The Jyothra Realm wasn't supposed to exist.
Not in maps. Not in sect records. Not in any clan's teachings.
And yet, here it was—stretching out before them like a gaping wound in the world.
Raen stood at the cliff's edge, looking down into a valley blanketed in silver mist. The ground below pulsed faintly with dull blue light. Floating stones hovered at unnatural angles. Trees twisted upward as though pulled toward something unseen above.
"This place," Nira whispered, "is wrong."
Talin chuckled, adjusting the wrap on his left arm. "Of course it is. That's why we were sent."
They had traveled three days past the Vohar borders under official orders: Investigate the anomaly beyond the Blackwind Trail. Report back if alive. Simple enough—until the earth itself started humming and birds flew in circles for hours, never able to escape the valley's edge.
Raen felt the whispers rise again—not from the sword grave, but from the world itself. This place breathed memory. Power. Suffering.
Kavran's voice stirred.
"This realm was once a sword."
Raen stiffened. "What?"
"A divine weapon shattered in a war between whisper gods. The shards bled into reality. This valley… is one of them."
Nira pointed ahead. "That explains the distortion field. No wonder the Crimson Fang want it."
They descended the cliff carefully, using Talin's rope-sling and Nira's rune anchors. The deeper they went, the less natural the world became.
No birdsong. No wind.
Just… pressure.
By midday, they reached the Shard Grove—a forest of silver glass trees, each humming faintly when touched.
Talin touched one and yelped. "It sang my name in my mother's voice."
Nira didn't even flinch. "Keep moving."
Raen, however, paused beside a broken tree half-submerged in the earth. The whisper from within was familiar.
His hand hovered over it.
The memory that answered was not a swordmaster.
It was a child.
"It hurt when I touched the blue light. But I didn't cry. I wanted to be brave."
Raen blinked. "This place stores memories of… anyone?"
Kavran replied:
"Anyone who bled here. Even thoughts can become echoes in this place."
Suddenly, the trees around them shivered.
Talin drew his blade. "Company."
From the shadows between glass trunks, Crimson Fang warriors emerged—three in total. Not assassins. Scouts. But their cloaks bore the mark of the Coilblood Circle—a sect within the Fang known for bloodletting rituals.
"Didn't think the clan would send you," one hissed, her blade already weeping red mist.
Raen stepped forward, the Veinblade humming faintly beneath the wrappings on his back.
"Leave," he said.
They laughed.
"You're carrying a soul blade in a realm of echoes," the tallest replied. "You're standing in our altar."
Raen didn't hesitate.
He flickered forward—one step, two—and slammed the hilt of his blade into the first scout's throat. The second slashed at him, but Talin intercepted with a wide crescent cut that sent sparks flying. Nira's rune charm detonated in blue light, dropping the third.
Seconds passed.
Then silence.
Raen stood among fallen bodies, breathing steadily.
The whispers grew louder again.
From deeper within the valley, something stirred.
Not a scout.
Not a sect.
Something older.
Watching.
Waiting.
Nira picked up one of the Fang blades, inspecting the blackened edge. "They weren't here to explore. They were feeding the realm."
Raen turned toward the mist ahead.
"Then we go deeper."