The Wisteria Accond

Chapter Ten

The healer declares us fit to return to duty, but I can still feel the tightness in my side, the lingering sting in every breath. She gives me a pointed look, as if daring me to disagree, but I bite back the urge to argue. I'm not about to spend another day in this cramped, suffocating infirmary. Not when there's too much at stake.

Clara and Gav are already gathering their things. Clara's leg is still a patchwork of bruises, but she's walking without the crutch now, and Gav's arm is nearly back to normal. We've all healed as much as we can, at least on the outside. Inside, though? That's another story.

"So, what's the plan?" Gav asks, slinging his pack over his shoulder. His voice is casual, but there's a tension to it, a tightness that mirrors the unease gnawing at me. "Back to the usual patrols, or are we going to keep digging?"

"Digging," I say, and there's no hesitation in my voice. "We need to understand what we're up against. Those Nightborne... they're changing. And we can't afford to be caught off guard again."

Clara nods, her expression grim. "Agreed. There's more going on here than we realize, and I'm not keen on waiting around for the next attack to find out what."

"Good," I say, feeling the familiar stir of determination in my veins. "Then we start with the records. The old ones. Maybe there's something there that can help us make sense of this."

The three of us make our way to the outpost's library, a dimly lit room crammed with shelves upon shelves of old scrolls, manuscripts, and books. The air is thick with dust, the scent of old parchment and ink mingling with the mustiness of a place that's rarely disturbed. It's not exactly the most welcoming place, but it's where we have to start.

"Should we split up?" Gav suggests, already reaching for a stack of scrolls. "Cover more ground?"

I nod. "I'll take the back shelves. Clara, you start with the books on Nightborne lore. Gav, see if there's anything in the battle records—anything that mentions eyes or changes in behavior."

Hours pass, the silence broken only by the rustle of pages and the occasional frustrated sigh. I comb through scroll after scroll, skimming faded ink and half-remembered stories. Most of it is the same—legends and myths about the Nightborne, tales of their origin, their endless hunger for the living. Nothing new. Nothing useful.

But then I come across a scroll that's different. It's older than the others, its edges frayed and brittle, the script faded and delicate. I unroll it carefully, my eyes narrowing as I read. It's a story—a prophecy, maybe—written in the archaic dialect of the Old Tongue. And buried in the middle, almost lost among the lines of poetic language and cryptic phrasing, is a mention of something I've never heard of before.

"The Wisteria Accond," I whisper, my heart beating faster. I scan the lines, trying to piece together the meaning. A sword, forged from the wisteria that once saved our ancestors from the first Nightborne hordes. A weapon of immense power, but more than that—something sacred. A relic.

"Hey, I think I found something," I call out, and Gav and Clara look up from their respective corners of the room.

Clara makes her way over to me, her eyes sharp with curiosity. "What is it?"

I point to the passage. "A sword. The Wisteria Accond. It says here it was forged in the ancient days, meant to be wielded by someone with a heart pure enough to be guided by the wisteria itself."

"A pure heart?" Gav echoes, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "That sounds... vague."

"It's more than vague," I say, my eyes scanning the text again. "There's a riddle, too. Here, listen: