The Obsidian Blade

AN: Y’all, just so you know, things are gonna look funky for a min cause I’m trying to edit after ONC on Wattpad, for The Watty’s, but we can’t make the changes there, so I decided to do them here cause it seemed easier, so there’s that 🙃 Everything from this point up untile Chapter 10 (Cracks In Perfection) has been edited to be way more detailed now that I don't have a 40k word cap. Now I have to have at least 40k words, so that's why this is happening. Carry on😁

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Kael had been waiting for this moment his entire life. Nineteen years of training, the last eight more brutal than anything, designed to break him down and rebuild him into something worthy.

Today, he would prove he didn’t bleed for nothing.

“Kael Ashford. Approach the pedestal.” A calm, stern, and absolute voice cut through the Hall like a blade. Marcus Ashford didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Kael tensed, only adding to his rigidly straight posture, as suddenly the air in his lungs felt suffocating more than relieving.

Three steps.

He’d counted them a thousand times in the last month alone, pacing his room at night when he couldn’t sleep. Three steps between him and everything he’d worked his life for. The Obsidian Blade. A black, wide-bladed, ancient weapon, forged for his family two thousand years ago, back when ′the world was young‘, and ’magic flowed like water’.

The blade had lain dormant for three centuries. No wielder, no heir worthy enough to wake it.

He would change that.He had to.

Kael’s reflection stared back at him in the dark blade as he took those three dreadful steps—cold, controlled, composed—every inch of the Ashford heir everyone expected him to be. A stark contrast to the panic screaming in his skull.

Please work.

“Take the blade.” His father’s voice again—sharper now. Impatient, almost like he was already waiting for Kael to fail. Like he expected nothing less.

Not this time.

Kael wrapped both hands around the hilt and pulled. The blade came free, heavier than he’d expected, the weight of it nearly dragging his arms down. His shoulders shook as he held it out in front of him—he locked his elbow, steadied his breathing, and reached for his magic—ice, cold, controlled—

Come on. Please.

Nothing.

No.

"Focus, Mr. Ashford.” Instructor Grey. Her voice was stern, but something underneath it— Concern? Pity? Kael planted his feet, tightened his grip until his knuckles went white, and breathed deeper.

Focus.

He pulled at his magic again, further in his chest this time—felt it answer, cold and sharp and eager—pushed it down his arms, through his fingers, into the hilt—

Please. Please work.

Still nothing.

The blade remained dead.Rejecting him.

The Hall went silent.

Then the whispers started; it was soft at first, then louder. Like rain on tin, slow drifts through the crowd, then almost a slow roar of voices. Someone laughed—nervous, unsure, the sound cutting through him like glass. Kael kept his eyes on the blade—if he looked up, if he saw their faces—

“—it didn’t work—”

“—Ashford couldn’t do it—”

“—three hundred years—”

His hands clenched at the hilt, frost spreading across his knuckles. The hushed voices didn’t rest at just the crowd, no. He could hear them coming from the Council’s platform. Sharper than the students—less taunting, more disappointed. Then Instructor Grey moved to the platform edge, her voice stilling most of the whispers in the room.

"Kira Carver,” she called, “Step forward.”

Kael’s heart stopped.What? No. No way—

“Excuse me?”

Kira’s voice was sharp, disbelieving, always edged with that trademark arrogance. Kael didn’t need to look; he’d been aware of Kira Carver for six years. He didn’t know when it had started —this awareness of where she was in any room, this involuntary tracking of her movements—maybe it was her first year at the Academy, when she’d shown up in his History of Relics class with ink-stained fingers and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Highland mountains. She’d argued with Instructor Thorn about the classification of Minor Fractures. She had actually argued, out loud, in front of everyone, and Kael had watched her do it with the same morbid fascination you’d watch someone poke a sleeping bear.

She was wrong, by the way, about the classification. But she’d argued so passionately that Thorn had been too startled to correct her immediately, and by the time he had, half the class was on Kira’s side.

He looked anyway.

She was distanced from the rest of the Hall, leaning against a column near the closet exit. Her golden hair sat, messily braided over her left shoulder, wisps of it sticking up in practically every direction as her eyes drifted across the Hall landing squarely on Grey on the Council platform perched above the Grand Hall. Her arms remained crossed tightly over her chest, one boot kicked up against the stone, almost like she was bored—like this entire thing was beneath her.

Like this was an inconvenience.

That was Kira Carver.Wrong about the details, right about the energy.She was wrong now, too. Standing back there like this had nothing to do with her

“Now, Ms. Carver.” Grey’s voice came as an order this time.

Kira’s yellow eyes held Grey’s for a long, tense minute before they narrowed, just an inch, like she’d suddenly found something slightly amusing and wanted to see if it could actually make her laugh. Without any further contest, she pushed off the column and started walking, casual and in no hurry. Her boots echoed against stone, painfully loud in the Hall’s silence. Kael’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached—she walked as if none of this mattered, like his entire future wasn’t collapsing in front of two hundred witnesses.

The blade hummed in his hands.

Kael’s eyes immediately snapped to the blade. The center was...glowing. Faint, barely there, but growing brighter with every step Kira took toward him.

No.

This wasn’t—this couldn’t— the blade hadn’t responded to him at all—nothing, not a flicker, not a pulse, not even a hint of acknowledgment.But for her?For her, it was waking up.

“That thing’s broken,” Kira said, stopping abruptly ten feet away. She turned toward the Council platform, gesturing at the blade like it had personally offended her. “I haven’t even touched it yet.”

Broken.The blade wasn’t broken.It had been dormant for three hundred years, waiting for someone worthy.

Testing, judging...It had tested him...And he’d failed...

“Approach the pedestal, Ms. Carver.” Marcus’s voice cut through the murmurs—and was that a quiver in it? A crack in that perfect, unshakeable control?

Impossible.

Marcus Ashford didn’t falter, didn’t waver, didn’t show weakness—but Kael had heard it—he was sure he’d heard it. Kira’s footsteps grew louder, then stopped right beside him.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Years of training, months alone preparing for this exact moment. He’d practiced every step, controlled every breath, planned for every possible variable.

But not this.Not her.

"Kael,” His father’s voice was low, sharp, almost a hiss, “Give her the blade.”

Kael’s grip faltered. “Sir, I can—”

"Now, Kael.”

Kael’s jaw tightened as he lowered the blade—the weight pulled it toward the ground, nearly dragging it from his hands—he turned and—

Kira was smirking.

Wide and smug——like she’d won something.

Kael’s chest tightened, frost spreading from his fingertips onto the hilt. This was supposed to be his, his ′spotlight’, his validation after all the bleeding he’d done for it.

And she was ruining it.

The moment her fingers brushed his on the hilt, the blade glowed.Not hummed.Not lit up.Glowed.

The center pulsed bright white light, flooding beneath the surface of the blade with a deep violet hue—the Hall erupted into gasps, shouts, confusion, excitement, all blending into chaos.

Kael heard none of it.

This is wrong.Everything is wrong.

The blade flared to life for a split second while their hands held it together.

Then nothing.

It fizzled out the moment Kira managed to hold it alone, extended awkwardly toward the Council box. ”Clear the Hall.” Marcus’s voice cut through the chaos, silencing everyone instantly. Students scrambled to their feet as instructors ushered them toward the doors. Council members descended on the pedestal—crowding, whispering, staring. ”How peculiar,” one of them murmured, gaze turned toward the blade, before turning to Kira.

“Ms. Carver, will you please hand the sword back to Mr. Ashford?”

“This thing is too heavy to keep passing around—”

"Just—give it to me.” Kael’s voice came out sharper, quicker than he’d meant.

She huffed, shifting to hand it back to him—but the weight was too much. The blade tilted, dropping fast, dragging toward the ground—

Kael’s hands flew to the hilt, wrapping around Kira’s to catch it before it hit the stone—

The blade roared to life.

Again.

Brighter than before, intense white light blazed from the center, deep violet hues pulsing through the blade like a heartbeat. A shockwave of wind exploded outward, scattering dust across the floor, making Council members step back in shock.

What is happening?

Kael’s grip on the hilt tightened as he pulled it from Kira’s grasp. As he did, the light dimmed, but didn’t die. It flickered, faint but alive, in his hands alone. ”Put it back." His father’s voice cut through the stunned silence, sharp and furious. His stance was rigid, eyes locked on the back of Kira’s head, refusing to look at either of them directly.

Kael set the blade down on the pedestal with a dull thud, then turned to his father, his thumb pressed roughly into his right palm, twisting a warm spot into the center of his usually chilled hands. The Council paid neither of them any attention. They talked amongst themselves, voices low and urgent, like the entire selection hadn’t just been shattered.

“Well, congratulations, Mr. Ashford, Ms. Carver.” Instructor Grey turned to them, something flickered across her face: sympathy? Concern?—maybe a bit of both—it was hard to tell. “It seems you are both heirs to the Obsidian Blade.”

Both.

The word felt like a knife twisting between his ribs. Grey didn’t give him time to sulk—

“Return to your dorms,” Grey continued, her voice gentler now. “Someone will collect you before dinner.”

Kira opened her mouth—probably to argue, probably to complain—but Grey raised a hand, silencing her before she could start.

Kael was already moving.

He didn’t wait for another dismissal, didn’t wait for Kira, didn’t look at his father—he just walked—spine straight, steps measured. Every inch of him controlled, locked down, perfectly composed. He managed to make it to the exit just before his hands started shaking as they pushed the large wooden doors open.

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The hallway felt wrong.

He was supposed to walk out of that Hall victorious.Chosen.Validated.The Ashford heir everyone knew he’d be.

Instead he walked out of the Grand Hall to nothing but whispers and stares. Nearly every students eyes following him down the corridor like he was something broken. Kael’s hand found the scar on his palm and rubbed it—the old training wound from when he was six, still raised and visible after all this time. He turned a corner, climbing the stairs, counting them like always—like counting would fix anything—like routine could put his world back together.

One, two, three.It couldn’t.He counted anyway.Forty-seven stairs.Same as always

He reached his door and pushed it open slowly, stepped into the room and turned stiffly—didn’t slam it, didn’t let it bang shut—actually closed it softer than usual, carefully, precisely.

Because Ashfords didn’t lose control.Not even when their entire world was ending.

Both hands pressed against the door, as Kael let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. Before he realized, frost slowly started to spread from his fingertips—small crystals sprouting across the wood, delicate and geometric and completely uncontrolled.

He stepped back, finally taking a proper breath.

Control yourself.

Too much was happening too fast.First, he’d missed marks in morning training, then failed with the blade, and now he had to share the heirship with—Her.

This was his punishment.Training before he had hardly learned to speak. Learning how to control and perfect every movement and every breath on top of learning how to walk—

For what?To share it with Kira Carver?

No.There had to be a mistake; he should go back.Demand they try again—

Heat flared in his chest.Kael froze in his tracks.

He was upset. Frustrated, devastated even, but this—this was different.Not his anger, not his fear, it was almost... prideful? Almost defiant?

Wrong.All wrong.

He stumbled back until his legs bumped his bed, forcing himself to sit before he crashed. The sheets wrinkled under his weight, perfectly pressed that morning, now creased and ruined—

For once, he didn’t care.The spark in his chest mattered more than bedsheets.

It flickered, pulsed, growing stronger with every second until it became an ache. Sharp and foreign, like heartburn but wrong, like something burning under his ribs.

What—The heat flared again, bolder this time. Spreading. Not painful, not exactly, but present. Like someone had lit a fire behind his ribcage and was feeding it with oxygen stolen from his own lungs.Her.

He pressed both hands against his chest, trying to push the warmth away, trying to smother it with his ice the way he smothered everything—every fear, every doubt—

It didn’t work.The heat pushed back.

Get out, he thought desperately.Get out of my head—

The heat pulsed again, sharp, defensive. Almost offended.

And underneath the defiance — underneath the fire and the pride and the stubborn refusal to be pushed out — he felt something else.

Fear.

Not his—this time.

It was hers.

Raw and unfiltered, threaded through the heat—she was terrified.

Not of him, not of the blade, not of the Council or the Selection or the two hundred students who had just watched her name get called instead of his—

Kael’s hands stopped pressing against his chest.

He sat very still, breathing carefully, feeling the foreign emotion settle into his ribs like it had always been there.

The bond didn’t care what he wanted.It had already tied them together.

And there was nothing he could do.

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