The royal palace smelled of death. It was not a physical smell — it was something deeper, a spectral presence clinging to the stone walls and faded tapestries. The courtiers spoke in hushed tones. The guards stood their silent watch. Even the torches seemed to burn with less conviction.

The Eight Sacred Warriors were brought into the throne room at dawn. The king was waiting for them. He looked like a specter. His skin was translucent, his veins visible, the crown too heavy for his gaunt skull. But when he spoke, his voice still carried the authority of three centuries of reign.

— Come closer.

The king showed them three fragments of a broken sword resting on purple velvet: a crystal pommel, a guard of black metal, a cracked blade. The sword of Nerecleiss. Scattered to the four corners of Terra. To be found. To be reforged. To break the curse.

The mage stepped forward with a ritual dagger. He cut the palm of each warrior. The blood flowed, black under the torchlight. One by one, they placed their hand upon the casket and swore.

Then came Draven's turn. The necromancer hesitated. His eyes gleamed with a strange light.

— I swear, he said at last, to serve this quest to the very end.

The king closed his eyes.

— It is done. You are bound. The blood oath cannot be broken. If one of you betrays, you all die.

An icy silence fell.

— What? Kael exclaimed.

— The blood oath. An ancient magic. Your lives are now bound together.

Elyndra turned to Draven, her eyes ablaze.

— You knew.

Draven did not answer.

— Go now. Find the sword. Save my son. Or kill him. But do not return without having fulfilled your mission.

The Eight Sacred Warriors left the throne room in silence. Outside, dawn was rising over Terra. But for them, the darkness was only beginning.