The Sword of Ishara

The Lost City thrummed with life — not the bustling noise of a crowded market or the chatter of voices — but a quiet, radiant energy, like a symphony just beneath the threshold of hearing. Erya stood still, her hand still resting on the hilt of the sword, now pulled free from its stone cradle. The blade pulsed in her grip, responding to her presence as though it recognized her — not as a stranger, but as someone long awaited.

She turned slowly, taking in the shimmering spires that pierced the golden sky, their surfaces alive with shifting runes and floating glyphs. Bridges of light arched from one tower to another, and translucent platforms hovered midair, drifting lazily like petals on a pond. The rivers that cut through the city glowed softly, coursing with a luminous current that defied the laws of nature. This was no ruin. It was a city suspended in time, preserved by magic older than memory.

And yet, despite its brilliance, there was something… watching.

Erya felt it before she saw them — shadows moving at the edge of her vision, slipping between buildings and drifting behind the glow of crystalline arches. Not people. Not exactly. They had the shape of men and women, tall and graceful, with eyes like starlight and skin the hue of polished stone. Some wore cloaks that shimmered like midnight silk; others bore faint scars across their brows, glowing softly as they passed.

They said nothing, but they watched her with a curious reverence. One by one, they emerged from the city’s edges, gathering silently in the wide plaza where Erya stood. There were dozens of them. Hundreds. None came closer than a dozen paces, and none made a sound.

Then one stepped forward — taller than the rest, with hair that shimmered silver and gold at once, and a staff carved from a branch of blackwood itself.

“You bear the sword,” the figure said, and their voice echoed in Erya’s mind rather than in her ears. “After so long, it returns to us.”

Erya swallowed, clutching the sword tighter. “I came to find the Lost City. To stop what’s waking beneath the mountains.”

The figure’s head inclined slightly. “Then you are not too late.”

He stepped forward, slowly, as though not to startle her. “I am Varion, Keeper of the Last Flame. We are the Aevareth — those who stayed behind when the gates closed. You stand now where none have stood in an age.”

Erya glanced around. “Why me? Why did the sword bring me here?”

Varion smiled faintly, though there was sadness in his gaze. “Because you carry the blood of Ishara, the last Guardian of Flame. Her line was thought lost, scattered and forgotten beyond the veil. But your presence proves otherwise. The sword only answers to her kin.”

Her knees trembled. Her mother’s stories, once fairy tales whispered by firelight, now burned with truth. The burden she had carried unknowingly all her life suddenly found shape.

“The thing beneath the mountains,” she said again, firmer this time. “It’s waking. People are already afraid. Some have disappeared. What is it?”

A hush fell over the Aevareth. Even the air around them dimmed slightly, as though the city itself recoiled from the question.

“The Sleeper,” Varion said at last, his voice barely above a whisper in her mind. “It stirs in the deep places — a being of void and hunger. Once, the sword kept it bound. But when Ishara fell, and the gates closed, its prison weakened. The time of reckoning draws near.”

Erya looked at the sword, the glowing runes now dancing along the blade’s surface. “Then I have to stop it.”

“You cannot alone,” Varion said. “But with the city’s power and the sword’s light, you may yet seal it once more. If you are willing.”

“I am,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm of uncertainty raging inside her.

Varion extended his hand, palm upward. “Then the city will awaken with you. Come — there is much to remember, and little time.”

As Erya stepped forward, the sword thrumming in her hand, the city of Ishara responded. Towers shifted. Lights flared. Bridges reshaped themselves. It was as if the city breathed again, no longer slumbering, but stirring at her presence.

The Aevareth bowed their heads as she passed, and Erya felt the weight of destiny settle upon her shoulders. But it did not crush her.

It lifted her.

For the first time in her life, the stories were no longer just stories. They were hers — and the next chapter was about to begin.