pure silver, long and smooth as silk, fell to his mid-back, and seemed to move in sync with celestial winds that never actually blew.

His skin was pale, luminous, but devoid of heat.

Like living marble.

And his eyes: yellow, ancient, steady.

Eyes that did not shine, but did not judge, yet always saw everything.

Azrael had looked at the Creator, and from that day on, he had never been the same.

He never sat, he never slept, he never sang with the others.

When the Seraphim gathered in Choirs, and their voices composed melodies capable of making entire galaxies blossom, Azrael remained silent, at a distance.

Not out of pride, but because his task was different.

He was neither a commander nor a legislator; he had no troops nor disciples.

When someone approached too closely, he didn’t speak, he didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t threaten, because the mere presence of his eyes made even the proudest angels bend their knees.

And yet, within that calm, there was no arrogance.

Only devotion.

Because Azrael desired nothing.

He didn’t want to rule, he didn’t want to ascend, he didn’t even want to command.

He had seen, and that was enough for him.

Every now and then, and no one knew when or how, Azrael was called by the Creator who spoke to him, and he emerged from those moments without saying anything, while within him, the Plan renewed itself.

He loved the Creator as a son loves the sun: not because he understood him, but because without him, he would never have existed.

Then, one day, two Seraphim approached him.

Kairan, who observed everything through the veil of vision, recognized them immediately.