The subtle pulse vibrated in Halden's teeth. It was a low thrum, not quite a sound, but a feeling of immense, dormant power stretching through the cavern's unseen depths. His head swam, a persistent ache behind his eyes, a souvenir from the centipede's thrashing. He still felt the phantom weight of its segmented body, the stench of ichor clinging to his nostrils.
Nettlecry hummed a low, hungry song in his grasp, its green light casting dancing shadows on the grotesque, solidified ash-webs. His hand trembled, not entirely from exhaustion, but from the blade's own agitation. It pulled towards the glowing ledger, identical to his own, suspended within the sticky, grey threads.
"Yours to join... brother." The voice, ancient and guttural, echoed in the hollow space between his thoughts. It was a chill that had nothing to do with the cavern's damp air. Halden tightened his grip on the sword. Was this ledger part of that 'joining'? A cruel joke, perhaps, a record of others who had fallen victim to this place, to blades like Nettlecry.
The ledger pulsed with its own soft, emerald light, a beacon in the suffocating gloom. It sat nestled amongst the petrified figures, their silent screams frozen in ash. He could still feel the echoes of their despair, the crushing weight of their final moments. He did not want to touch anything else in this place.
But the ledger. It was a tangible thing, a link to the outside, or perhaps to a truth even darker than this cavern. His own ledger was his anchor, his desperate attempt to hold onto what Nettlecry stole. To see another, glowing, identical in its prison of ash, was a morbid mirror.
He took a step, then another, his boots crunching softly on the gritty floor. His bruised kidney flared, a sharp reminder of the fight. Every movement was a deliberate effort. His shield, gouged and scarred, felt heavy on his arm. He raised it instinctively, not against a visible foe, but against the insidious dread that seeped from the very rock.
The glowing book drew him forward, an irresistible current in the dark. Nettlecry trembled violently, its hunger reaching out, a silent snarl. Halden pushed down the rising panic. He needed to know. He had to understand what this place was, what this weapon truly demanded.
---
He reached the edge of the ash-web, the sticky threads glimmering faintly in Nettlecry's glow. The ledger hung just out of reach, suspended by a thick, rope-like strand of solidified ash. It was cold, even from a distance, radiating a strange, inert chill that contradicted its internal light.
Halden extended his free hand, his fingers hesitating inches from the grey, fibrous prison. The voice whispered again, closer this time, a caress of ancient malice against his mind. "Such a fragile grasp... on what you are." The words sent a shiver down his spine, prickling the hairs on his neck. His identity, that was what Nettlecry consumed. What could this other ledger reveal about that process?
He gritted his teeth, pushing past the dread. He needed answers. His fingers brushed against the ash-web. It felt like cold, brittle spun sugar, deceptively fragile yet incredibly strong. A thin filament snapped, sending a faint vibration up his arm. The ledger shifted, wobbling slightly.
Carefully, he worked his fingers around the glowing book, trying to pry it free without disturbing the fragile, petrified figures surrounding it. A faint scent of metallic dust and old parchment rose from the web. The book itself felt ancient, heavy, its leather cover cracked and dry.
It was not easy. The ash-web clung with surprising tenacity, microscopic barbs catching on his gloves. He pulled gently, testing the resistance. The glowing volume seemed to resist, as if unwilling to leave its strange resting place. A peculiar sense of reluctance washed over him, a feeling that he was disturbing something best left buried.
Then, with a soft *snap*, a thicker strand gave way. The ledger dropped slightly, almost slipping from his grasp. He caught it, his fingers closing around the cold, stiff cover. The emerald light from its pages intensified for a moment, then settled into a steady, soft glow, no longer pulsing. It felt heavier than it looked, solid and dense.
The moment his hand fully closed around it, a profound sense of connection surged through him. It was not the predatory hunger of Nettlecry, but something different, a faint echo of profound weariness, a distant sorrow. It settled in his chest, a new, aching hollowness beside the one Nettlecry had carved.
He pulled it free completely. The remaining ash-web trembled, then settled, leaving an empty space where the ledger had been. He held the book now, his own ledger still tucked securely in his belt pouch. Two ledgers, both glowing, both filled with what? He had a terrible feeling he already knew.
---
Halden cradled the recovered ledger in his gauntleted hand. He carried it away from the ash-webs, needing a moment of space from the silent, petrified witnesses. He found a relatively clear spot on the gritty cavern floor, propped his shield against a rough-hewn stone, and knelt, Nettlecry resting across his lap.
His fingers, still numb from the cold, traced the familiar shape of the book. It was identical in every way to his own: the same dark leather, the same worn brass clasps, the same dimensions. Only this one glowed with an internal emerald light, emanating from the very pages within. He unfastened the clasps, the ancient metal groaning softly.
He opened the cover. The green light spilled onto the cavern floor, illuminating the faint carvings on the rough rock. What he saw inside froze his breath. Pages filled with frantic, looping script, half-formed words, and desperate, fragmented sentences. It was a mirrored image of his own struggle.
*"...the taste of it... gone... Lyra... no, not Lyra... who... was... she..."* One entry blurred into another, the ink fading, crossing out, restarting. Names appeared and vanished, replaced by desperate questions. *"Where are the faces? Why won't they stay?"* The handwriting was similar enough to his own that it made his stomach clench, a ghastly parody of his nightly entries.
Another page, then another. Scribbles of maps, incomplete sketches of landmarks, all overlaid with angry, slashing lines. The desperate attempts to record, to cling, to defy the creeping oblivion. It was all there, a testament to another soul's losing battle against a consuming force. A blade, perhaps, just like Nettlecry.
A profound sense of isolation settled over him. He wasn't the first. He wasn't unique in his struggle. This wasn't some strange, singular curse bestowed upon Ser Halden Crowe. This was a lineage, a path trodden by countless others before him, all reaching for power, all paying the same terrible price.
His own ledger, tucked into his belt, felt heavier now. The fear of insignificance, his core wound, flared with a terrifying intensity. He would not be forgotten. He could not become one of these fragments, a ghost in a book, a collection of half-recalled despair. He would fight it, just as this unknown person had.
The cavern's low pulse seemed to deepen, a resonant hum that felt less like a distant force and more like a knowing presence. The 'brother' voice had been literal. He was one of many. This ledger was a grim family album.
---
Halden continued to turn the pages, the faint green light from within casting an eerie pallor on his grim face. The entries grew more chaotic, more desperate. Entire sections were consumed by jagged, meaningless lines, as if the writer had simply scrawled until the ink ran dry, the memory lost forever. It was a terrifying glimpse into his own possible future.
He saw dates, sometimes just a single number, then a gap. Names, some legible, some so blurred they were unrecognizable. There were sketches of blades, too, crude but distinct, with hilt designs that varied, yet all seemed to share a similar, elongated, hungry profile. None were exactly Nettlecry, but they were kin.
His heart hammered against his ribs. These weren't just similar struggles; these were *identical* ones. Others had carried these cursed weapons, fought these losing battles, filled these ledgers with their fading selves. He was part of a terrifying, ancient order of the damned.
He flipped past pages that were blank, save for the faintest impression of writing, as if the words themselves had simply evaporated. The sheer volume of loss, documented in this cold, glowing book, was overwhelming. It was a chronicle of oblivion, a testament to the inexorable hunger of the Mourning Kiln Blades.
His own name, Halden, suddenly seemed frail, easily forgotten. He tried to recall a specific memory of Elara, just to prove he could, but his mind felt sluggish, hazy around the edges, the centipede's lingering effect or Nettlecry's recent feeding. He shook his head, clearing the thought. He would not give up. Not yet.
His gaze fell on a page near the back, amidst the increasingly abstract scrawls. It stood out, not for its chaos, but for a single, stark contrast. A word, perfectly legible, written in an unnervingly steady hand. It was clear, unwavering, unlike the surrounding despair.
And it looked exactly like his own handwriting. The loops of the 'o', the sharp curve of the 'u', the decisive downstroke of the 'g'. It was unmistakable. His breath hitched in his throat. The word pulsed faintly with the ledger's green light, almost a living thing.
Mourning.