Elira walked beside me, her presence dignified yet oddly comforting, though I could never forget she was the Chancellor's daughter—the same Chancellor who had threatened me with death only a day ago. My thoughts were still ringing with his voice, sharp like the crack of a whip, demanding obedience. I had agreed, of course. What choice did I have? Death or service. And so I walked now through the grand streets of Avreth, half in awe, half in dread, my mind torn between fear of discovery and the strange pull of this city.
The first stop she led me to was a towering building of carved stone and shimmering glass. Golden letters gleamed above its arched entrance:
"Ravalion's Attire – Dressing the Nobility of Avreth Since 132 AE."
I paused, staring at the polished sign, the delicate embroidery displayed behind the glass windows, and the faint scent of lavender and fine cloth drifting from the open door. I had never stepped into such a place before. The finest clothes I had ever worn were those stitched by the guild's tailor—sturdy, practical, and made for blood and survival, not elegance.
"Don't look so stiff," Elira said, her lips quirking slightly, perhaps mocking me, perhaps trying to ease my discomfort. "Father ordered that you are to be presented as something more… respectable. The Chancellor cannot have you wandering around in those rags."
I looked down at myself. Torn shirt, dirt-stained trousers, boots worn down to the sole. She was right. I looked more like a starving drifter than someone the Chancellor had taken under his wing—albeit forcefully.
Inside, the shop felt like another world. Silk curtains swayed with every breeze, racks of robes shimmered in jewel tones, and the attendants moved gracefully, their hands soft as they measured cloth and whispered suggestions. I felt their eyes on me, their whispers barely restrained: He looks like an urchin. Why bring him here? Who is he to deserve Ravalion's craft?
Elira ignored them all with the effortless poise of nobility. She gestured to one of the attendants. "Bring him something simple, but dignified. White, perhaps. Something to hide the dust but not too loud."
I let them fuss over me, though I stiffened each time they tugged at my sleeves or measured my shoulders. Finally, my choice fell upon a plain white shirt, its fabric softer than anything I had worn before, over which I draped a deep purple robe, embroidered subtly along the hem. The robe hung down to my knees, its weight reminding me that this was not clothing made for battle but for presentation. On my feet I chose long brown boots, sturdy yet polished.
When I saw myself in the tall mirror, I hardly recognized the reflection staring back. I looked… cleaner, sharper, almost like I belonged here. Almost.
Elira tilted her head, studying me. "Better. At least now you won't be mistaken for a street thief."
Her words carried no malice, but still, my fists clenched. I hated the idea of being dressed like a doll, yet I knew—this was survival. I nodded silently, and we left.
Our next stop was the weapon store.
The moment I entered, the air shifted. Unlike the dressing shop, this place smelled of oil, iron, and fire. Rows upon rows of swords, spears, bows, and axes lined the walls, gleaming with cold light. My heart quickened; here was something I understood. Weapons had been my companions for as long as I could remember.
But as I walked further in, something… strange happened.
A sound.
Not with my ears—but within my mind. A faint click, like a whisper turning a lock inside my skull. Then came the voice, low and dragging like steel across stone:
"…Here."
I froze. My eyes darted to Elira—she seemed oblivious, her attention on a finely crafted staff displayed behind glass. The voice was not hers. Nor any shopkeeper's. It came from… deeper.
Again it called.
"…Closer. Do not ignore me."
My feet moved before I could think. Past the polished swords that nobles would buy to hang on their walls. Past the shining spears that knights might carry in parades. My path twisted me toward the corner, toward a forgotten drum of discarded blades. Rusted hilts, bent daggers, broken staves—things no one cared for anymore.
And buried among that heap of ruin lay a sword.
I cannot describe it fully, even now. It was shaped unlike anything I had seen. Its blade curved in angles that defied smithing logic, etched with runes half-broken yet still glowing faintly in veins of red. Its hilt was dark, twisted, like the roots of a dead tree. It looked more alive than forged.
My hand trembled as I reached for it.
The moment my skin brushed its grip, the voice surged, no longer a whisper but a tide:
"At last… you hear me."
I gasped and nearly dropped it. The sword had spoken. To me.
"You—" My voice cracked. I looked around. Elira still hadn't noticed. My heart thundered. "You can speak?"
"Not as mortals do. You and I are bound now. You carried the echo within you. That is why I called."
I wanted to fling it away, yet some part of me—some pull deep in my chest—would not allow it. The weight of the sword felt wrong and right at once, heavy as grief but familiar as breath.
I whispered under my breath, "What are you?"
"A blade forgotten. A weapon cursed. A soul that lingers. Names matter little. You may wield me, or you may die searching for another that will never answer."
There was madness in its words. Or maybe truth.
Elira finally turned, noticing me digging through the waste pile. "What in the heavens are you doing there? Leave that junk—" Her eyes landed on the sword in my hand. She blinked. "…That? You want that broken thing? You must be joking. The guild smith could craft you something ten times finer."
But the sword pulsed in my grip, like a heartbeat. I heard it again:
"Do not let me go. Buy me. Claim me. Or regret it until your last breath."
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. "I… want this one."
Elira raised an eyebrow. "Out of everything here—the finest steel in Avreth—you pick that?"
I forced a nod. "Yes."
She studied me for a long moment, suspicion flickering in her gaze, but then sighed. "Fine. It's your choice. I just hope you won't regret it."
The shopkeeper practically laughed when I brought it forward. "That old scrap? Take it, lad, for a coin or two. It's useless. Surprised you'd even want it."
But when I touched the coins to his palm, the sword seemed to hum faintly, like it had been freed.
The rest of the day blurred. Elira guided me through shops of herbs, scrolls, and supplies, her words sharp and precise, while my mind remained tethered to the voice inside my sword.
It was silent now, but its silence was not empty. It was watching. Waiting.
As we walked out of the last shop, Elira asked me casually, "Why did you pick that thing? Truly. You looked… different when you held it. Almost like…" She trailed off, then shook her head. "Never mind. You're strange, Auren. Stranger than you let on."
I didn't answer.
Because deep within me, I knew she was right.
And in my hand, the sword pulsed again, as though it had agreed.