The Knife's Edge

Chapter Five

An Arbiter’s Gift!

Kirin reached the uppermost halls of the Citadel. He had trusted his Ki, as it guided him down corridors restricted to all but the highest-ranking Reavers. Always he heard the guards’ footfalls sounding through the Citadel like a broken dam. Twice he felt the presence of Devari. Luckily, they weren’t as strong and he sensed them first, instead of the other way around.

At last, he stood before the oak door. He threw it open.

The room was shaped in a curve, fitting to the tower’s shape. Inside, he saw gold stands, opulent carpets, Saerian vases, windows with a view of the city, but all of it was a blur in his vision. He rushed towards Ezrah who stood behind his wooden desk.

Kirin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Ezrah saw his gore-covered hands and moved with unexpected swiftness. A power surrounded the Arbiter like a nimbus, and the flush of white filled the room making the tapestries flutter and knocking stacks of papers off the table. Ezrah touched his temple. Images poured through him in a flash—scenes of everything that had happened until now. At last, his vision raced to this moment, to where he stood. He gasped and pulled away.

“Light and flesh...” Ezrah cursed, and grasped his shoulders. “You... you have to leave, my boy, at once.” He whisked towards his desk, and more papers and tomes showered to the floor as he flung them aside in search.

Kirin opened his mouth, his breath returned in a rush, but he could barely inhale before the next exhale fell.

“You’re going to faint, you must slow your breathing,” Ezrah instructed as he opened and slammed drawers with the flick of his finger.

“I—I can’t,” he gasped. His grandfather returned and put another finger to the side of his head. His breathing slowed, but his mind didn’t—it reeled in fear, anger, denial, confusion, and a thousand other emotions. Yet one thing was clear, and it overrode all else. “I killed them all... I killed Ren,” he whispered in horror, eyeing the blood on his hands and arms. Vera’s blood.

“You did not kill them, Kirin. It did.” Ezrah pointed to the sword. Kirin dropped the blade as if it burned. The blade clattered on the stone floor. “This you must trust, it was not your fault. Always remember that.”

“How could I possibly forget what I’ve done?”

“Soon you will not remember this, but you deserve to know what has begun this night. Many years ago, when I was still but a Neophyte, I stumbled across a book of prophecy. I later discovered, to my horror, that what I held was the prophecy that foretold of the true Return that would tear the world asunder.”

A cold seeped beneath Kirin’s skin. The true Return was a story that scared children to bed, and made old men curse and spit. It was the nightmare all the world feared.

“I kept the prophecy secret. And day and night, I worked to decipher what I could in the effort that the Return would never come to pass.” Ezrah cursed. “Now I see I was a fool to think I could alter the prophecy, and a blind one to miss that the most important piece was right beneath my nose.”

Kirin shook his head. “What does the true Return have to do with me?”

“You are at the center of it. There is a power inside you, one that is both terrible and great beyond imagination. That you hold the sword without pain is evidence that you are the destined wielder the prophecy speaks of.”

“What does the prophecy say?”

Ezrah hesitated.

He gripped his grandfather’s arm. “Tell me.”