Episode 46: The Blades of Oath
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The Growing Storm
The skies over Arklor were no longer blue—they bore the hue of an encroaching dusk, even at noon. The mana within the kingdom had begun to shiver unnaturally, responding to some unseen presence clawing at the edge of existence. Kael stood atop the highest spire of Arklor's central palace, his silver cloak whipping behind him, eyes narrowed as he watched the ominous cracks spiderwebbing across the distant heavens.
The vision he had witnessed in the Dragon Temple had come with a price—his nights were now flooded with echoes of the future: Realms torn apart, screaming skies, and Kael standing alone amidst a sea of ash. He hadn't told the others how much he'd seen. Not yet.
Below, the city of Arklor bristled with activity. Troops marched, apprentices trained under harsh whispers of coming war, and the city's ancient defensive runes—dormant for centuries—glowed faintly beneath the cobblestone roads.
A war was coming.
But war alone wouldn't be enough.
Kael turned away from the horizon and called out to the wind. "Eryndor. It's time."
From the air itself, the Storm Warden appeared, cloak shimmering with residual lightning. His pale blue eyes were grim.
"They stir beneath the Verdant Cliffs," Eryndor murmured. "I felt their presence this morning. The Oath has not been broken... only waiting."
Kael's eyes burned with purpose. "Then we wake them."
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The Verdant Cliffs – Tomb of the Bound
Far to the east, past the Flameborn Highlands and the hollowed remains of the First Tree, the Verdant Cliffs jutted into the clouds like ancient fangs. The path to the summit was overgrown, devoured by time, and lined with half-buried ruins of a forgotten age. This was no place for casual travelers. Every stone, every leaf, carried weight—sorrow, purpose, and silence.
Kael and Eryndor walked side by side through the narrow mountain corridor. Above them, falcons circled, but not one called. Even the wind here was mute.
Kael placed a gloved hand against the cracked wall where a faded symbol shimmered faintly—three swords pointed downward over a phoenix crest. The symbol of the Blades of Oath.
"They were never meant to be remembered," Kael murmured. "Only to rise when needed."
The path led to a grand circular platform of pure silverstone, etched with a runic circle thirty paces wide. In its center stood six monumental statues—each of a knight, kneeling with blade grounded, eyes closed in eternal vow.
Kael stepped forward and drew a cut across his palm, letting the blood fall onto the stone.
"I, Kael of Arklor—blood of flame, storm, and realm—invoke the sacred vow. Rise, Oathbound. The Abyss returns, and the world bleeds. Answer the call... or let it die."
The world held its breath.
Then the statues cracked—lances of golden light erupting from their cores. The air warped. The runes howled. Stone crumbled as the knights stepped forward, not reanimated corpses, but living echoes—souls wrapped in enchanted armor, neither fully of this world nor beyond it.
They spoke not in words at first—but in presence.
Unyielding. Fierce. Ancient.
Then the leader, taller than the rest and clad in golden-black plate that shimmered with starlight, stepped forth.
"You bear the blood of old and speak the tongue of flame. Who do you war against, child of Realms?"
Kael knelt, lowering his gaze.
"The Abyss. The seal of Vael'tar is cracked. The Diavor stir. If we falter... there will be no realm left to defend."
The knight looked down at him for a long, cold moment. Then raised his sword high. The others followed.
"Our vow was to the living. To the balance. We rise not for crown or king, but for the world."
And so the Blades of Oath returned.
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The Gathering of Banners
Back in Arklor, word spread like wildfire.
The Eldest Oathkeepers—knights born before the last Calamity War—had returned. The people poured into the capital streets to glimpse their silhouettes in the torchlight. The mere sight of them stirred songs from old tongues, legends whispered by grandmothers, and murals left half-finished in forgotten temples.
Inside the Grand Hall of Flames, Lysandra waited.
Her face, ever a mask of composure, cracked with awe as Kael entered with the six behind him.
"You did it," she whispered.
"They never truly died," Kael replied. "Only waited."
One by one, the Oathkeepers knelt before the Queen.
"We swear not to the throne," said the commander. "But to the Flame of Hope. You carry it. We follow."
Tears welled in the eyes of old generals watching from the balconies. The return of the Blades was more than history—it was a sign. That the Realms still had champions.
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The Abyssal Signal
Far across the world, in the Hollowed Depths of Vael'tar, the last seal trembled.
Within a prison of obsidian thorns, a single eye opened—an eye that had seen the birth of stars and the death of gods.
Diavor.
The First Abyssal General.
The flare of the Darkspire's destruction had awakened him fully.
A voice slithered through the void.
"Kael moves. The Blades rise. The world dares resist."
Diavor's laughter was the sound of bones grinding in ash.
"Then let us remind them of despair."
His shadow spread, leaking from the Black Spire like a curse. Everywhere it touched, forests withered, beasts turned mad, and the air itself thickened into poison.
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The First Campaign
Kael wasted no time. With the Realms stirring, he would lead a pre-emptive strike against a growing Abyssal node near the Sunken Wastes, where corruption threatened to consume a Spirit Nexus—a sacred anchor point for the Spirit Realm's connection to Arklor.
He did not ride with an army. Only the six Blades, Eryndor, and twenty elite warcasters.
It was a suicide mission to most.
But Kael knew better. Sometimes, hope was a spark—not a flame—and sparks were lit by legends.
The wasteland greeted them with silence, but soon, whispers filled the air—grotesque whispers in a forgotten tongue.
Then came the tide.
Void Hounds. Winged Leechers. Thorned Abominations.
The warcasters raised barriers, and Kael became fire incarnate. He danced through shadows, sword blazing, striking faster than the eye. The Blades moved like rivers of silver, impossible to corner, cutting down monstrosities with sacred technique.
But at the heart stood a Gatewarden—a 10-foot-tall beast forged from bone, rot, and starless void. Its breath wilted spells. Its roar cracked minds.
Kael faced it alone.
The Oathkeepers held the line while Kael stepped forward, blood running from his arms as he channeled everything. His blade—Ignis Runeblade—lit with divine flame as he invoked the Runes of the Primordial Flame.
The Gatewarden lunged.
Kael stood tall.
And fire answered.
The explosion lit the sky for miles. The ground split. Abyssal ichor rained down like tar—but the Gatewarden was gone. The Core shattered.
The Realms had won a battle.
But the war had begun.
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Final Scene: A Rising Chorus
As Kael stood bloodied in the ashes, his sword grounded, the Blades knelt beside him.
Lysandra's voice echoed across all realms via spell-echo:
> "We stand not as kingdoms, not as races, not as bloodlines... but as one.
Against the Abyss, we are light.
And light—however small—always returns."
In cities, towns, and sacred groves, people listened.
And they began to believe.