Red spores drifted lazily through overgrown ruins, curling flora glowing faintly as Binyamin passed. Naela led the way, her hand brushing over the mossy walls.

  “Brother… you’re leaving a trail. Everything near you lights up,” she warned.

  “Yeah. Not ideal when shadow cults and masked lunatics want to kill us,” Binyamin muttered. He tried to suppress the Sigil’s glow, wrapping his cloak tighter.

  They climbed to a small overlook. Smoke spiraled in the distance, remnants of their earlier battle.

  “They’ll track that. We don’t have long,” he muttered.

  The Sigil flared, making him stumble. Naela rushed to his side. “Big Brother? What’s wrong?!”

  “No… it’s like… something calling. Echoing through me,” he panted.

  “Is it the god again?” she asked, tense.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Maybe. Or something else that wants its power back,” he replied.

  They passed beneath a moss-covered archway. The ground glowed faintly under Binyamin’s steps. A symbol identical to his chest flickered, then faded.

  “That was a Warden’s Gate…” Naela whispered.

  “The ones who followed the gods. Flamebearers. Priests of old. They used these gates to mark territory… sometimes to seal things in,” she explained.

  A low rumble shook the earth. The arch split slightly, dust cascading down. From within emerged a pedestal, covered in cloth bound by glowing glyphs.

  Binyamin felt the Sigil tugging. “…It’s calling.”

  Naela’s eyes widened. “Big Brother, don’t just touch it!”

  He did anyway. The cloth unraveled, revealing a black sword veined with crimson light, matching the Sigil on his chest.

  “That blade… it must’ve belonged to the last bearer,” Naela whispered, reverent.

  As his fingers touched the hilt, heat rippled outward. Red glyphs spiraled up the blade in rhythm with his heartbeat. Embers coiled around them. The ground beneath glowed faintly.

  “Brother… it recognized you,” she whispered.

  Binyamin inhaled, gripping the sword. The pulse of the Sigil synced with the weapon. He felt its weight, its history, and its power.

  They ducked into fractured passageways, moving cautiously, aware that every step stirred the ruins—and perhaps, awoke more than just a sword.