Back at the inn, Elhaan was already muttering to himself, huddled over maps and scrolls like some accountant who'd been cursed to work with dragons instead of numbers. I had no business interrupting him. Let the man wrestle with his "world-shaping strategies." My own ambition, far nobler and infinitely more practical, was simple: to buy myself some decent gear. Because if history has taught us anything, it is that a man without a sword is just an audience member in his own story.
So off I went.
The shop's door had a bell, technically speaking. But it was the kind of bell that had long ago abandoned its vocation. It did not ring, it clunked. Not cheerfully either. Just a dull, arthritic little sound that suggested even brass has its retirement age.
Inside, the smell hit me. Rust, ink, burnt fish. A combination no perfumer has yet attempted, and wisely so. Still, if kings ever smelled like that, then truly monarchy is an overrated career.
Weapons were everywhere, crammed in such a way that one almost expected them to whisper amongst themselves. Swords drooped like they'd lost faith in life, axes glared with unreasonable confidence, spears pointed at the ceiling as if asking to be excused. The whole place had the uneasy air of a zoo where the cages were made of bad decisions.
Behind the counter sat an old man. Very old. His mechanical eye twitched now and then, glowing faintly, but the rest of him had surrendered to a nap on top of a melted candle. The candle was losing that battle too. His parrot, however, was wide awake.
Now, parrots are supposed to repeat what you say. This one had gone freelance.
"Buy the axe. Not the jar. The jar screams."
"You snore louder than the hammer, old man."
"Where's my cracker? Thief."
Each line delivered with the weary disgust of someone who had seen civilizations rise and fall, and had come away unimpressed by both.
I ignored the duet. I wasn't here for wisdom, or noise, or anything that glittered like a bad metaphor. I wanted something sharp. Reliable. A blade that would not demand applause before cutting bread.
I browsed. The usual suspects appeared: glowing axes, lightning-spears, shadow blades. The kind of items that, if they were people, would hire a publicist and insist on being called "visionaries." All show, no soul.
And then I saw it.
On a crooked shelf in the corner, marked Junk. Don't Touch. words which, as every child and adventurer knows, are the most effective invitation.
Beneath a cracked fish tank and what I think was once a wand (though now it resembled a very depressed carrot), there lay a long, thin bundle. I pulled it out. The cloth was warm not hot, not cold just warm, in the way an old memory sometimes feels when it ambushes you.
Inside: a blade.Sleek, dark, thin as a reed. Smooth as lacquer. At first glance, it looked less like a sword and more like a calligraphy pen that had lost its sense of humor. But the edge gleamed faintly, and I could swear the metal pulsed. As if it was breathing.
I gave it a flick through the air.
SHHHKKK.
A ribbon of black ink unspooled, twisted in the air like it had somewhere important to be, then faded.
That's when the old man woke up.
"Huh?! That thing? Ha! Every brat picks it up, puts it down in ten seconds. Doesn't glow, doesn't roar, won't even slice a fish. I keep it as a joke."
"So no one wants it?"
"Cursed or useless. Either way, your funeral."
"Perfect," I said.
He stared at me the way tailors stare at men who insist on buying orange trousers. Then he sighed. "Five gold. And if it whispers at night, don't come crying."
Behind me, the parrot croaked: "Terrible taste. Definitely cursed."
I left with the blade strapped to my back. It pulsed once, humming faintly. Almost like it had been waiting. Somewhere far away — not that I knew — in a place without sea or sun, a word scribbled itself into a book nobody had opened for centuries. But all that cosmic foreshadowing was wasted on me. I just liked how it felt.
°°°
Outside, Takhbay was in festival mode. The streets buzzed with the sound of joy, which is to say, commerce. Vendors shouted as if lungs were a renewable resource. Carts rattled. Banners snapped in the wind. Everyone pretended to be happy, which, in cities, counts as happiness.
I'd barely walked five steps before something "odd" caught my eye. But in this city, odd was just the local word for normal.
It was a building with curved Eastern rooftiles, out of place among the stone blocks around it. On the ground floor: a shop with a banner. The banner showed a grinning boot. With eyes. And teeth.
I grinned back. Of course.
Inside, it looked like a cobbler's shop. Rows upon rows of shoes. Except they weren't shoes. They were Moblains enchanted footwear used for long-distance communication. Imagine a telephone, if the telephone had a voice, an ego, and a burning desire to insult its owner.
The shopkeeper looked up at me. Young, neat beard, hair tied back. The kind of man who probably polished his spoons.
"Welcome, hero," he said.
"I need a Moblain," I said. "One without a god complex."
He laughed the way bankers laugh when peasants ask about affordable housing. "That's like asking for a sword that doesn't want to stab something. They all think they're royalty."
"Fine. Then one that's only mildly delusional."
He grinned, held out his hand. "Hair."
I plucked one from my head, resisting the urge to ask if this was a barber shop in disguise. He disappeared into the back and returned with a black boot. Scuffed, ancient, looked like it had survived at least three wars and two fashion disasters. He dropped my hair onto it, muttered some words. The boot twitched, shimmered, and bellowed:
"WHO DARES WAKE ME FROM MY AGELESS SLUMBER?! THE WORLD SHALL TREMBLE BEFO wait… why do I feel dusty?"
I raised an eyebrow.
The boot's painted eyes turned to me. "Ah. You. Beneath me in both status and hygiene, but tolerable. I, Supreme Marshal Zetharius, Lord of Ten Thousand Steps, shall tolerate your service."
"No," I said flatly. "You're Shoe now."
The boot gasped. "Shoe?! I am a commander of cosmic communication!"
Both the shopkeeper and I sighed at the same time, like two men who had both dated the same mistake.
"He once argued with a doormat for two hours," the shopkeeper muttered.
"So… no, he doesn't shut up," I said.
I tossed a pouch on the counter. "Thanks."
The shopkeeper grinned like a man who had just rid himself of a family curse. "Good luck."
I walked out. The boot leapt, floated, and attached itself to my shoulder like a pompous parrot replacement.
"Straighten your spine! I shall not be seen with a slouch! Now, I will recite my poem: Ode to My Own Greatness, Volume One..."
I kept walking, deadpan. Behind us, the shopkeeper rubbed his hands together, glowing with the joy of a man who had just made his first sale.
And so there I was: one cursed blade humming on my back, one deranged boot declaiming poetry on my shoulder, and a city buzzing with festival chaos around me.
A sensible man might have paused then, looked skyward, and questioned his life choices.
I am not that man.
I simply walked on.