Corva offered the box without a word. It was sealed with melted wax and bound in hair.
Inside lay a blade. Black as night, forged in a shape no mortal smith could replicate.
Briar reached for it.
The moment her skin brushed the hilt, it wept.
Silver tears spilled from the crossguard, staining her hand.
"It knows you," Corva said. "It remembers."
"I don't."
"You named it once."
"What's it called?"
Corva hesitated. "That's for it to tell you. When it's ready."
Briar lifted the blade. It vibrated in her hand—not from instability, but from recognition. It was not just a weapon. It was an extension of her, as if her soul had once been forged beside it.
"Why is it crying?" she asked.
"Because it's been waiting," Corva said. "And it knows what must be done."
Briar stared into the metal's reflection.
She didn't see herself.
She saw a queen in shadow.