The events passed all too quickly. It seemed to be a blink between when Sojourn yelled, to running to save his father, only to end up on the ground thinking he was going to die. Sojourn stared into deep brown eyes as he felt hands close around his throat, the stranger catching Sojourn’s breath in his grasp. Time seemed to slow here. He could see that the eyes he looked into held no malice, yet the hands didn’t relinquish their grip.

Until they did, jolting Sojourn from the ground momentarily as the stranger’s body went flying. He rolled onto his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for breath. Anaphora helped him to his feet whispering to him. He nodded, turning tail to his father. With a grunt, Sojourn heaved his father into his arms, looking to Anaphora. For a moment, his heart lurched as he watched his companion lock blades with the stranger. He wanted to help as she dodged and deflected, but then his father groaned, and he was brought back to his task. She could hold her own. As carefully as he could, he drug his father out of harm's way, his body feeling too much like deadweight, his head lolling. Upon reaching the edge of the village square, Sojourn gently laid his father against a wall. He crouched down for a moment, peering into his father’s face and checking his pulse. It was slow but strong; he should be fine.

Task one, done, Sojourn looked again to Anaphora just in time to watch her get inside her opponent's guard. He smiled, then turned on his heel and ran. Through the streets he wove, familiar buildings and streets flashed by, seeming like they were not real. Bodies of people he once knew and cared for laid lifeless everywhere. Sojourn took no notice of the carnage; if he did, he did not think he would be able to go on. Swiftly, he reached the cemetery. It was quiet. Here there was no fire, no death not buried safely in the earth. In the centre was a mausoleum containing the Champion that once came from his village two cycles before Anaphora.

Carefully, Sojourn approached the marble building, pillars supporting an overhanging roof. Circling the pillars were carvings displaying battles between their Champion and the shadow creatures. The creatures were stylized with disproportionately large claws and teeth, but on and on, the characters fought. Above the door was an embossed sun, symbolizing the power the Goddess bestowed on the woman entombed within.

No keyhole was visible on the door; it seemed perfectly sealed. Closing his eyes, Sojourn remembered what his father told him about the mausoleum.

“Are you listening?” Akroor, Sojourn's father, spoke in a baritone. “This is important. My father told me this when I was your age. You need to pay attention!” He waited until his fourteen and distractible son was focused before continuing. “Our village, tucked away as it is, holds something of great importance for life’s survival. Four hundred years ago, the Goddess graced us by choosing one of our girls to be her Champion. Her name was Hellain, and she was one of the greatest. She severely harmed the alpha shadows, Anisha, Chausiku, Itzal and the most dangerous, Lycus. You may have heard, my son, that these creatures are nearly unbeatable. Well, that is true, for most people. Anyone aside from the Champion can harm and even kill the shadow creatures with knowledge of their weak spots. Each variation has its own, as I have been teaching you. However, the Champion has always been blessed with the ability to channel the Goddess’s power. Usually, this weakens them until they can get some rest, but the Goddess thought about this and created some weapons to make the channelling easier. Our Hellain found these weapons that made her so deadly. When she died, her sister, travelling with her, returned the weapons along with her body here. To keep them safe and out of the hands of evil, we entombed them with her body. That is our task. Protect the weapons. Protect them until another Champion needs them. That’s why our young people often leave. In hopes of finding her and guiding her to the blades. If ever you travel to find your own story and find her. Remember, Hellain’s victories are key.”

“Hellain’s victories are key,” Sojourn whispered to himself, remembering his father's words from many years ago. Ambling, Sojourn examined the pillars. There was Hellain’s battle with Anisha and there, Chausiku. Reverently, Sojourn touched each of the carvings. Each one slid slightly and locked into place with a soft click. Upon reaching the battle with Lycus, a massive black dog with enlarged paws and a dripping tongue, Sojourn paused and checked around him. Nothing moved, and the silence remained unbroken. Reassured, he pressed the last symbol. Accompanying the click was the whirring of gears and the squeak of long-unused mechanisms. When silence fell back over the graveyard, Sojourn went to the front of the mausoleum to find the door open.

He couldn’t help but grin. At the time, he couldn’t figure out why his father had told him that anecdote, but it was that story, and others like it, that had set him on this path as a jongleur. Sojourn stared into the darkness of the mausoleum; the smell of stale air and rot breached his nose. With a breath, he stepped over the threshold and into the tomb.

It only took a moment for his elven eyes to adjust, allowing him to see the interior. He could make out faint imprints of more battle scenes carved into the stone walls, the reliefs looking just as detailed as the exterior. The room itself wasn’t large. It had a flat ceiling and was void of anything except two stone coffins sitting upon a dais. They were laid side by side, a gap just wide enough for a single person to stand, parallel to the door. Sojourn crept silently towards them, crossing the barren, tile-covered floor.

The coffins were unadorned except for an elven inscription at the head of each. On the right cist read:

Here lies our saviour,

Without whom darkness would rule,

Who wields golden light.

Identical in appearance, the left one said:

To vanquish the dark,

Blades gifted from the Goddess,

To save us mortals.

He let his gaze travel over the Champion’s coffin before focusing on the one with the weapons. It looked like a solid piece of stone, completely smooth with no seal in sight. Despite this, he tried to push on the top, just to see if a lid would move. Nothing. Sojourn wracked his memory for other stories his father told him, but nothing came to mind about how to open the sarcophagus. He walked slowly around the masonry with a gentle hand on the stone, peering at it carefully.

“Was the answer with the victories here as well?” Sojourn whispered to himself. Tearing his gaze from the coffin, he inspected the walls, looking once again for the battles of their Champion. Once again, nothing. These were lesser battles, none of which depicted alphas. He was at a loss. The original plan had been to introduce Anaphora to the village and request the aid of his father. For a moment, he considered going back to ask but then remembered that it was currently not an option. He had no choice but to figure it out.

Turing from the wall, he looked back towards the coffins. That’s when he noticed it. The dais. While at first glance, everything about the mausoleum, excluding the walls, seemed devoid of detail. With this second look, Sojourn saw that the vertical face of the dais was carved as well. In a graceful rush, he crouched down and found simple patterns carved along the front. The organic design went along all four sides, broken only by two images. To the right of the Champion’s resting place, the first image was of a warrior, weapons drawn and face contorted into a war shout. In the same spot beside the second coffin was a carving of weapons. That had to be it! Holding his breath, Sojourn pressed, feeling the stone give way.

The second it clicked into place, the stone began to move. Now, Sojourn could see what the builders had done. Rather than burying the weapons in the stone box, they had dug into the earth to place them there. The entire exposed rock was, in fact, the lid. “Very clever,” Sojourn whispered to himself, “would take someone a while to try to break through the lid to get the weapons.” Chuckling, he peered inside.

Three blades laid in the earth. Sojourn reached in, pulling them out to see them more clearly. There were two matching broadswords and a deadly looking longsword. The broadswords seemed plain, in their sheaths. Scabbarded in brown leather with well-worn leather hilts, they looked no more special than an ordinary soldier's blade. Unlike the broadswords, the longsword had a regal appearance. Instead of brown, both hilt and scabbard were black as a moonless night. Lines of gold spiralled down the hilt, crisscrossing, leaving an eye-catching pattern. Strangely, the gold seemed to be extended from the black but felt flush and smooth. Lining the edges of the scabbard was gold framing the black. Gold spirals built off each other down the length of the sheath in a mesmerizing pattern. Unsheathing the blades, Sojourn examined the edges. Somehow they were still amazingly sharp. The steel has a bluish tinge with no marks of smithing or having been sharpened before.

Long had Sojourn dreamed of beholding these legendary weapons. He stood still, unable to believe that he was actually here, holding them. For a spell, time seemed unimportant, the swords’ beauty filling his mind. He thought of how elegant Anaphora would look with these weapons, with her graceful, beautiful features. Her eyes shining with the gold of the black sheath. “Anaphora!” He shouted, his thought startling him out of his reverie. He slung the weapons haphazardly over his shoulder before racing out of the mausoleum and back towards the village. The entire time he ran, he prayed that Anaphora had been successful in subduing her advisory.