The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time Arion and Lirael reached the outskirts of Lysander. The city rose before them, its tall spires and thick walls gleaming under the faint glow of distant stars. The gates were closed for the night, but a soft light glowed through the cracks, revealing the bustling life within. Merchants, travelers, and soldiers made their way along the road leading to the city, but none seemed to pay much attention to the pair cloaked in shadow.

Lirael stopped just short of the road, pulling her hood further over her face. “We’re not going in through the main gate,” she said in a low voice. “There’s someone waiting for us on the other side of the city. Someone who can help.”

Arion’s eyes were drawn to the towering walls of Lysander, their dark stone covered in thick vines that crawled up to the battlements. He had heard stories of the city, of its grand libraries and legendary warriors, but standing before it now, the weight of its history pressed down on him.

“What’s wrong with the gate?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Since the attack on his village, the idea of safety had become an illusion.

“The Shadow King has spies everywhere,” Lirael replied. “We’re not exactly welcome here, especially with what’s been following us.”

Arion nodded, gripping the hilt of his sword. The strange red glow had dimmed since the forest fight, but it remained, as if the blade was always aware, always watching. The memory of the Shadowspawn still haunted him, and the way his magic had surged uncontrollably frightened him.

“Come on,” Lirael motioned for him to follow. “There’s a hidden entrance, an old passage beneath the city.”

As they moved through the outskirts, the distant sounds of Lysander's nightlife faded, replaced by the eerie stillness of abandoned streets. The buildings here were older, more dilapidated, their windows boarded up or broken, their doors creaking in the wind. Lirael seemed to know exactly where to go, weaving through alleyways and narrow passages with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before.

“Have you been here before?” Arion asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Many times,” Lirael replied, her eyes scanning the shadows. “Lysander has secrets, even the council doesn’t know about. That’s where we’re headed.”

Eventually, they arrived at a large stone building on the edge of the city’s outer walls. Its windows were dark, and the door was slightly ajar, swinging in the wind. Lirael slipped inside without hesitation, and Arion followed, his hand still on his sword.

The inside of the building was damp and smelled of mold. A large staircase led down into the darkness, and Lirael descended without a word. As they reached the bottom, the air grew colder, and the sound of dripping water echoed around them. The stone walls were covered in moss, and old torches flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the floor.

They reached a heavy iron door at the end of the passage. Lirael knocked once, a rapid series of taps, then stepped back. The sound of metal scraping against stone followed, and the door slowly creaked open.

On the other side stood a man in long, flowing robes, his face obscured by a deep hood. He stepped aside to let them pass, his eyes never leaving Arion. The man’s presence radiated an ancient power, something that made Arion’s skin prickle.

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“This is him?” the man asked in a voice that seemed to echo in the small space.

“Yes,” Lirael replied, her tone respectful. “Arion of Hallow’s End.”

The man nodded once and motioned for them to follow him deeper into the passage. As they walked, the air grew colder, and the walls seemed to close in. Arion could feel something strange ahead, a pulsing energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Finally, they arrived in a large, circular chamber lit by blue flames flickering in iron sconces. At the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on it lay an ancient sword. Its black blade shimmered faintly, etched with runes that pulsed with dark energy. The air around it seemed to hum with power, and Arion could feel the pull of magic reaching out toward him.

“This is why we came here,” Lirael said softly, stepping closer to the sword. “This is the Blade of Ra’zien. It was forged long ago, in the fires of the Abyss, by those who sought to bind the realms together. It’s one of the few weapons capable of affecting the rifts.”

Arion stared at the sword, his heart pounding. The Blade of Ra’zien… even in his village, stories had been told of this weapon, a sword said to be so powerful that it could cut through the very fabric of reality.

“And you want me to take it?” Arion asked, his voice low.

“You have to,” Lirael said, turning to face him. “The power that awakened inside you—it’s connected to this sword. The blade can channel your magic, help you control it. Without it, you’ll never be able to close the rifts.”

The hooded man, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. “The blade is dangerous. It has been dormant for centuries, but it still carries the essence of the Abyss. It will amplify your power, but it will also test your will. If your mind falters, if you lose control, the blade will consume you.”

Arion took a step back, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He had barely begun to understand the power inside him, and now they were asking him to wield an artifact of unimaginable danger.

Lirael placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but we don’t have much time. The rifts are growing. The longer we wait, the more the realms will unravel. You’ve seen what’s already happening.”

Arion looked at the Blade of Ra’zien, its dark surface reflecting the blue flames. He thought of his village, of the lives that had been lost, and of the creatures that had torn through his home. He didn’t want this responsibility, didn’t want to be the one to bear this burden. But he couldn’t turn away now. Too much was at stake.

With a deep breath, Arion stepped forward, reaching out toward the blade. As his fingers brushed against the hilt, a surge of energy coursed through him, far stronger than anything he had felt before. The runes on the blade flared to life, and a dark, searing heat shot up his arm, into his chest, into his mind.

Images flashed before his eyes—visions of endless wars, of realms colliding, of rifts tearing through the sky. He saw creatures of darkness, their eyes burning with hatred, and above them all, a figure cloaked in shadow, watching from the abyss.

His grip tightened on the hilt, his body trembling as the magic surged through him, threatening to overwhelm his senses. He felt the pull of the Abyss, the darkness trying to claw its way into his mind, but he fought against it, focusing on the flame inside him, the same flame that had saved him before.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the surge of power receded, leaving Arion breathless but standing. The Blade of Ra’zien lay in his hand, the runes still glowing faintly.

“You did it,” Lirael whispered, her voice filled with awe.

Arion nodded, his grip tightening on the sword. The weight of the blade felt right, as though it had been waiting for him all along. But deep inside, he could still feel the darkness lurking, waiting for a moment of weakness.

“This is just the beginning,” the hooded man said, stepping forward. “You carry a great burden now, Arion of Hallow’s End. But know this—the blade will give you power, but it will also tempt you. You must be strong.”

Arion looked at the man, then back at Lirael. His path was clear now, but the weight of his new responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders. The road ahead was dangerous, but he knew he couldn’t turn back.

With the Blade of Ra’zien in hand, he was one step closer to understanding his destiny—one step closer to confronting the Shadow King and the rifts tearing the world apart.