A warm wind swept between the ancient stones of the pyramid, lifting golden spirals of sand into the air. Up above, on the summit platform, a man moved in silence, his blades slicing through the air with uncanny precision.
His body was a honed instrument, a dance of steel and controlled breath. Bare feet slid across the smooth stone, flowing with the curve of the wind. His curved blades, glinting like crescent moons, whistled through the air, drawing fleeting arcs before freezing in flawless stillness. He did not strike. He severed the space itself, seeking to cut the invisible, to refine the intent behind every motion.
That was the essence of his training: the cut must come before the blade.
The Brother came to a halt. He closed his eyes.
And then, he felt it.
A shiver ran down his spine, as if the universe had subtly shifted its weave. A faint vibration, a distant echo, an invisible thread pulled taut somewhere across the world. Someone had crossed a threshold.
He had no doubt where it came from. It followed too closely after the last one.
Somewhere, leagues away, a young man had just stepped onto a higher step of the Path of Severance. He was no longer a Nascent Blade. He now sought the Fracture Line, the fault in matter. He had begun to see what so few knew how to perceive.
The Brother opened his eyes. Deep brown, marked by time, they now held a glimmer that defied understanding. He nodded slowly, a gesture balanced between acknowledgment… and warning.
"So you're moving forward, little brother... But will you bear what you've just gained?"
Only silence replied.
He drew a deep breath. It mattered little. The Severance calls only those ready to listen.
He resumed his stance, his blades catching the sunlight atop the pyramid, then, soundlessly, he moved.
His cut sliced the air, and the shadow of his motion traced a perfect line beneath the azure sky.
_ _ _
The ship cut through the black, frozen waters, its prow carved in the shape of a wolf's head slicing the mist like a blade through flesh. The sails, rimmed with northern frost, snapped in the biting wind, driving the vessel across an ocean where only the mad or the damned dared to venture.
On deck, Thalrik Frost-Blade squinted into the horizon, his hands gripping the edge of what he called his "precious drakkar." His fur cloak, heavy with salt and wind, flapped against his back like a weary banner. The waters of the Far North forgave nothing, and yet today, something else weighed on the air.
Some of his clan were working the sails, while others huddled for warmth, bracing against the storm, awaiting his orders.
Beneath the hull, a massive white shape moved through the waves, vanishing now and then into the dark, icy depths before emerging again in the foam. Solbjörn swam in silence, gliding with the effortless grace of something born from the cold itself. Occasionally, he lifted his head above the surface, his luminous eyes lingering on his companion.
But it was a sudden shiver that broke the warrior's stillness.
A shiver that came from neither wind nor cold.
Thalrik straightened, frozen like a statue of ice. His breath caught. His heart thundered in his chest, and then... he felt it.
An echo.
A vibration, not in the water, nor in the air, but in the blade of the world itself.
Someone had just crossed a threshold. No... someone had severed the distance to the second tier.
That boy... he had advanced again. Not a step, a leap.
He closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. A cleaner cut, sharper, more precise. A deeper resonance with the Severance. The second echelon had just been carved into his soul.
Beneath the surface, Solbjörn felt it too. He dove, then surfaced suddenly beside the ship, spraying the deck with a burst of icy water. He exhaled loudly, vapor curling around his jaws like ghostly breath.
"Shivering again with no storm in sight, Thalrik?" growled the bear, shaking his fur like an avalanche threatening to bury a village.
Thalrik exhaled slowly, a crooked smile tugging at his cracked lips.
"The boy... he's climbed another step."
Solbjörn narrowed his ice-blue eyes, his breath clouding the air.
"The second tier? Already?"
"Already." Thalrik rested a hand on the hilt of his short axe. "And he didn't just reach it. He cut it in two."
A low rumble escaped the bear's throat. A laugh? A warning? Maybe both.
"Then the Blade accepts him... and its song grows louder."
Thalrik nodded slowly.
The drakkar pressed onward, southward, leaving behind the cursed waters of the Black Glacier. Thalrik turned from the horizon to watch the sea, where Solbjörn swam with supernatural ease.
Soon, they would reach the coast. The Black Glacier had rejected them, they weren't ready. And one question gnawed at him: should they return with his clan... or with another swordBrother?
But for now, he simply tightened his grip on his weapon and let the wind carry his words.
"We'll see. For now, my clan needs rest."
And beneath them, the ocean growled.
_ _ _
The night wind slipped between the curved rooftops of the pagoda, lifting swirls of incense that escaped from the hanging lanterns. The flickering glow of the flames cast dancing shadows across the lacquered wooden pillars, briefly revealing the presence of the intruder hidden in the dark.
Leaning against a carved column, the swordBrother waited. His breath was as imperceptible as the rustling magnolia leaves carpeting the gardens below. Beneath the wide brim of his conical straw hat, his half-closed eyes stared at nothing, yet missed nothing.
He didn't need to look to know the Immortal Guard was near.
They moved with flawless discipline, their footsteps so controlled they made no sound on the smooth floors of the pagoda. Their silhouettes, draped in white robes embroidered with gold, blended almost seamlessly into the palace's refined décor. But beneath the splendid fabric, each guard was a sharpened weapon, forged through centuries of tradition and training. Their oath allowed neither hesitation nor mercy.
If they saw him, they would strike without a word.
But they wouldn't see him.
He knew it, as surely as he knew where and when to deliver a perfect cut. The blade didn't need to move to exist, and he didn't need to flee to vanish. He was there, still as a shadow carved into wood, patient as the edge of a sword still sheathed.
One of the guards stopped near his column. Beneath the rim of his hat, the Brother felt him more than saw him: a focused presence, a slowed breath, absolute vigilance. The man was scanning the darkness, his gaze probing every corner of the dim corridor.
For a moment, the Brother felt the fracture line.
An invisible thread between him and the guard. A possible cut. A single motion that, if made, would scatter the silence like a gust of steel. A choice suspended between being and nothingness.
Then, suddenly, a shiver, not in the air, not in the water.
In the Severance of his mind.
An unseen spark split his awareness, like a note of music only he could hear. A deep, implacable resonance. Someone had just executed a magnificent cut.
His spirit recognized the signature instantly.
The young brother had crossed a threshold. He was no longer just a Nascent Blade. He had refined his intent enough to hear his blade's song. He had stepped onto the second tier of the Path of Severance.
A smile lit the man's face.
The guard finally turned his gaze away and resumed his patrol, danger brushed but never realized.
The Brother did not move, not even to breathe.
Slowly, methodically, the Immortal Guard departed from the pavilion, their steps fading into the night as if they had never been there.
A perfect silence fell over the pagoda once more.
He waited still, long enough to be sure nothing betrayed a trap, that the fragile balance wouldn't tilt from a false step. Then, at last, he allowed his shoulders to relax slightly.
He straightened, muscles flowing with the precision of a blade sliding from its sheath.
The moment had passed.
He had not needed to cut.
But he knew other nights would come. The hunt for him was not over. More cuts to deliver, or to dodge, and under the ink-black canopy scattered with lanterns of this level of the pagoda, he faded like a shadow on the wind.
_ _ _
The lantern swayed lazily, casting dancing shadows across the walls of aged wood. Rain drummed against the roof outside, but within, the world had shrunk to the warmth of a fire, the spark of a smile… and the touch of a woman's hand.
Jonah was leaning over the counter, elbows resting atop the worn surface, his fingers brushing against those of the tavern keeper, a lively brunette with eyes the color of coffee beans soaked in rum.
"You always wear that wet dog look, but tonight… I daresay, you're almost charming, Voss."
He smirked, just a hint of mischief tugging at his lips.
"Must be the rain… or your rum, madam."
She rolled her eyes, ready to tease him further, but Jonah froze.
His gaze locked. His hand withdrew, as if the world had suddenly tilted. Around them, the tavern pulsed with life: tankards clashing, drunken laughter, a poorly tuned harp being butchered by clumsy fingers.
But for Jonah, it all faded.
A dull shiver. A pure vibration. Somewhere, woven into the fabric of reality, a line had just been cut. Perfectly. Undeniably.
A Brother had just ascended. The Severance had sung, and Jonah had heard it. His breath caught. His eyes narrowed.
"So close…"
A whisper, lost in the cacophony.
"What is it now?" the tavern keeper asked, raising a brow. "Remembered a debt? Or is there a ghost of a woman come to haunt you?"
A smile, cold, absent, ghosted across Jonah's lips, but he didn't answer. He stood up slowly, his shoulders stiffening as though remembering a burden he thought long gone.
He tossed a coin onto the counter without even watching it land. Then, without a word, he crossed the rowdy room, full of song, gambling, and drunken cheer, like a cold shadow moving through abandoned embers.