Lady Zihwa’s demand cut across the quiet of the Sunken Forum. Her tone, usually measured and low, carried the rasp of polished stone. “Explain how you did that.”
Anatta met her gaze, his expression unreadable. Around them, the other Elders sat like statues, their initial shock slowly coalescing into suspicion. The boy, still frozen on the flagstones, clutched at his numb hand, his face pale with disbelief and rising fury. The intact training bar rested at Anatta’s side, harmless as a walking staff.
“Lady Zihwa,” Anatta began, keeping his voice even, “there is little to explain. My kinsman overextended his reach. His stance leaned forward before his foot settled. I simply took the opening in his guard. A matter of leverage, nothing more. Any sparring master could demonstrate it.”
His words hung in the air, a flimsy veil over an impossible feat. The Elders exchanged glances. It was an answer designed to infuriate with its simplicity, to dismiss their power and their son's humiliation as a mere technicality. It was also designed to prevent further scrutiny of his 'crippled' cultivation.
“Leverage,” the clan head said, her lips thinning. “A demonstration that sent our family heirloom spinning across the stones from hands whose Aura channels are shattered. Phaeron, your tongue remains as sharp as ever.”
Anatta gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps my memory of basic forms outlasts my Aura, Lady Zihwa. A small benefit to an otherwise broken state.”
The boy finally found his voice, high and thin. “He lies! He used Aura! I felt it! A pulse against my wrist!”
“Silence,” the clan head commanded, her stare fixed on Anatta. “Your empty grip indicates otherwise. This display, Phaeron, only worsens your standing. To disarm kin before the council, to make light of your dereliction... The House requires an accounting of your actions. For this, and for the loss of the Sundered Blade, you are remanded to the lower vaults.”
A murmur spread among the seated Elders. Remand was a light decree for the Black Scourge of Vorathan after such insolence. The boy's features twisted in outrage. “A cell? After this insult? Strip him of his name, cast him out!”
“Boy, your temper does not dictate clan justice,” a stern Elder with a sweeping white beard interjected. “The decree stands.”
Lady Zihwa ignored them both. “You are assigned to the Chamber of Archives,” she declared. “There, you will catalog and copy every chronicle concerning the ancient relic. From its forging to its disappearance. You will not leave until the task is complete, or until you confess where you hid it. Regard it as a penance, Phaeron.”
Anatta inclined his head. “As you command.” An archive under guard. A storehouse of clan history offered under the guise of punishment. The path to sorting Phaeron’s past had opened without struggle.
Two burly House Guards, their faces carved from granite, escorted Anatta from the forum. Kiri, who had crouched unseen beside the stone dais, darted out in a streak of silver and brushed against Anatta’s boot. It nudged his ankle, a silent question in its glowing eyes. Anatta reached down, offering a hand. Kiri scrambled up his arm, settling on his shoulder, its warmth a small anchor in the cold, cavernous passages. The Chamber of Archives was a cylindrical shaft carved deep into the foundation rock. Shelves climbed three stories high, laden with calfskin scrolls, bound folios, and chipped slate markers. The draft carried dry mold and crumbly ink, free of the refined incense burned in the upper halls. A luminstone drifted near the ceiling timbers, shedding cold white brilliance onto the floor.
“A fitting tomb, wouldn’t you say, little one?” Anatta murmured to Kiri. The fox chirped softly, rubbing its head against his cheek.
The guards swung the iron-banded door shut, the latch engaging with a heavy click. Anatta traced the nearest shelf, searching the ledgers for Phaeron’s hand. He had to uncover what drove his rival toward the Sundered Blade. In his chest, Phaeron's remnant pulse stirred—a cold pang that flared whenever Anatta probed the man's past, though the vast quiet kept it settled.
He organized his search row by row. Early folios described the weapon as an artifact tuned to astral conduits, crafted to mirror the core intent of an opponent's spirit. Fragmented commentaries detailed the Cleaving stroke—not an offensive sword form, but a ritual sacrifice designed to rip apart deep soul bonds.
Tucked between two trade folios from the prior century, he uncovered a slim, leather-bound booklet wrapped in twine. Its leaves bore Phaeron’s narrow, slanted brushstrokes. The entries were encrypted with merchant shorthand and inverted glyphs, a script Anatta had encountered on correspondence intercepted during their old border campaigns.
Turning the dry paper, Anatta decoded row after row. Gold drafts and void-ore ingots had gone out to figures known only as Night Moth, Weaver, and the Unseen Hand. The shipments listed rare reagents, astronomical tables, and alchemical catalysts far outside the House armory needs. They formed the material requirements for an ancient spiritual rite.
The disbursements had grown larger over three years. His finger paused on the final transaction: an immense transfer of spirit jade to the Unseen Hand for Astral Thread and Soul Reagents. The date marked the very dawn of his duel against Phaeron. The transactions ended on that day.
This was no petty theft. Phaeron had spent a fortune gathering components for a grand purpose. In Anatta's core, the foreign presence spiked with cold panic.
Behind a stack of war chronicles, he pulled free a folded parchment sealed with red wax. The stamp carried the mountain crest of House Kormak. The brushmanship belonged to his sister, Serena. Anatta cracked the wax with his thumb, surprised that Phaeron had preserved it intact.
*My Dearest Anatta,*
*Word from the frontier troubles me. Scouts report Phaeron Vorathan’s search for the Sundered Blade has turned frantic. Rumors claim he studies forbidden rites to mend its broken resonance. Brother, take heed during your challenges with him. His actions look like madness. They say he seeks to repair a severing, yet the price demanded is severe...*
Anatta closed his eyes. Serena had sent a warning, yet her words unmasked Phaeron's actual goal. Looking at the ledgers and listed reagents, the truth settled into place. Phaeron had not sought to plunder the artifact; he was purchasing materials to repair its shattered core.
He returned to the weapon treatises, hunting for notes on the damage. Several elder scribes had documented its condition centuries prior: 'fractured core' and 'unstable resonance.' The weapon held an internal rupture, and Phaeron had spent his fortune seeking to mend the break.
A different view of his rival formed—one driven by reckless obsession rather than simple cruelty. Anatta leafed back to an early scroll detailing the sword's original forging. In the narrow lower border, faded brushwork spelled out a stark notation:
“The blade heals only when fed by its origin. Anatta must fall.”