The air was thick with the metallic scent mingling with the damp earth. Rain dripped down, plastering my hair to my face and blurring the world around me.
The white sword felt cool and heavy in my hand, its surface slick with moisture. My brothers appeared as distant, struggling shadows against the muddy ground, their roars of pain and fury carried by the wind, a harsh symphony that urged the horse to gallop faster.
To my left, the forest loomed dark and silent, a wall of black against the grey sky. My heart raced in my chest, a frantic drumbeat pushing me onward.
As I approached the Section D border, the rain lightened to a drizzle, allowing me to finally examine the white sword I held. I had been so caught up in the effortless power it granted me, the way it made soldiers disappear, that I hadn't truly looked at it.
It wasn't just a white blade; it was made of bone. The hilt was a smooth, polished section of a thick rib, and the blade—a beautiful, deadly curve—was a single, sharpened tibia. A familiar ache shot through the hand that gripped it, almost like a fraternal bond. I recognized the unusual, translucent quality of the material; it was the same as the hilt of the sword my brother, Darius, had always carried. At the base of the handle, where the bone hilt met the metallic crossguard, was a small, perfectly carved notch—a scar Darius had earned from a botched training exercise years ago.
This sword wasn't just a weapon of light; it was forged from something I loved. The sickening truth hit me like a punch to the gut: the blinding pain and paralysis I'd felt earlier wasn't a nightmare; it was the process of my own body—or perhaps my brother's—being transformed, or sacrificed, to create this weapon.
Its ease in killing didn't stem from its own power, but from the fact that it was still a part of me, a part I was feeding into the fight. And as I raised the bone sword to strike, a fresh wave of grief, not adrenaline, washed over me, because a terrifying thought struck me: I was only holding one of the two.