Chapter 24


    Whistling Blade


    Ruin is my birthright.


    I stand on the shore of a small pond, waters the glory of Malkiel has rendered Holy, pawing at my face with a hand inked red by carnage.


    There is a rock in my hand.


    "Stop!" little Enna screams in fear and fury.


    My Conquered Cousins regard me, a cluster of terrified children crouching about Septimus''s prone figure. My heart holds only indifference, bottomless indifference. Yet my lips quicken into a bestial smile.


    There is a rock in my hand.


    They take umbrage at my display, lose honeyed lamentations into the endless sky. If brutality is all they know, if that is all they understand then I will make them wail for the torment of their battered bodies.


    I step forward.


    They cringe back and keen, but it is too late.


    It will always be too late.


    My wrath falls upon them, a hard stone clenched in a little hand. I smash teeth out of maws, replace pride with obedience, transform once arrogant fools into weeping sissies.


    There is a rock … in my little hand


    I can feel it grow sleek with crimson riverlets, a gap along what can no longer be perceived, an absence in being itself. A part of me is gone forever—severed.


    There is a rock where my innocence should be.


    I snarl, this knowledge cutting through. Tears spill down my cheeks. Fiery distortions pulse about the corners of my eyes. Blood spews from parted flesh.


    Weakness is there damnation.


    There is a…


    <hr>


    Memories retreat like mist and smoke into porous earth.


    I wake with a sharp gasp, the echo of it still thrumming in my chest. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish as if the weight from the last trial still presses against me. The air is cold and damp, biting at my skin. I blink. The dim light of the chamber bleeds into my vision.


    This new cube-shaped room looms larger than the previous two, its surfaces jagged and uneven, etched with glowing runes that pulse faintly, casting eerie shadows. The chamber feels alive, the air thick with something unsaid, something waiting.


    A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.


    I lurch upright, muscles coiling instinctively as I scan the room. My eyes land on Binah. She stands in the chamber''s center, her pale figure taut with tension. Floating before her is a blade—a wickedly sharp thing that twists and spins with a life of its own. Runes dance along its length, pulsing in bursts of silver and crimson.


    A Skathrith.


    The whistling intensifies as the blade hurtles toward her. Binah raises her hands, and though I see no visible strings, her fingers move as if manipulating the weapon directly. The Skathrith slows mid-flight, its movements jerking erratically as if caught in a web. Its hum deepens into a growl, vibrating through the chamber like the snarl of an animal.


    Binah steps smoothly to the side, her fingers twitching as she redirects the blade’s lunge. The threads—whatever they are—strain against the weapon’s resistance. I swear I can almost see them flickering faintly in the glow of the chamber’s runes.


    Her violet eyes remain focused, her body coiled like a spring as she maneuvers the Skathrith away from herself.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The blade twists violently, breaking free of her hold. Its runes flare brighter, and it spins toward me.


    The blade whirls with terrifying speed, its edge streaking toward my chest. I throw myself to the ground, the Skathrith slicing through the air inches above me. Sparks scatter as it slams into the stone, only to rise again, its tip angling toward me like a predator locking onto prey.


    “Binah!” I shout, but she does not react. Her arms sweep upward, her fingers moving in intricate patterns. The Skathrith jerks mid-air, its path diverted just enough for me to roll clear of its next strike.


    I stumble to my feet, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The blade whistles past me again, and I twist out of its path, the edge grazing my side. A sharp burn follows, and blood wells from the shallow cut.


    Binah continues to fight the Skathrith, her invisible threads pulling it away from me time and again. Her movements are sharp and deliberate, but I see the strain in her posture, the tremor in her hands. She cannot keep this up forever.


    The Skathrith lunges again, and this time Binah’s threads falter. The blade streaks toward me, faster and more erratic. My body reacts on instinct, my arms rising in a familiar pattern, my feet shifting into a stance I did not consciously choose.


    Ath’rihn.


    The rhythm is sluggish at first, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated. The Skathrith’s edge grazes my shoulder, drawing another line of fire across my skin. Pain sharpens my focus, and I force myself to remember. Inhale. Exhale. Each breath anchors me, each step finding its place in the dance.


    The chamber fades, replaced by the echo of my mother’s voice.


    “Breathe with the horizon, Janus. Inhale the world; exhale yourself.”


    Her words guide me as the Skathrith lunges again. I twist away, the blade missing me by a hair’s breadth. My arms rise in sweeping arcs, my feet pivoting with more confidence. The movements come faster now, the rhythm growing stronger with each breath.


    Binah pulls the Skathrith back with a sharp flick of her fingers, giving me a moment’s reprieve. She glances at me, her violet eyes narrowing as if assessing my form. Then she steps back, her hands dropping to her sides.


    The blade lunges again, and this time I am alone.


    The Skathrith moves like a predator, its strikes relentless and precise. My body responds in kind, each movement flowing into the next with a grace I did not know I possessed. The pain in my limbs fades, replaced by a strange clarity. The blade and I are locked in a deadly dance, its hum matching the rhythm of my breath.


    For a moment, there is peace. The Skathrith’s strikes become part of the flow, its movements predictable, almost beautiful. My feet glide across the stone, my arms slicing through the air in perfect harmony with the blade’s lunges. I lose myself in the rhythm, the chamber fading into the background.


    Then the blade vanishes.


    A sharp crack of displaced air signals the Skathrith’s return. It reappears inches from my face, its edge streaking toward me with renewed fury. The tension snaps back into place, the calm replaced by chaos.


    The blade’s strikes become erratic, disappearing and reappearing in unpredictable bursts. I falter, the flow state broken as panic claws at the edges of my mind. Binah’s threads flicker faintly, her hands rising to intercept the Skathrith again, but the blade resists her pull more fiercely than before.


    I extend a hand, and something seems to detach from the torq at my throat—a shadowy root. It writhes in the air, reaches for the Skathrith.


    The connection is immediate and violent.


    The inside of my forehead burns briefly, pulses with white-hot light. Words form against the dark void of my mind:


    Unbound Skathrith. Do you wish to bond?


    The question sears itself into my awareness, stark and unrelenting. All I hear is the hum of the blade, the slow rattle of chains, and the pounding of my heart.


    Bond? With this thing? My pulse quickens.


    The Skathrith hums again, jerks in mid-air, its edge gleaming like liquid fire as it thrashes against the root’s pull. My head throbs, the strain of it all splitting through my mind.


    Binah steps closer, her fingers twitching as she reinforces my hold with her threads.


    "Bond," I growl through clenched teeth.


    The chamber stills.


    The Skathrith vibrates once, a high-pitched whine that pierces the air, before everything shifts, folds in on itself.


    The shadow root ignites, flaring with black flame as it fuses into the runes along the blade. The light in the runes erupts, flooding the chamber with blinding radiance. And I feel it—a pull, an overwhelming tide of awareness that drags me beneath the surface of my own mind.


    The world changes.


    I can feel the Skathrith—its hunger, its ancient purpose, its pride. It is not an object; it is a presence as vast and as alien as the sun. It brushes against my consciousness like a predator testing its prey.


    I hesitate, my instincts screaming to let go.


    Then it shifts.


    The predator turns, its stance softening, and the hum in my mind grows warmer, more familiar like gentle rays soaking into the folds of my being. The Skathrith is melding into me.


    We are becoming one.


    A flood of sensation washes over me. The chamber blurs and sharpens all at once, every detail magnified. I feel the cold weight of the stone beneath my boots, the faint hum of the torq, the tremor of Binah’s presence at the edge of my awareness. But it is more than that—I see the room through the Skathrith itself.


    I feel the texture of the air as it parts around its edge, sense the vibrations of the faintest sound. Every movement, every shift in the chamber, becomes a ripple I can read. My breath catches as the world transforms into a lattice of motion, energy, and potential.


    Binah lowers her hands, her threads fading into nothingness. She watches me with an unreadable expression, her head tilting slightly as if to say:


    It is yours now.