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Chapter 9

Mystery of the Flame

The revealing sound of a snapping twig in the silence jerks the lone swordsman awake. Quick acts of grabbing his resting sword, and leaping into action, are stayed by an unnatural weight pressing down on him, and his body fails to budge.

"What the…I can't move—!?" Ephrial, flat on his back, tilts his head downward, noting the lack of any visible binds around him, yet feels tight constraints like that of a thick rope tethering his limbs to the ground.

"Ease yourself," a stranger's voice says flatly.

The immobile mercenary-knight shifts his gaze past the crackling flames of the campfire. An enigmatic figure sits on a fallen tree, fully shrouded in dark layers of a heavy cloak. Complimented by the shade of night, a concealing hood reveals nothing to be distinguished other than the man's jaw.

"If you intend to kill me, you had better be quick," an unyielding spirit hardens through cerulean eyes. His body tenses against the magical restraint, fists balling up and muscles flexing in perseverance.

"If it was my goal to kill you, I would not have put my energy into a non-lethal spell. Then again, one can't afford to give you any kind of opening to retaliate…" The man unsheathes a gilded blade. "A marvel in its own, is it not?"

Ephrial pauses his struggle for a moment as he notices his sword in the hands of this intruder. Adding to the surprise, the flames remain tame within the man's grip, rather than sputtering wildly out of control as it would in hands other than its master's.

Turning the blade upward, and raising it to the clandestine eyes beneath the hood, the stranger takes a closer inspection of the fine details. "Amazing…even though the blade is burning like a dragon's tongue, the hilt remains cool to the touch. Magic is quite an art of wonder, is it not?" turning unseen eyes back towards the snared swordsman.

"What is it you want?" an ever-calm voice demands an answer.

"Hm…we are not taught 'wants', but rather, deeds. What is desire but a mere distraction without the very action to grasp hold of it?"

"You may be lecturing the wrong person about getting things done," Ephrial continues fighting against his restraints, refusing to give in.

"Otherworldly steel and mixed magicks to temper a blade with no limit to its arcane potential…yet it cannot be wielded by the faint of heart. Even still, should one lose control of their own zealousness, they should perish by the very flames they seek to engulf their foes in. A weapon to kill, but not to destroy… Truly an object of most discriminate use…and in the possession of one who knows what it means to be discriminated against."

"Speak plainly, magus. After a course of events already begging many questions, I am in no mood for cryptic statements," Ephrial, irked at seeing the precious family heirloom in the hands of a man revealing nothing about himself, yet who seems to have a fair share of knowledge about him and the sword he brandishes.

"Is it really all that cryptic? Surely you have felt it yourself. That constant tug to unleash an unbridled rage, and let the sword draw it all out into a devouring inferno? Yet hatred and rage cannot wield the blade, lest it consumes them in their own ire. The very passion that is required to fuel the potential of this weapon can just as easily turn against that who uses it. In a person's hands, it may swallow someone lost in his or her own fervor…or, it will yield to the will of one as unbreakable as itself."

"Your words say much to specific information about something you have clearly never held before," knowing the difference one admires an object with familiarity versus beholding for the first time. "Just who are you?"

"You have done well to remain unscorched thus far…" ignoring the question. "However, your journey is all but close to an end. I have no doubt she knew of this, long before it was even apparent to myself. Still, I wonder…will you continue to remain your own conqueror? Or will you be consumed by your own strength…?"

Ephrial, still contending against the invisible tethers, budges slightly; a small sign of triumph against the restraining spell. The man slowly sheathes the ardent sword and walks over to the mercenary-knight. A look of unwavering defiance watches as the shrouded figure calmly lays the weapon by its rightful owner and begins walking off into the darkness.

"I would rather not overstay my welcome. We shall meet again, Blazing Swordsman…should you make it that far."

With that, the enigmatic presence is gone, leaving no trace. Moments pass in silence, and the fetters around Ephrial dissolve, causing him to jolt with the sudden give in resistance. A hand automatically reaches for the crimson sheath, but he neglects to draw the blade. There is no point, as the man is long gone, leaving the half-blood with a new set of unnerving questions. If he really wanted him dead, he would not have wasted the opportunity that many would kill each other for in order to seize the pleasure for themselves.

Just who was he? How did he know so much about the sword once sealed away? Ephrial remains ignorant to the origin of his own weapon, but his mind races with the idea of a much deeper history behind it. However, such mysterious statements confirmed what he has only been able to speculate until now.

The pondering knight partially reveals the fiery edge, gazing into the calm tongues of flame dancing along the blade. Many battles with this armament have matched truth with the intruder's words. The fire can be as dim as a candle, or as fierce as the punishing flames of hell itself, mirroring what he feels at any given time. However, its sensitivity cannot go unchecked, even for a moment, lest it spins into an uncontrollable wildfire. A delicate conundrum of feeding the blade passion to ignite, but without crossing the threshold of his own heart. As easily as one can lose themselves to a variety of emotions, they can lose control of this physical embodiment of them, burning themselves to ash.

Ephrial has never found himself in danger of such, given his Noxian-Ionian principles. The balance instilled in him creates a kindred bond between he and his blade. After already losing everything truly important he once had, is there really anything left that can send him over the edge? With all of his experience, is there anything he has not once faced before?

The swordsman takes a deep breath, resting the blade next to himself. He gives one last wary look around the surrounding area, seeing nothing but darkness and silhouettes of trees, with only the sound crackling campfire and chirping crickets. Lying back down, hands folded behind his head, he shoves the odd visitation aside. With all of the abounding circumstances raising so many mysteries, he focuses on what certainty there is to be had. He must journey back to the Institute of War and find out where the situation stands.

The serenity of the starry night sky is the only peacefulness he has known for some time…and perhaps the last he may know for time to come.