RAVEN’S GAMBIT | Episode 59: Echoes of the Chosen
The cursed tomb swallowed them again. Dusty corridors, ancient stones, and a silence so oppressive it felt like a scream held in a thousand throats. But now, something else stirred—something old, watching.
Theron walked at the rear, shadowed by the obsidian blade clutched in his hand. Blackrazor no longer hummed; it throbbed, each pulse like a heartbeat echoing in his veins.
It had begun to speak—not with words, not even in his mind—but in will.
Every time he looked at his companions, especially when they bled or weakened, he could feel it... urging him.
Take their soul. Feed me.
Theron resisted, teeth clenched behind a locked jaw. He’d dominated the blade once, but now its hunger gave it voice, presence, ego. It knew its own name again. It knew itself.
In moments of calm, the sword offered him protection. A strange, warped comfort. When Elric fumbled an incantation and triggered a confusion pulse from a cursed doorway, Theron simply blinked, untouched by the mind-altering surge. A dark wave passed over him—and was repelled.
The sword hissed like a lover in his ear.
Your thoughts are mine. No one else may touch them.
But it came with a price. Theron’s deft strikes, once the mark of a trained warrior and warlock, grew clumsier. His movements felt ever slightly misaligned. Blackrazor wanted to be swung, not wielded. He was a weapon now, second to the blade.
Each step reminded him of it.
Elsewhere, Elowyn sat beside a collapsed statue of a forgotten sea deity, running her fingers along the ancient trident Wave. She had spent the last hour in quiet communion, not with the tomb... but with the depths.
The stone beneath her feet pulsed with distant tides only she could feel.
Memories awakened.
She saw giants chained to the rocks of a storm-choked island—Thunderforge—striking iron into shape with bolts of lightning. She saw the Sea Queen’s fury—a goddess of shifting tides and ruthless balance—who cursed her own daughter for defiance.
Dravenda, half-giant and warrior, died rebelling with this very trident in hand. That final scream echoed through Elowyn’s bones.
The druidess inhaled sharply.“I am not Dravenda,” she whispered. “But I hear you.”
And Wave responded. Power shimmered in her grip.
Her mind expanded, senses sharpened. She could feel the slithering presence of water-bound creatures far beyond mortal perception. She could see them—shadows of what once lived here.
Then the cost came.
She felt her grip weaken on her staff. Muscle memory slipped. She would not wield the blade of another so deftly again. Her body remembered Wave now. The weapon was bonded. All else would feel foreign.
She accepted the trade. The tides always demanded balance.
At the front of the line, Thog Skullsplitter growled curses under his breath as he held Whelm.
The warhammer hated him. He could feel it through his fingers—a deep disgust, buried in layers of enchantment. It refused to hum. Refused to glow. It felt like dead weight in his mighty hands.
He tightened his grip and snarled.
“You will learn to love me, hammer. I killed to carry you. I bled for you. Dwarf weapon or not… I own you now.”
The weapon did not reply.
To Thog, that was worse than an insult.
Sir Cedric had offered to carry the weapon again, but Thog refused. Even if it only acted as a dull-headed bludgeon, he would wield it. His pride—his honor—demanded it.
The group moved through the tunnel slowly. A strange harmony filled the cursed halls—not peaceful, but quiet. A calm before another storm. Each relic now had a master. Each master paid a price.
And in the dark ceiling stones above, unseen but ever-watchful, a chained god smiled in his prison.
Raven whispered through a tear in the veil, only Theron heard him.
“The game moves forward. And the stakes, my children… rise.”